Mutiny in the Vineyard

 

Jesu Juva

St. Matthew 21:33-46                                                         

October 1, 2020

Proper 22A                                                  

 Dear saints of our Savior,

          We have yet another tale from the vineyard this morning.  In the parable of the tenants we’re told of a master of a house who planted a vineyard.  He spared no expense to make this a wonderful and productive vineyard.  After planting, he put a fence around it, dug a winepress, and even built a tower from which the entire vineyard could be protected against thieves and predators.  The master then went away on a long journey, and left a group of tenants in charge.

          But all was not well in that vineyard.  There was mutiny in the vineyard.  The tenants plotted against the owner.  They rejected the servants sent by the owner to collect his share of the harvest.  They beat one, killed another, and stoned to death a third.  Finally, the owner sent his own son, saying, “They will respect my son.”  But instead of justice there was bloodshed.  There was mutiny in the vineyard.

          This parable was easily understood by everyone.  Especially when you consider that Jesus told it during Holy Week, just days before His death.  The meaning was totally transparent.  No mystery.  The owner of the vineyard is God Himself.  The vineyard is Old Testament Israel.  The servants He sends to collect the harvest are the prophets.  The tenants who reject and kill the owner’s servants are the chief priests and Pharisees.  The owner’s son is, of course, Jesus.

          You don’t have to dive too deeply into this parable before one thing becomes perfectly clear:  We have an extraordinarily patient God.  The Lord of the vineyard is long-suffering.  When mutiny breaks out—when His best efforts are being embezzled—when what is rightfully His is being shamelessly stolen by renegade grape-growers—what does this owner do?  He patiently bears with His treacherous tenants.

          No human being could ever possess this amount of patience.  When servant number one returns beaten and bloody and empty-handed, this owner sends in servant number two.  And when servant number two is killed by the tenants, this owner doesn’t call up the FBI or the Department of Homeland Security.  He sends servant number three!  And servant number three gets pummeled to death with

stones.  And on and on it goes.  What kind of a landlord could tolerate such despicable conduct?  And just when you think this guy will finally come to his senses and evict those terrible tenants, he says, “I think I’ll send my Son to them.”  And everybody knows that’s a big mistake.

          But there’s no mistake; this is your God.  He’s persistently patient and long-suffering.  It’s almost pathetic the way He bears with sinners.  His desire to seek and save surpasses our sinfulness.  His faithfulness is greater than our faithlessness.  When there’s mutiny in the vineyard any other landlord seeks justice—seeks to settle the score.  But your God—He’s not an evictor of sinners, but a Savior of sinners.  For God, our sin isn’t an excuse to rev up the fire and brimstone machine.  But rather, our sin is a crying shame.

          When Jesus finished telling this parable, the Pharisees and chief priests perceived that Jesus was talking about them.  But I perceive that He’s talking about us too.  No, we’re not just like the Pharisees.  But we are tenants in the vineyard of God.  We are stewards and managers.  Everything we have isn’t really ours at all.  In the parable, the owner did it all—planted the grapes, dug the winepress, built the tower.  The tenants were just to care for and manage all that the master had temporarily leased to them.

          So has your God provided you with everything.  All that you have is a gift from Him.  In the Lord’s Prayer we call it “daily bread:” food, drink, clothing, shoes, house, home, land, animals, money, devout spouse and children, faithful friends and the like.  And for all of these vineyard blessings it’s our duty to thank and praise, serve and obey the Master of the vineyard.  It’s our duty to be terrific tenants—to be good stewards of all the people and possessions that our gracious God has entrusted to us.  And at harvest time, we are to return to the Lord the firstfruits—the very best we have.

          And so it is that the Lord of the vineyard sends His beloved Son to us—to collect what is rightfully His.  And what is rightfully His?  Our thanks, our praise, our prayers, our willing service, our joyful obedience.  And it’s right at this point—the point where we tenants are to render our obedience to our Lord and Master—it’s here where one begins to sense a mutiny in the vineyard. 

          No, we would never throw God’s Son out of the vineyard.  No, we would never beat Him with blows or pummel Him with stones.  No, we would never be like those treacherous tenants in the parable.  We’re more tactful than treacherous—more subtle than subversive.  No, when God’s Son comes among us we’re much more inclined to simply ignore Him—to shut our ears to His Word—to harden our hearts against His commandments—to honor God’s Son with our lips, while our hearts and our very lives are far, far from Him.  God says, “Lead a sexually pure and decent life in what you say and do,” and we say, “What was that?”  God says, “Forgive your brother from your heart,” and we say, “I didn’t quite catch that.”  God says, “Fear, love and trust in me above all things,” and we say, “Pardon?” 

          And as day turns to night we will realize the terrible truth that we have separated ourselves from the Son of God—we have carefully confined Him outside the walls of “our” personal vineyard.  We have ignored Him—and, in some cases, replaced Him with gods of our own devising.  Now, when the owner returns, what will He do with tenants like these?  How will justice be done?

          As sinners—as terrible tenants—hope not for justice—but look to the injustice that Jesus endured.  And this injustice is the ultimate incredibility of God’s love for you.  What you had coming to you for your sins—Jesus accepted as your substitute.  Jesus got clobbered for you.  He endured the wretched and miserable death you deserve.  And now, because your sins are answered for, they can condemn you no more.  Your guilt is taken away—your sin atoned for.  Everything that would destroy you, convict you and evict you—Jesus has faced it all.  And none of it—not even death on a cross—destroyed Him.  And none of it—not even death—will destroy you who belong to Jesus.  The Owner’s Son has become your brother, your Savior, the best friend you ever had.  You, simply, must believe it.  And, in believing, we terrible tenants are transformed into sons and daughters of God—ready to repent—ready to render to God what is God’s.

          There’s one last detail to this parable that doesn’t quite make sense.  When the wicket tenants spied the owner’s son on the horizon, they quickly hatched a crazy scheme:  “This is the heir,” they said.  “Come, let us kill him and have his inheritance.”  Now, everybody knows that not the way it works.  Murderers don’t stand to inherit what their victims had coming to them.  But in a bizarre plot twist that no one saw coming, this is exactly how it worked with Jesus.  In the murder of God’s beloved Son we terrible tenants—we poor sinners—we stand to inherit everything: the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, the life everlasting.

          We are but tenants, it’s true.  But we have it good.  In fact, you already have a place at the Master’s table.  And at the Master’s table, only the best is served—the wine that is Jesus’ blood and the bread that is His body.  Your gracious God is so generous with you.  The inheritance—all of it—is yours.  For Jesus’ sake.

          In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.