It's not Fair!

 

Jesu Juva

St. Matt. 20:1-16                                                          

September 20, 2020

Proper 20A                                                               

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          We often hear it said of Jesus that He had no earthly possessions.  No house or home.  No money.  No personal property to speak of.  “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests,” Jesus once said, “but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.”

          But frankly, after hearing the parable of the laborers in the vineyard, it’s a little more apparent why Jesus wasn’t wealthy.  Any small business owner who tried to adopt the business practices in this parable—well, he wouldn’t be in business for long.  Nor would Jesus fit in with today’s corporate world.  His accounting method of equal pay for unequal work sounds more like socialism than capitalism.

          After all, it doesn’t take an MBA degree to figure out what will happen when those who come to work at sunset are paid exactly the same amount as those who show up at sunrise.  Nobody would be so foolish as to come to work at dawn if he could get the same fat paycheck for showing up at dusk.  Who wouldn’t prefer to work for just a little while at the end of the day?  Nobody’s going to do ten times the work for the same amount of money.  It’s just not fair.

          But today we learn that God is not fair.  He’s just.  He’s gracious.  But God is not fair.  Then again, grace isn’t fair.  What’s fair is the Law.  If it’s fair, that means the first come in first and the last come in last, and the kingdom goes to those who earn it.  But if it’s grace we’re talking about, then the first are last, and the kingdom goes to the least of all.  But we’re getting ahead of ourselves.  Let’s go to the parable, shall we?

          A man had a vineyard and needed laborers to pick his grapes.  At about 6 AM he went out and negotiated with some laborers to work that day for a denarius—about $120.  And off they went.  By mid-morning they were still shorthanded.  So the vineyard owner went and found more laborers looking for work.  “You go and work in the vineyard too,” he told them, “and whatever is right I will give you.”  Note that he says, “whatever is right,” not “whatever is fair.”  The same thing happened at noon and 3PM.  At 5PM he still needed more help, so he went to the local tavern where some deadbeats had apparently spent the entire day.  “You go into my vineyard too,” he says, making no promises about the wages he would pay.

          Finally, at 6PM it’s Miller Time as they say in Milwaukee.  The vineyard workers all head to the foreman to receive their wages.  The owner has them line up in reverse order, from last-hired to first-hired—from the 11^th hour losers to the crack-of-dawn early birds.  The first girl in line (one of the deadbeats from the tavern) gets her envelope, expecting maybe ten dollars.  But what’s she find instead?  Six crisp twenties!  And so it continues.

          Pretty soon word filters to the back of the line—to those who began working at dawn—that those who worked only one hour got $120.  So they’re thinking, $120 per hour, for 12 hours—the biggest payday of their grape-picking lives.  But they hadn’t figured on one thing:  The payout from the owner is all based upon his goodness and his promises, and not on their work.  And in his infinite goodness, this guy gives six crisp twenties to every single worker, regardless of how much or how little they worked.  Each worker gets a denarius.  “It’s not fair,” shout the sweaty, exhausted, sun-burnt guys who worked all day.  But the owner reminds them that he didn’t promise to be fair, but to pay them a denarius.  Promise made; promise kept.  End of parable.

          One of the toughest pills for religious superstars to swallow is the idea that God justifies the ungodly.  God adopts deadbeats as His own dear children.  And when that final whistle blows on that final day of labor, our salvation will not be based upon our works, or upon how early we clocked in, but on the sheer grace of God in Jesus Christ who doles out a denarius  of salvation to all who believe, whether a lifelong Lutheran or a deathbed convert.  There’s nothing fair about it.

          Now, a day’s wages for a day’s work—that’s fair.  That’s what we expect in this world, and that’s well and good.  This world operates according to the law, and that’s good.  But in the kingdom of God things are different.  God’s thoughts are not our thoughts.  His ways are not our ways.  He deals with us not according to what’s fair, but according to His grace and mercy. 

          But if you want God to be fair—to deal with you according to your works and your time-card—well then, you will be damned.  You can look forward to an eternity of weeping and gnashing your teeth.  That’s fair.  Hell is the place where everyone gets treated fairly—where everyone gets exactly what they deserve according to the Law.

          Where do we fit into this parable?  Are we like those hired first or hired last?  Hard to say.  Most of us were baptized as babies; we grew up in the church.  We’ve been working in the vineyard a long time with not even a conscious moment when we didn’t know Jesus as our Savior.  We “clocked in” early and we’ve never clocked-out.

          Then again, we’re hardly the first to go to work in our Lord’s vineyard.  Countless others have believed before us.  Other saints have suffered before us—and much, much more than us.  There have been workers in this vineyard for two thousand years, including St. Matthew and St. Paul, St. Mary and St. Elizabeth, St. Polycarp and St. Augustine.  There were countless, nameless believers who bore the heat of persecution, who defended the faith, who suffered and died trusting in Jesus, who have now departed this life to be with Christ (which is far better).

          But now, in these last days, at the eleventh hour, as the sun is setting, with the fields still ripe and waiting for harvest, the Lord of the vineyard has been so kind and gracious to call YOU to work in this same vineyard.  And today, on this Confirmation Sunday, we welcome and pray for our three newest vineyard workers:  Katie, Rilan, and Delaney.  You three are really the last and the least.  You’re just setting foot in the vineyard when so much of the work is already done.  And yet—mysteriously and unfairly—you get the same denarius as everybody else—not 120 bucks, but the same forgiveness of sins, the same salvation, the same love and mercy, the same resurrection life in Jesus.  It’s not fair at all; but it’s oh, so gracious.

          While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.  While we were still ungodly deadbeats, Jesus justified us.  Before you so much as lifted a finger to work in His vineyard, He prepared an envelope with your name on it, containing your “denarius.”  You’re not saving up pay stubs to present at the pearly gates upon your arrival.  But as you go about everyday doing the work God has called you to do, you’re simply serving the Lord who has already served you.  You are loving Him who loved you first.

          Saint Paul expressed it this way in today’s epistle:  For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.  And for you too:  “To live is Christ.”  To go on living and laboring and working in this world is a good and wonderful thing—a privilege grounded in grace.  “To live is Christ.” To receive His gifts, to forgive as you have been forgiven, to speak the truth in love, to rejoice in your sufferings, to love your neighbor as yourself.  It’s not easy work, to be sure.  But the day is almost over; and you have a generous Master who is full of wonderful surprises.  To live is Christ, and to die is gain.  All of our labor is done in that sure and certain confidence—to die is gain.  To die is to depart and be with Christ—and there is nothing better than that.

          It’s not fair.  There’s no denying that.  For whether first or last, whether we’ve worked hard or hardly worked—God’s grace and generosity  are awaiting each of His children at the end of the day.  Jesus has seen to that.  He got the wages we deserve for our sins.  And we get God’s free gift of eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.

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

Those Who Trespass against Us

 Jesu Juva

St. Matthew 18:21-35                                                   

September 13, 2020 (Proper 19A)                                 

Dear saints of our Savior~

          Sometimes we pray carefully.  And sometimes we pray carelessly.  It’s just human nature.  Our prayers are never perfect.  Our motives are never pure.  Sometimes we pray because we need to; other times we pray because God commands us to do so.  The result is that sometimes we pray carefully; and sometimes we pray carelessly.

          Saint Augustine prayed carefully.  Saint Augustine would grow up to be a bishop in North Africa, a prolific author, and a revered church father.  But as a young man, Augustine lived recklessly.  He was a prodigal son in every sense who was relentlessly prayed for by his mother, Monica.  Augustine admits in his autobiographical “Confessions,” that, as a young man, he prayed carefully:  Lord, make me chaste,[he prayed,] but not yet.”  His spirit was willing; but his flesh was weak.  And so he prayed; but he prayed very carefully.

          Today’s holy gospel is a stark reminder of our obligation to forgive as we have been forgiven; but it’s also a reminder of how carelessly we pray most of the time.  For how many times each week do we carelessly amble our way through the Lord’s Prayer, including the Fifth Petition:  Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us?  Here we ask God to forgive our sins—but, only to the same degree—only insofar as—we forgive those who sin against us.  Kinda’ careless.  If we were praying more carefully we might just shorten and shrink that petition, and simply say, “Forgive us our trespasses. Period.”

          But praying carefully and cleverly about forgiveness isn’t really an option when Jesus teaches about it with such cold clarity.  It’s hard to miss the point of today’s parable.  That last line always sends a chill down my spine when, after the unforgiving servant is turned over to be tortured, Jesus concludes:  So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart. 

          The parable was prompted by a simple question:  Lord, how many times do I have to forgive my brother when he sins against me?  Seems like a legit question, right?  I mean, there has to be a limit, doesn’t there?  At some point, enough is enough.  The rabbis of Jesus’ day said three times was enough.  Peter suggested seven times, which has a nice ring to it.  It’s far more generous than three—once a day, every day, for one week.  That should do it, for sure.

          But forgiveness that has limits is not real forgiveness.  Forgiveness, the way Jesus practices it, has no limits, no exclusions, no exemptions, no asterisks with fine print at the bottom of the page.  “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy times seven,” said the Savior.  And the point is not 490 times.  The point is that forgiveness doesn’t keep score.  Forgiveness keeps no record of wrongs.

          But, oh, do we love to keep score on the sins committed against us.  Our mental file cabinets are full of alphabetized files of all times we’ve been wronged.  We’ve got spreadsheets, graphs, and PowerPoint slides describing in detail all the times we’ve been shafted, cheated, and slandered.  We nurse our grudges.  We baby our bitterness.  We walk carefully so as not to disturb all the chips on our shoulders we’ve so carefully collected.  Sound familiar?

          Beloved in the Lord, that’s no way to live.  To “forgive” literally means to “let go” of the sin committed against you.  It means to “send away” the sin to someplace where it’s no longer on your radar—to shred the files, delete the

PowerPoint slides, and let our grudges go.  To forgive means to go on as though the sin never happened.  The sin no longer has power over you because you’ve let it go.  To forgive is really to step into freedom—freedom that is yours as blood-bought brothers and sisters of Jesus.

          Forgiveness is so important for our life together that Jesus preached a powerful parable—designed to shake-up our ideas about the limits of forgiveness.  A king forgave his servant a million dollar debt—an absurd amount of money—more than could ever be repaid in one lifetime.  But this reckless, crazy king told his accountants to get out their erasers; and the servant got off scot free.

          But this same servant immediately tracked down a fellow servant who owed him a mere 500 bucks, grabbed him by the throat, and demanded to be repaid.  He’d just been forgiven a million; but he couldn’t let a mere five hundred slide.  When the king heard about it, the wicked, unforgiving servant was sent to prison, to be tortured.  There was hell to pay.  And just to make things clear, Jesus says, “So also my heavenly Father will do to every one of you, if you do not forgive your brother from your heart.”

          Do you see how much God hates un-forgiveness?  Nothing angers Him as much as our refusal to forgive others . . . as we ourselves have been forgiven by Him.  God forgave us first.  We owe Him big-time.  What others have done to us is just pocket change compared to what we’ve done to God.  When we refuse to forgive, we are denying how much God has forgiven us.  When we hold others hostage by our refusal to forgive, we’re setting ourselves up as gods in the place of God.

          Joseph has a lot to teach us about forgiveness.  Joseph forgave his brothers—brothers who hated him—brothers who sold him into slavery—jealous brothers who callously told dear ol’ dad that his favorite son was dead.  Joseph forgave them all.  He saved them all from famine.  He gladly did good to the brothers who had sinned against him.

          But when their father, Jacob, died, all bets were off.  The brothers expected Joseph’s revenge to come swiftly.  So they quickly got down on their knees and tried to bargain for their lives, hoping to cut a deal.  But Joseph would have none of it.  “Am I in the place of God,” he asked?  How can I not forgive in the presence of the God who forgives?  “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.”  You intended evil; God used it for good.  Can you see what Joseph saw—that behind the despicable sins his brothers committed against him—God Himself was at work for good?

          Look to the cross of Jesus, and you will begin to understand.  Men intended that cross for evil.  They wanted to kill the Son of God—get rid of Him for good, silence Him, destroy Him.  They lied.  They gave false testimony.  They mis-carried justice to get Jesus’ hands and feet nailed to a Roman tool of torture.  It was evil compounded on evil—evil to the nth degree—bloody, blasphemous evil.  And God used it for good—for your good—to save you, for the salvation of the world.  Good Friday, we call it.

          Every sin ever committed against you is atoned for in the death of Jesus.  When you look at that person who “owes you big time”—that person who has sinned against you—see that person as one for whom Christ died.  Does he or she know that?  Will he or she know that from you?  Certainly not if you’ve got your hands around his neck.  Certainly not if you regularly remind him of his sin.  But he or she may yet come to know the power of God’s love with your hand on his shoulder and with three of the most powerful words in the English language: I forgive you.  There’s great power in that simple sentence.  And we don’t say it nearly enough.

          As for you, you leave here today debt free.  As far as the east is from the west, so far have your trespasses been removed from you.  The books are closed.  The score has been settled with the blood of our Savior.  In His name and with His own words we pray.  We pray not too carefully nor too carelessly.  We pray confidently:  Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.

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

When Others Sin against Us

 Jesu Juva

St. Matthew 18:15-20                                                     

September 6, 2020

Proper 18A                                         

 Dear saints of our Savior~

          Do you know what your three wishes would be?  If you happened to come across the proverbial genie in a bottle, do you have your three wishes ready to go?  I’d like to think that one of my wishes would flow from the words of Jesus we heard this morning—that Christians everywhere would take to heart one simple verse and do what Jesus says.  If we committed ourselves to live out these two sentences from the Savior, the world would be a different place.  Your home and this church would be different places.  Your relationships would be transformed.

          Jesus said:  “If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault, between you and him alone.  If he listens to you, you have gained your brother.”

          Matthew chapter 18 is all about life in the church—about our life together as brothers and sisters in Christ.  And Jesus makes two things perfectly clear about our life together in the church:  1.  Sin happens, and 2. Confronting that sin can and should be an act of love.

          Jesus’ words for today are so important that we’ll take them a phrase at a time.  Jesus said, “If your brother sins . . .”  “Brother” here doesn’t mean male sibling.  With the word “brother” Jesus is referring to a Christian brother—a baptized brother or sister in the faith—a fellow Christian—fellow church members—someone you might share a pew with or kneel next to at the Communion rail.  There are, of course, a lot of people who don’t fall into this category of “brother”—people without faith in Christ who may or may not sin against you. They are not “brothers.”  Jesus’ words here don’t necessarily apply to them when they sin against us.

          When Jesus says, “If your brother sins,” it shows that even brothers and sisters in Christ can and do sin against one another.  Clearly, Jesus anticipated it.  Jesus expected it.  When you walk through the doors of the church, you are not entering a sin-free zone.  You don’t have to be in this or any church for long to realize that God’s baptized children are both saints . . . and sinners.  Even here among people who share a common faith in the crucified and risen Christ—among people who will dwell together in heaven for all eternity—sin happens.  Jesus tells us how to deal with it.

          Let’s break it down again.  Jesus said, “If your brother sins against you . . .” With those two words—against you—Jesus indicates at what point you are to become involved in confronting a brother’s sin.  Only if your brother sins against you do you get involved.  Assuming, of course, that no one is in imminent danger, you are to say nothing to anyone.  Even if you see it with your own two eyes, you are to say nothing to anyone.  If you, for instance, witness a fellow member get pulled over for speeding as you drive home today, don’t slow down and give a shameful stare as you drive by.  Don’t call me up or anyone else to pass along the news.  For you see, the speedy sinner didn’t sin against you or me.  It’s none of our business.  The “governing authorities” (which we heard about in today’s epistle), they will prescribe an appropriate punishment for the wrongdoer.  Case closed.

          Let’s take it from the top.  Jesus said, “If your brother (a fellow Christian) sins against you (and only if he sins against you), go and tell him his fault, between you and him alone.”  If your brother sins against you, then GO—GO to your brother!  When you’ve been sinned against, that’s when YOU take action.  You begin the process of reconciliation.  We’re not to sit around stewing, waiting for an apology.  We’re not to tell everyone at the beauty shop or the coffee shop or (God forbid) on social media about the way that no-good so-and-so sinned against you.  No, Jesus says, you go to your brother.  At this point what happened between you is a private matter.  Now, as you might guess, this is the point where the entire process often seems to run aground.  Because it’s so much easier to stay put and stay hurt and to nurse a grudge than it is to confront the sinner.  But Jesus says, “Go.”

          Why go to your brother?  Because, Jesus says, “if he listens to you, you have gained your brother.”  We are to go with the goal of winning back that brother—with the goal of restoring the broken relationship.  We’re not to go with the goal of chewing him out or lecturing him or poking our finger in his face.  Instead, we go to make him aware of his sin and the hurt he has caused in the hope that he will confess his sin and repent.  Confronting sin in this way—humbly, honestly, directly, with the goal of reconciliation—this is always an act of love.

          Confronting sin in this way is a great and precious work in the eyes of God.  What a mark of Christian faith and maturity to go to the one who has sinned against you—not plotting how to get revenge—but how to gain back your brother.  “Blessed are the peace-makers,” Jesus said, “for they will be called sons of God” (Matt. 5:9).  How wonderfully different life would be if we all took these words of Jesus to heart.

          There are no guarantees, however, as Jesus makes clear.  This approach isn’t always successful.  If you can’t make headway one-on-one, then, Jesus says, take along two or three others.  If that doesn’t work, then and only then we are to tell it to the church.  And then the whole church confronts the sinner, always aiming for repentance and reconciliation.  And if that doesn’t work, the sinner is excommunicated—not as punishment, but as a last resort to bring about repentance and reconciliation.  Confronting sin in this way—according to Jesus’ words—is always an act of love—tough love.

          Jesus knows how difficult this is; after all, Jesus knows what it’s like to be sinned against.  We sin against Him every day.  Jesus knows what it takes to restore what is irreparably broken.  For Jesus to win you back—for Jesus to make things right between you and the Father—it required that He come to us—as one of us, a true man, born of the Virgin Mary.  It required His broken, bleeding body, dying on a cross.  It took nails and thorns and spear—spitting, mocking and beating.  That’s what Jesus endured to win you back from the hell you have earned by your sins.  That’s what Jesus did to gain you as His brother and His sister—to earn the forgiveness of all your sins.

          Jesus says that we should go to those who sin against us.  And you know that’s exactly what Jesus does with sinners like us.  Jesus doesn’t sit around waiting for sinners to apologize to Him.  No, He takes the initiative.  He comes to us in the Divine Service—here where two or three are gathered in His name.  He confronts our sin in His holy Law.  He receives our repentance.  He comes to you to win you back—to re-gain you as His brother or sister.  He leaves ninety-nine sheep behind to search for—to seek and save—the one that went astray.  “Wherever two or three are gathered together in my name,” He says, “there am I in the midst of them.” 

          Here is Jesus in the midst of us—speaking absolution, washing in baptism, feeding with His own body and blood for forgiveness of sins.  Here Jesus deals with you in the very way that He would have you deal with others who sin against you—with patience and with love and with the deep desire to forgive you, and to restore what is broken.  Because confronting sin is an act of love.  And the ultimate act of love was when Jesus confronted your sin on Good Friday and took it all away.

          As you leave here today think about a brother or sister who has sinned against you—someone with whom the bonds of love are so badly broken that it would seem to require a genie in a bottle to make things right again.  But remember, you’ve got something far more powerful at your disposal for making things right again.  You have the words and promises of Jesus.  With Him all things are possible—including difficult things like confronting sin—things like repentance and restoration and love—even where love is lost.  Has your brother or sister sinned against you?  You know what to do.  And Jesus has promised that when you go, He Himself goes with you. 

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