Verses from Exodus 20 Psalm 19 Phil 3: 4b-14 Matthew 21: 33-46
Two weeks ago, our gospel reading took us to a vineyard. We met a generous vineyard owner who made sure everyone in the line received work and a full day’s pay, regardless of how long they worked—or whether anyone else thought they deserved it. We reflected on how there is enough. Enough, and some to share. We thought about the world’s resources, and committed ourselves afresh to looking towards the back of the line, towards those most in need, because that is where we will find Jesus. It was beautiful and encouraging, and a bit challenging, but so very like the God we have tentatively chosen to do our best to follow.
This week, we are back in a vineyard—and it couldn’t be more different, could it? There is still a harvest. But the people entrusted with the vineyard have decided that everything it produces belongs to them. They beat the servants sent to collect the owner’s share. They kill them. Finally, the owner sends his son. “This is the heir,” they say. Kill him, and the inheritance will be ours. They have forgotten whose vineyard it is. And perhaps that is where this story gets uncomfortably close, especially as we come to the end of our Season of Creation.
We live within a creation we did not make. We receive sunlight, water, soil, breath. We depend on countless lives and processes we scarcely notice. Before we have earned anything, we are being sustained. But somewhere along the way, we, humanity, begins to say: mine.
Now, I understand something of that word. I have a three-year-old. “Mine” is one of Kennie’s favourite words. Mine covers quite a lot of territory. Something she owns. Something she wants. Something somebody else is currently holding. We smile at it in a toddler. We roll our eyes. We try to hold boundaries and encourage sharing. She is learning. But we don’t always grow out of it. Sometimes we just get better at explaining why everything ought to be ours. My land. My water. My right to take what I want. The tenants take that little word to its terrible conclusion. They want the vineyard so badly that another person’s life becomes something standing in their way.
Jesus tells this story to religious leaders: people entrusted with the care of others. The church needs to hear it too. What happens when protecting what we have becomes more important than caring for those entrusted to us?
And at the end of this Season of Creation, we must ask that question beyond these walls. Whose wellbeing pays for our convenience? Who loses a home, a livelihood, a future, so that somebody else can keep taking?
Into this world, God speaks the commandments. Before a single commandment is given there is a Divine reminder: I brought you out of slavery. I don’t want to see you back there.
These people know what it is to be owned. Now they must learn to live freely together. So God gives them parameters and boundaries, for their own benefit; for their good and their mutual flourishing, not to ruin their fun:
Do not kill. Do not steal. Do not allow jealousy and grabbing and ownership govern your life. And keep the Sabbath. Let your household rest. Let your workers rest. Even let your animals rest. You may not demand everything from someone else. There must be enough life left for living. Enough, and some to share. Be the ones who share.
But the tenants recognise no such limit. They kill the son. And Jesus asks his listeners: what will the owner do? Their answer is immediate. Destroy them. Give the vineyard to somebody better. We know that answer. We can usually identify somebody who deserves to be removed before examining our own grip. But we hear this story knowing where Jesus is going.
He will be taken outside the city and killed. Human beings will do their worst to the one who comes among us bearing God’s love. And what does God do? God looks death straight in the eyes and says, no way, and raises Jesus. The rejected one becomes the cornerstone. The risen Jesus comes among the disciples who deserted him and offers peace. He entrusts them with work again. And I want you to hear that because it is true for us too: Our rejection of God does not exhaust God’s love for us.
Love makes a new beginning possible. We can admit who we have become. We can loosen our grip. We can change how we live. We can build again on the Christ who gives himself for the life of the world.
So, as this Season of Creation ends, what would change if we remembered whose vineyard this is? Perhaps we would waste less because these gifts are precious. Share more because other lives need them. Look towards the back of the line before reaching for more ourselves. We have a vineyard to tend, and neighbours to feed.
In a few minutes, we will hold out our hands for bread. Christ will give himself to us again. May that gift teach us how to receive the world: gratefully, tenderly, with enough room in our hands for somebody else to have a share. There is enough. Enough, and some to share.
Let us live as though we believe it. Amen.
