Excursus: Matthew 20:1-16
Uncle Albert mentioned this passage in last week’s post. Later, Roz asked me what the parable really meant, as if I could say. So, “I couldn’t say,” I said.
“Well, think about it then,” Roz said. “Then say.” She was serious, I could tell. So, I did; and I read about it, and I talked to Axel about it, and I talked to Uncle Albert about it, and I even talked to Nils about it. I called our rector, Susan, the former Miss Virginia, to see if she had anything to say about it she hadn’t said the Sunday before, but I couldn’t reach her.
Then, I wrote this, which I gave to Roz, who said, “What does it say?” — handing it back to me. And I read this (below), until she said, “Don’t read it to me. Tell me.” Then, I read it anyway mostly but in a telling voice: “One of the more difficult of Jesus’ parables, often called ‘The
Workers in the Vineyard,’” I started.
It’s easier to think
about what a story might mean if we know the circumstances in which the story is being
told. You know that. It’s one thing to read a story in the newspaper; it’s another to hear it
over the telephone from a friend.
Jesus is in four different, but related, conversations in chapter 19. The first, with
the Pharisees about divorce, need not concern us here. In the second, he is telling his
disciples to let the children come to him. “Do not hinder them, for to such belongs the
kingdom of heaven.” And he lays his hands on the children that come.
The third is with the so-called “rich young ruler.” He wants to know what he needs
to do to inherit eternal life. He should keep the commandments, Jesus suggests. “Which?”
the young man asks. “You know: You shall not kill. You shall not commit adultery. You
shall not steal or bear false witness. You shall honor your father and your mother. Finally,
you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” He has, the young man answers, all of them. He keeps the commandments. But he senses that isn’t all that’s involved, so he
asks one more question, “All these I have observed; what do I still lack?” “If you would be
perfect,” Jesus answers: “Go sell all that you have. Give it to the poor. Then, come follow
me.” But the young man can’t accept Jesus’ invitation; he has too much to leave it behind.
Unlike the children, who do come to Jesus, who have nothing to leave behind, just
something to look forward to, meeting the rabbi, sitting on his lap, feeling his hand on their
heads.
In the last conversation, Jesus tells the disciples how difficult it will be for the rich to enter the kingdom.
“Who will enter, then?” they want to know. Who knows? Jesus suggests. But we do know
that with God nothing is impossible. “Will we?” the disciples ask. Yes, they will, for they
have accepted Jesus’ invitation and left their homes to follow him.
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| Workers in the field. Photo by Justin Russell |
If it is difficult, it is because it doesn’t go as we might expect or hope or want, because it isn’t complicated.
This is what the kingdom of heaven is like: A landowner goes out early in the morning to hire workers to work in his vineyard. He finds some; they agree on an amount for their work, a denarius. (However much that is: we’re not entirely sure, incidentally.) And the landowner says, “Come, then”; and they do. The landowner goes out again—we don’t know why; interestingly, we don’t even know what season it is, whether he is planting or reaping or tending or what he is doing besides hiring workers. But the landowner goes out again—three times. He goes out at mid-morning and at noon and in the early afternoon, and he hires more workers each time. But, these don’t make an agreement with regard to an amount they will be paid. Instead, when the landowner says he will pay them whatever is right and says, “Come, then,” and they do.
The landowner goes out yet again, in the late afternoon. The day is almost over. Still, he is hiring workers. Again, we don’t know why. But of these, he wants to know, “Why are they idle? Don’t they want to work?” They answer, “No one has hired us.” Again, we don’t know why, though it is often assumed that they haven’t been hired because they’re not hirable. But our landowner is still hiring. “You come into the vineyard as well,” he says. And they do. Nothing is said about payment. Nothing at all.
Not too long after the last-hired workers arrive, it is time to “reckon up.” The landowner instructs his steward to pay the workers, beginning with the last. He pays those (who have just arrived) first; and he pays them the denarius the first workers had agreed to. So, when the first workers come to be paid, they clearly expect more. And they are paid a denarius as well. They gripe. As we would. Fair is fair. If you pay someone who works an hour a denarius, then someone who works eight . . . ?
But here is our problem. We have certain expectations about how work works: there is to be a clear connection between worker, work accomplished, and wages. If there isn’t, well, there ought to be. But not in our story. The connection becomes more and more tenuous, more and more questionable, as the story goes on. It begins with workers working for a specific wage, but their employer hires more and more and more and more workers, some at an indeterminate wage, some without talking about payment at all.
So, maybe the story isn’t about wages after all, though you’ll never convince those who are convinced they worked the hardest. Because hard work ought to pay.
It is worth noting that Jesus does not denigrate “work.” When the rich young ruler asks him what he should do, Jesus tells him. He tells the disciples that they will enter the kingdom because they have done this: they have come to follow him. But that isn’t work exactly, is it? Following Jesus. It isn’t always easy, but it isn’t exactly work, is it?
But, again, the parable isn’t about work. It’s about following; it’s about accepting an invitation. That’s what the disciples have done—“Come, follow me,” Jesus has offered; and they have accepted the offer. “Come to me,” Jesus tells the children. (“Don’t stop them,” he tells the disciples.) The children, too, accept his offer. The rich man, sadly, declines.
Come into the vineyard. Come into the kingdom, the landowner says, again and again and again, and again at the end of the day. The kingdom of heaven isn’t like where the early bird gets the worm and the later gets nothing at all. The kingdom of heaven isn’t like where the best and the brightest get the best and the brightest spots and the duller get the lower and the duller. But the kingdom is like a landowner who keeps going out and going out and going out and forever inviting in.
It is like the father in the parable of the prodigal son. We get so focused on the spendthrift son and the angry older brother that we forget to watch the father. But, what does he do when he sees his younger son is coming home? He goes out to meet him and invites him in. What does he do when he hears his older son is outside sulking? He goes out to invite him in.
This is what the kingdom is like, then. This is the nature of it in Jesus’ stories. God is always inviting us in. Morning, noon, and night. “Come,” Jesus says. “Come in. Follow me. All of you. Please.”
“I know you were reading that,” Roz said. “But thanks for trying.”
10.03.23
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