A sermon for the parable of the two sons (Year A Proper 21), delivered at Trinity Cathedral, Cleveland’s Solemn Sung Eucharist, 1 October 2023

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,
who, though he was in the form of God, …
emptied himself… (Philippians 2:5-7)

When did you last change your mind? Not just a wobble – cherry or chocolate ice cream? Hmm, no, cheesecake – but a true changing of mind and heart and direction?

In this tiny, three sentence story that Jesus tells, a man asks his two sons to help in the vineyard. One is too busy with his own stuff, and says so. The other is willing to help, until the Browns game begins and he gets sucked into the sofa and tells himself, with each ad break, I’ll go after this. 

His brother, passing by to pick up a tool for his own project, sees the depression in the couch cushion, and the empty (non-alcoholic) beer cans, and the lowering of the sun. In the distance he can almost see their father, out by himself in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon, labouring over his vineyard, which he tends as though it were a flock of sheep, so beloved it is to him. 

The son experiences a twinge, as though of heartburn. His heart is turning toward his father, and pulling his body and his mind with it. He goes out to work.

The second son, later, over dinner, insists, “I was going! You didn’t wait for me.” And perhaps he even meant it.

When the authorities prevaricated over how to describe John and his mission, they betrayed the direction of their hearts. They were less interested in true discernment than in political power and influence. They were afraid to find the truth, let alone tell it; they didn’t discuss amongst themselves which answer was right, only which was more expedient. No wonder they came up with empty words.

So the second son, who wanted only to keep the peace and say the right thing in the moment, made an empty commitment. His heart was not in it, and he followed his heart right out of it.

The first son, whose words appeared so selfish, was nevertheless open-hearted enough to be changed, to be persuaded by love for his father and his family to be diverted from his own interests, to allow his heart to go out to his father’s vineyard, and to follow it there.

This is how we often hear the story; but it does raise the temptation to justify ourselves against the other. We have to be careful of the dangerous, deadly idea that the second son is the foil for our own, righteous, repentance. Such interpretation, especially in the context of chief priests and elders, has been known to lead to conscious and unconscious antisemitism, and the stumbling block of pride.

The only authority worth following, worth citing, worth wielding is love.

So, then, let’s try another scenario for brother number two. Perhaps he was all ready to go out into the vineyard when his friend stopped by with an emergency. The friend’s spouse had to go to the emergency room, and they needed someone to watch their small child until they got back. Could brother number two help?

Well, of course he would. He took off his boots and took up the child and sat down with her in front of the tv to watch Dora the Explorer or whatever’s on these days. When son number one walked by and saw them together, his brother’s hair tangled in the toddler’s curls, his heart went out to them. Moved by the tender scene, he borrowed his brother’s boots and went out into the vineyard.

Second son becomes less selfish; the conversation at dinner that evening is hushed and healed by the presence of the small child in the high chair, dug out of storage for the occasion; still, it is the melting of the first son’s heart, it is love, the love of brother for friend, godparent for child that leads him to change his mind over helping out, and sends him out to work.

Love is the only authority worth following.

Jesus’ complaint to the authorities confronting him is not, “You didn’t do the work.” It is, “You didn’t change your minds.”

It is not easy to change hearts and minds, particularly our own. We have all heard of confirmation bias, the invisible internal force that tempts us to seek out information to keep our impressions steady, and discount evidence that might knock us off balance. Then there’s that sunk cost fallacy: if I have followed a certain path for six miles, admitting that I might have missed a turning requires retreading ground I have already put time, energy, and knee pain into overcoming. And none of us likes to lose face. “What will people say?” we ask, along with the authorities standing open-mouthed in front of Jesus.

Changing one’s mind requires humility. We get so entrenched in our rights and “you’re wrong”s. But love changes everything.

“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,” writes Paul, “who, though he was in the form of God did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself.”

Love is the only road worth taking.

Then let’s visit the brothers one more time. We know what happened in the morning. Father asked one to help out in the vineyard, and he said no. Father asked the other, and he said yes, but somehow he got sidetracked; we don’t know how or why.

But the first went into his workshop, hell-bent on doing his own thing, forging his own path, knowing that he had what it took to make something remarkable. He worked until lunchtime, when he went into the kitchen to make a rough sandwich, which he took back to his workshop to eat. When he got there, the door was open. A shaft of sunlight fell on his workbench, and sat among the sawdust was an open carafe of wine and a single glass. A scruffy index card leaned up against them; it said, “First pressing. Enjoy. Love, Dad.”

Looking up, he saw a familiar figure ambling away, and running out he called, “Hey! Wait for me!” And his father turned, arms outstretched, silhouetted against the sun.