A sermon for 24 September 2023 at the Church of the Epiphany, Euclid, Ohio. The parable of the day labourers is told in the context of manna in the wilderness and Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Content warning: This sermon addresses thoughts of suicide.
The justice of God is generous.
This parable, in which God, as represented by the owner of the vineyard, overturns all expectations of what is just and right and due to the people in the field. It confounds those who demand righteous judgement, reward and punishment according to our scheme of justice. Instead of giving them each according to his works, God gives them all exactly what they need: their daily bread, simply because God can.
It is the will of God, then, to care for God’s people, to love them, sustain them, be generous to them. And when the first ones grumble, God asks them, did I not give you, too, what you need, as we agreed? Why then do you begrudge the gift to these others, instead of rejoicing with them that they, too, can eat tonight? Why, indeed, when otherwise they would be dependent upon your charity instead of my largesse?
I can’t help hearing the grumblings and mutterings of those who complain about immigrants receiving healthcare, or their children an education, or grouse about those who cannot work getting benefits, each their daily bread. Why would we not provide for those to whom God would undoubtedly be generous, if this parable were to be believed?
And the owner of the vineyard, notice, does more than sit back and wait for the needful to come to him. No, he goes out into the marketplace not once, not twice, but hour after hour, looking for those in need of his help, seeking people to whom to be generous. God does not wait to be merciful, but God goes out, God comes to us, offering God’s hand; “Come with me, let us go together to the vineyard, so that I may show you grace.”
And who are we, honestly, to complain of it.
It is human to complain of it. But if we try to partner instead with God, to see as far as we can from a Christ’s-eye view, can we see ourselves invited into the celebration of generosity, to rejoice with those who had no expectation of mercy, of grace, instead of complaining that we deserve more?
It’s a process. It takes practice. It takes prayer.
There is another point of view to take into account, of course, when reading this parable. What about the ones who were left in the marketplace all day, increasingly anxious about how they would earn their daily bread, whether they would be chosen, what they were worth to anyone who came by.
We know, as those who have read the parable through, that a satisfying ending is coming; more than satisfying: a generous ending. But for those waiting in the shadows of the story not yet told, as the shadows shorten and lengthen across the town square, there is a sense of despondency, of dread, of depression that hangs heavier with each hour. How does the vineyard owner find them? Do they stand eager and hopeful every time a cart rattles by, or are they slumped into corners of the courtyard, kicking up dust with their sandals?
I’m going to mention something very sensitive now, because given what we have heard from St Paul about living and dying, and hearing it in September, which is national suicide prevention month, and imagining the ebbing hope of the labourers left behind in the marketplace, I think we need to talk about it.
There are those of us here who can relate to Paul’s expressed struggle over which he prefers: to live this life or to hasten into the next. He concludes that he will stay here, and I have to say how glad I am that we are all still here. But if the waiting, the hoping, the living become heavy enough that you feel the scales tipping, I want you to do three things. I want you to have the suicide crisis line, dial 988, on speed dial in your phone. And I want you, if you have guns in your home, to find someone you trust to take them out of your reach.
And I want you to remember this: the vineyard owner did not give up on the day. He did not give up on those waiting for relief, for someone to choose them. He did not see them idle and consider them worthless; he sought them out and paid them their dues as people deserving of daily bread, of dignity, of generosity, of the love of God.
However the shadows lengthen, the vineyard owner is still on his way. He has not given up on the day. He has not given up on us.
The justice of God, then, is this: that whether we consider ourselves deserving of pleasure or punishment, bonus or the bare minimum, God gives us each our daily bread. The justice of God is this: that whether anyone else sees it, God looks at us as though looking in a mirror. We are made in the image of God, and in that image, God sees infinite value. The justice of God is this: that at the end of the day, God’s mercy is waiting to surprise us with God’s righteous and marvellous, unearned and undeservable generosity.
The justice of God is that God loves us, first and last. No exceptions.
Amen.
Exodus 16:2-15, Psalm 105:1-6, 37-45 , Philippians 1:21-30, Matthew 20:1-16
over the water 