Sermon — September 24, 2023

Michael Fenn

Lectionary Readings

I arrived home unceremoniously early from my semester abroad on March 20th, 2020. I had bought a price-gouged ticket, packed up my apartment in a day, traveled through an almost abandoned Edinburgh, and stayed in the Dublin airport for nine hours. Arriving home, it was quiet and unsettling. My sister came back from her school in New Hampshire a few days before I moved in, and my brother and his wife had been living with my mother for a few months already.

As the dust settled on COVID, we learned that of the five of us, only one was an essential worker. My mother, the MRI technician was not initially essential, my sister-in-law the medical assistant, was also not immediately essential, my sister-a theater student-was not essential, and I, a biology student doing aquaculture in a foreign country was, unsurprisingly, not essential either. My brother, the grocery store manager, was essential and was told to go back to work a few days after I arrived home. 

Each night, we ate dinner together as a family. Even though all of us were adults, and saw each other pretty much all day every single day, we all still sat at the table every night. Four of us having done very little in the way of economic work–I took to the woods everyday from sunup to sundown, my sister made a sewing studio in one odd corner of our oddly shaped house–my brother worked in a job most people do not consider glamorous in a time where most people would rather do anything else. 

My brother did not complain, at least, not about the actual work. He did not begrudge me my long days of sunning myself on rocks or splashing in creeks, nor our sister’s construction of increasingly elaborate and skilled garments (often for a large doll we had dug out from the attic). Though because he is human, he did often complain of people endangering him and his fellow essential workers. 

At the end of the day, we all still sat together and ate the same meal together. 

It was like each one of us was one of the Laborers in the Field: my hardworking brother arrived at the crack of dawn, my sister-in-law and mother sometime later in the morning, and my sister in the late afternoon, before I finally made it there just before sunset. And yet we sat down at dinner together, all receiving the same wages for our day’s labor.

~

Backing up, I like the Brother of the Prodigal Son, he is responsible, he is dependable and stays home to make sure everything is going to be alright while his brother goes and squanders his wealth and inheritance. And I like Martha, who actually cares if the house is clean and presentable, who dutifully does her chores even if she might want to listen to Jesus like her sister Mary does. I think the Laborers in the Vineyard who worked the full day have a point. I think Martha would make a much better roommate than Mary, I think the Brother of the Prodigal Son would make a much better life partner than the Prodigal Son, and I can see where the laborers who got there early in the morning are coming from. 

I suspect that a solid portion of you agree with me or at least see where I am coming from. In our culture we value things like tidiness, punctuality, letting people off the train before you get on, working to contribute to society, being dependable. People who squandered their opportunities, people who are wayward, lazy people, people who have messy houses and messy lives, who don’t work to “contribute” to society are not people we love, or people we do not love easily. We have limited sympathy for the laborers who did not work the full day.  

So, even in the lovely example with my family, my brother very well could have asked “what did you even do all day?” just as the laborers asked “why do we all get the same thing at the end of the day?” What kind of fairness is it to give equally to those who did unequal work? Is God unfair?

This parable would appear to say, very certainly, “yes” 

The issue here is actually pretty simple. In this scenario, we are bringing a human idea of fairness in front of God and coming up confused. We are bringing a human understanding of economy in front of God and coming up short. This reading abruptly de-centers our human conception of fairness and our human concept of economy. 

Jonah, one of my favorite characters in the Bible (besides Jesus!), asks God why God saved the people of Nineveh when they were wicked for so long, why he made Jonah go all the way to Nineveh when God easily could have done something else if the end result was the same: the people of Nineveh don’t get #wrecked. Jonah, like us, is bringing a human concept of fairness to God, who does not have our human concept of fairness. 

So, if God doesn’t have a human concept of fairness, then what kind of fairness does God have? 

In the beginning of the parable, Jesus doesn’t say that the kingdom of heaven is like the vineyard, but rather that the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner. Losing sight of this one detail, we can lose sight that the amount of labor done in the vineyard matters less than the call of the landowner to the laborers, and the relationship that is now present for each of the laborers. It is through this relationship that all of the laborers are sustained, not through the amount of work they do in the vineyard. With God, just as with the landowner, fairness is instead replaced by an almost overwhelming grace.

God has a kind of fairness that does not give partially, that is overflowing in abundance to all who seek it, that saves the people of Nineveh even though Jonah doesn’t agree, who also looks after Jonah even when Jonah is kind of a spiteful jerk, that will give abundant grace even to those who labor only for an hour in the vineyard. 

So, even though we like the brother of the prodigal son, and we like Martha, and we like the Laborers who get there on time; we are not always them, our loved ones are not always them, our communities are not always them. 

We leave dirty dishes in the sink for weeks while our friends do them, we arrive late to racial reconciliation, we have denied the dignity of every human who could not get married before the Supreme Court said they could, we do not pick up trash in the woods even when we see it sitting there, we pass by unhoused people on the street without looking, we are short with our loved ones on long winter days, the list goes on. Like our confession says “in thought, word, and deed. By what we have done and left undone.” 

In all this mess, at the end of the day, God still gives us the full day’s wage. Even though our labors come up short, which they have done, do, and will do whether we are aware of it or not. We are just as much the laborers who do not get there on time as the ones who did, we are just as much Mary as Martha, and we are just as prodigal as un-prodigal. But God, in all goodness, does not give to us according to a human notion of fairness, but gives us full and abundant grace, and this is great news. 

I have a moral dilemma for you all, today. Purely hypothetical. Imagine that it’s January, and there’s just been a winter storm, and a snow emergency has been declared. The next day, you go to shovel out your car to get to a doctor’s appointment. You spend an hour digging it out, and then put out a cone or a chair as a space-saver, as you’re allowed to do in a snow emergency. When you come back, you find that someone’s moved it and parked in your spot. You drive around the block, and manage to find another space, while you consider what to do.

Now, you’re a good person. You don’t do what one friend of mine suggested, and smash the windshield of their car. No. The punishment must fit the crime. So you walk back to the space you’d saved, shovel in hand, and you start putting all that snow back. You shovel for about 45 minutes, carefully placing snow onto and around the car that had taken your space, and when you’re just about done, the owner returns, and says, “What are you doing???” And you tell them that you shoveled this space out, and they stole it, and so you’re just un-shoveling the space, so they get a chance to do some work. And they start yelling.

Are you in the wrong, or are they? Who thinks that they are in the wrong? Who thinks that you are? (Who thinks it’s hilarious, payback either way?)

Now consider some added context. The day before the snowstorm, you’d come home late at night, and parking spaces were few and far between. You’d managed to squeeze into a spot, but the next day when you went out to find it you realized that you’d blocked a driveway by about six inches. You find a note on your windshield: “I couldn’t get my car out this morning to go to work. I don’t have time to wait for a tow truck, so I’m taking the T. Please don’t do it again.” No damage to your car, no cash payment to get it back out of the pound. What you’d done was forgiven.

Does the prequel to the story change anything about what you did two days later, after the snow?

This very-Boston, 21^st-century tale is almost exactly the same as the story Jesus told to his disciples two thousand years ago. Jesus’ story is unsettling: it’s a story of masters and slaves, violence and punishment. But the mechanics are the same. Someone owes a debt, but he cannot pay. (Matt. 18:24-25) He begs for patience and forgiveness, and he’s shown mercy. His payment of the debt is not just delayed, but forgiven. (18:26-27) But the same man is a creditor himself. He’s owed another, smaller debt, and he intends to collect. He turns around and immediately, violently, tries to take what he’s owed. (18:28) And when he’s asked for patience, he shows none, throwing his debtor into prison until he pays it off. (18:30) The aggression and cruelty he shows while he’s trying to collect this debt are reprehensible. But the fact that he’s just been forgiven for the same thing, in fact for a hundred times the amount, makes it much worse.

Now, there are several ways to approach this story. We shouldn’t ignore the horrors of this system of enslavement that forms the backdrop. There’s a startling resemblance to modern human trafficking, in which people are offered a way into a country like the United States in exchange for a fee, and then the traffickers force them to work off this “debt,” deducting room and board, and threaten them with deportation if they refuse. And the magnitude of the “debt” this enslaved person owes the king is astounding. A denarius was about a day’s wages; 10,000 denarii would be the work of twenty-seven years. You might consider, as well, the way in which such a system creates a vicious cycle of violence. The first slave, frightened and oppressed, unable to fight back against the king, turns around and takes it out on the second one, taking the trauma he’d experienced and inflicting it on someone else.

But Jesus doesn’t really discuss either of these things. Jesus doesn’t tell this as a story about slavery, debt, or violence. Jesus tells this is a story about forgiveness. And to our modern ears, that may sound strange.

We often associate forgiveness with reconciliation, with the restoration of a right relationship between the two parties. So you’ll often hear people say that you shouldn’t forgive someone, maybe you can’t forgive someone unless they apologize, unless they repent. And this makes life hard. We ask God to “forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” But many of us have been wronged by people who have died, or who we don’t speak with; people who we never knew (think of the guy who cuts you off in traffic, then beeps at you) or who are convinced they’re right. (See last week’s sermon.) In these situations, there will be no apology: and yet Jesus warns us that we must forgive, if we want to be forgiven.

Or, we sometimes think that forgiveness is about our own emotional processes, that to forgive means no longer to feel pain or anger about what’s been done, or that we must have “come to terms” with what’s happened in some way. And this, too, is hard. Emotions are one of the hardest things in life to control, besides other people and the weather. You can’t choose to “just get over” something, as nice as that would often be. We all want emotional healing, but to say that being forgiven is conditional on it is a very tall order. It puts a huge burden on the one who’s been wronged: if you can’t forgive someone in your heart, you might think, then you cannot be forgiven.

But what if forgiveness wasn’t really about either of these things. What if forgiveness was about something else?

The Rev. Dr. Matthew Ichihashi Potts is a distinguished theologian: an Episcopal priest and scholar of literature and religion, he’s now the Pusey Minister in the Memorial Church and the Plummer Professor of Christian Morals at Harvard University. But in his recent book Forgiveness, Matt Potts asks a surprisingly simple question: What if forgiveness is not reconciliation or emotional wholeness? What if forgiveness is simply the habit of non-retaliation? He means this in a particular sense. “Retaliation” doesn’t just mean doing something to get back at someone; it means paying someone back in kind, an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. The law of retaliation sets limits on our actions by setting a exchanging revenge for payback. “A tooth for a tooth” means that if you knock out my tooth, I don’t get to chop off your hand, but I do get to knock out one of yours. The law of retaliation is the law of the space-saver: if you steal my spot, I don’t smash your windshield; but I just might make you shovel all that same snow.

And this seems to be the kind of forgiveness that Jesus is talking about. Think of the moment at which the king forgives the debt. There’s no sense of a reconciliation between the two characters. There’s no inner emotional work being done. The only forgiveness in this story is the choice not to collect the debt that the king is owed. It’s the decision not to demand what you are owed, not to make the other person pay, but to leave that snow where it is. Non-retaliation doesn’t mean inaction, or passivity. It doesn’t mean you can’t protect yourself for the future. It simply means you choose not to get payback.

“Forgiveness as non-retaliation” is much easier and much harder than the other kinds of forgiveness. It’s hard to rebuild a broken relationship and be reconciled with someone else. It’s hard to do the work of healing your own soul. It’s easy to do nothing. And yet in many cases, doing nothing is the hardest thing there is. Giving up the delicious satisfaction of payback is not always as easy as it seems.

And yet there is a lot of wisdom here. Because retaliation, as good as it may feel, can never fill that hole. A wrong was done, and it cannot be undone, even if restitution is made. Forgiveness, Potts points out, is something like grief. To forgive is to try to live in light of what’s been done, knowing that it cannot be undone. Nothing can take away the fact that I spent an hour shoveling and didn’t have a place to park. And in fact that process of payback can itself cause new pain. Because if I put all that snow back, then yes, I’ve made that other guy’s arms sore. He’s been paid back, in kind. But now my arms are twice as sore, and I still don’t have a spot to park my car.

This kind of non-retaliation isn’t the end of our response to being wronged. But it is a beginning. And, importantly, it’s this that Jesus asks for, when he asks us to forgive. Not that we feel good about what’s been done. Not that we excuse it, or allow it. Simply that we don’t turn around and repeat it, inflicting on someone else what was done to us. If we’re ever going to break that cycle of pain, if we’re ever going to forgive one another as we have been forgiven, it’s this kind of restraint that we need to practice: not seven times, or seventy-seven; more like seven thousand, seven hundred, seventy-seven.

Sermon — September 12, 2023

The Rev. Greg Johnston

Lectionary Readings

“So you, mortal,” God says to Ezekiel, “I have made a sentinel for the house of Israel;
whenever you hear a word from my mouth, you shall give them warning from me.”
(Ezekiel 33:7)

I sometimes think that deep down, in our heart of hearts, most of us yearn to be Ezekiel.

Just think how satisfying it would be to be God’s appointed sentinel on earth. Think how good it would feel to go to that cousin whose political views you detest, or to that sibling who just can’t mind his own business—to that neighbor whose construction has ruined your week or to that spouse who insists on loading the dishwasher completely wrong (not my spouse)—and to say to them, “Listen: I’ve got a message for you from God, and this is it: Your ideas are nonsense. Your behavior is offensive. YOU ARE WRONG!” (And I, of course, am right.)

Now, the Lord has never descended in any of our sight in a majestic heavenly chariot, as he did to Ezekiel, wreathed in fire and flame, propelled by the beating wings of four magnificent beasts, to set us aside for a lifetime of prophetic ministry in his name, and that’s too bad. (Ezekiel 1) But we know we’re often right, all the same. And we still take it upon ourselves, from time to time, to speak in God’s name, or at least to speak as if we know what is good and true and right. Sometimes we do this with other people who agree with us, and there’s a certain satisfaction in this: it feels good to solve all the world’s problems when we’re talking to people who already agree with us about everything. But there’s a deeper, darker kind of satisfaction that comes from a fight, from a confrontation, from telling someone how wrong they are.

(If you don’t recognize this tendency in yourself, then it’s possible that you’re a better person than I am, or maybe that you’re fooling yourself. But if you think I’m wrong about people in general, try putting on a Yankees hat and walking down Main Street, and see just how much people love to tell you that you’re wrong. To say the least.)

In today’s gospel, Jesus gives some very helpful hints on the best way to go about telling one another that we’re wrong. “If another member of the church sins against you,” Jesus says, first go alone, in private, and “point out the fault.” (Matthew 18:15) If they don’t listen, do it again, but bring a friend or two. If they still think they’re right, tell the whole church, and if that doesn’t work, strike three, they’re out with the Gentiles and tax collectors. (Matthew 18:16-17) Unless they’re the Rector, in which case, they kind of have tenure and you’re going to need to get the Bishop involved.

Now, I’ve been a little irreverent so far, but this is actually really good advice: if you have an issue with somebody, then in most cases, talking to them is a much better idea than talking about them. Of course, there are cases of abuse or inappropriate behavior where reporting it to someone else is the right call, and of course, there are times when you just want to vent about something to a friend. But in general, in churches and in friendships, in marriages and in families, no problem has ever been solved by talking behind someone’s back. Jesus’ advice is good: when you have a conflict with someone, the right person to talk to about it is probably them. Gossip won’t get what you want. Embarrassing them in front of someone else is unlikely to be productive. If you have a problem with someone, go to talk to them. Fair enough.

It feels good to be Ezekiel: to be in the know and to be in the right and sometimes, yes, to tell other people that they’re wrong. Jesus’s words help us channel that in a productive way, guiding us on how best to confront one another, how best to “speak the truth in love,” as Paul says, (Ephesians 4:15) how to stand up for what’s right, for the good of the whole world.

So, there’s a nice, quick sermon for a muggy Sunday morning.

There’s just one problem.

None of us is actually the voice of God. None of us is infallibly right, all the time. As much as we might like to be, none of us is actually Ezekiel. God has not told us that we must tell our cousin (neighbor, partner, friend) that they are wrong, and we are right, or that they will die, and God will require their blood at our hand. (Ezek. 33:8) We believe that we’re right, not because of a vision from God, but because… well, if we thought we were wrong, we’d still think we were right, just in the opposite direction.

That doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t stand up for ourselves. It doesn’t mean there’s no such thing as right or wrong. It just means that the confidence of condemnation that we see in our reading from Ezekiel and in Jesus’ words needs to be cushioned by the compassion and the ultimate commandment of love that Paul reminds us of this morning.

There are many times in life when you really do need to confront someone else, to tell them that you think what they’re doing is wrong, because it’s harming you, or someone else, or because it’s harming them. There are other times when you really don’t. And the important question to ask yourself might be this: am I doing this out of love, or am I doing it because I know I’m right? Everyone has an uncle or a cousin who won’t stop spouting off about politics, and often the appropriate response is to roll your eyes and move on, even if you know he’s wrong. But if your uncle won’t stop talking about how bad immigration is, even with your first-generation-American daughter-in-law at the dinner table, it might be time to step in.

If you think your friend shouldn’t have bought those new shoes because they’re ugly as sin, you should probably keep your mouth shut. But if your friend shouldn’t’ve bought those shoes because their shopping addiction is bankrupting the family, that’s a whole other thing.

If you you’d just prefer that forks, knives, and spoons go in separate compartments because it’s easier to unload, then that’s between you and God. But if the dishwasher’s going to break if one more Tupperware lid melts on the bottom rack,then it’s a situation like the one God describes to Ezekiel: “If you warn the wicked, and they do not turn away, then they will die.” (Ezekiel 33:10) Or at least the dishwasher will. When someone is headed down the road to destruction, to the loss of a relationship or a life or a dishwasher, and you love them, then you need to have that difficult conversation, and the way Jesus lays this out is a pretty good way to go about it. But if you just think they’re wrong, but there’s not really any harm, then maybe consider: Why am I so bent on telling them that I’m right? As God says to Ezekiel, “I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that they turn and live.” (Ezek. 33:11) It’s not about being right. It’s about saving someone you love.

Because if you ever have that kind of conversation, you need to have it not only out of love but in love; not only for the right reason, but in the right way. You need to remember that you are not God, and not even a prophet from God; to remember that every one of us is as likely to be judged as to judge, to be corrected as to correct someone else; that each one of us is as likely, on any given day, to be in the wrong as we are to be wronged by someone else, and that our prayer is not “God, forgive those who sin against us,” but “God, forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.”