Matthew 21:23-32
When he entered the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people came to him as he was teaching and said, “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?”
Jesus said to them, “I will also ask you one question; if you tell me the answer, then I will also tell you by what authority I do these things. Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?” And they argued with one another, “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say to us, ‘Why, then, did you not believe him?’ But if we say, ‘Of human origin,’ we are afraid of the crowd, for all regard John as a prophet.” So they answered Jesus, “We do not know.” And he said to them, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things.
“What do you think? A man had two sons; he went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work in the vineyard today.’ He answered, ‘I will not,’ but later he changed his mind and went. The father went to the second and said the same, and he answered, ‘I go, sir,’ but he did not go. Which of the two did the will of his father?” They said, “The first.” Jesus said to them, “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you.
For John came to you in the way of righteousness, and you did not believe him, but the tax collectors and the prostitutes believed him, and even after you saw it you did not change your minds and believe him.
Back in February, one of my favorite artists, David Whimbish, released a song called Almost Who I Am. It’s been on repeat in my car since. The chorus goes, “Well if you used to know me, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life. Don’t worry. You're not crazy. I’m almost who I am but still not quite.” (warning - if you have children there are a few choice words so perhaps the car ride home is not the best time to listen to it.)
Sometimes there are lyrics that ring like gospel truth from the moment you hear them. Such was this song for me. If you used to know, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life. If you knew a 10 year old Cogan, you would have known a talkative, husky (at least according to my pant size), boy who loved football and thought he’d never move away from home.
At 16, you would have known a teen who longed to be popular and well liked, who held strong beliefs about folks who are queer, and believed racism was a thing of the past. At 22, all sorts of those beliefs had changed, for the better I believe. I got married, said I’d never have a dog, and, not yet having any kids of my own, was an expert on parenting. At 32, I stand before quite different than all of my previous selves, shaped by a past of bad decisions, wrong beliefs, and the harm I’ve done and had done to me.
If you used to know me, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life. And I have to believe I am not the only one who feels like that in this life; like you have never been quite the person you’d hoped you would be.
Perhaps that is what Jesus is getting at in this deceptively simple parable about two brothers. A father tells his first son, go and work in the vineyard. The first son replied "No, I am not doing that” and later changed his mind. The father, not knowing that his first son would change his mind, goes to his second son and asks the same thing. The second son said, “yes, I’ll go.” But he didn’t.
It is easy to hear this story as a simple choice between two options. You are either the second sons, which represents the religious leaders. They believed they were doing God’s will in what they taught and how they lived. But then John the baptist and Jesus came and proclaimed something new, and they rejected it and them, and chose not to follow where God was leading. In other words,they knew how to say yes to God, but they never went into the vineyard.
Others though, namely tax collectors and prostitutes, the worst sinners of the day, grabbed ahold of it with all they had. The invitation for us then seems simple: be like the first son. Repent! Don’t just talk about faith; go work in the vineyard. But I don’t believe this parable comes down to, “Which son will you be?” The hard truth is that we are both.
We are the second son whenever our confession doesn’t live up to our discipleship. We say yes to God all the time. We confess our sins, say we’ll repent, and promise to love our neighbors. We talk about welcome and service, justice and forgiveness. We call ourselves Partners in Mission at Cross of Grace. That is a whole lot of yes to God. And inevitably, we don’t always go into the vineyard. So let’s not be too quick to judge the chief priests and elders. They aren’t obvious villains. They are religious people who know how to say yes to God. Sound familiar?
But thank God we are also the first son. We’ve said no in a thousand ways. We’ve been selfish. We’ve hurt others and ourselves.
We’ve failed to become the parents, spouses, friends, Christian, and church we imagined ourselves becoming. There are things you believed, that we believed, twenty years ago that make us cringe now. Things we’ve said that we wish we would have swallowed. Things we’ve done that cannot be undone. “If you used to know me, I am sorry. I have not been myself for most of my life.” There is confession there. Grace does not take all that away. It happened. It was you.
And yet, “afterward he changed his mind and went.” Just like the first son, our no was true, but it wasn’t final. Our past happened, but it doesn’t dictate our future. “Don’t worry. You’re not crazy. I’m almost who I am.” In other words, I am still becoming. The grace in the parable is that the first son’s “no” didn’t preclude him from working in the vineyard. The future was still open.
And perhaps the same is true for the second son. Jesus says the tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom “ahead of you”; not instead of you. Their failure need not be final either. Grace is the promise that neither our first answers nor our failures are the final word. Rather God is always at work in us.
Maybe you are sitting here as someone who has more life behind you than in front of you. You’re thinking, “Pastor I am 86. My future is not open and it is too late to repair all my no’s.” Sounding an awful lot like David Whimbish, Luther says, “This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness; not health, but healing; not being, but becoming; We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it. The process is not yet finished, but it is going on. This is not the end, but it is the road.”
Our becoming isn’t finished before death. The Christian promise isn’t merely that you still have time to become a somewhat better version of yourself before you die. Rather, it is after this life, God will finish what grace has begun and we will be made new, complete; the person God intended for you to be. But in this life, you are almost who you are, but still not quite. And to me that is good news. Because like David Whimbish sings, I’m afraid that I am the mistake that I’ve made.
I want to change, or really be changed. I want to be a different person than who I have been, than who I am today. Maybe that's true for you, too. Jesus tells me, tells us, that by the grace of God, our future is open. The problem is not that we have messed up in the past. The problem is believing your past must determine your future.
This parable and its teaching isn’t about being the religious leaders or the sinners, the second son or the first. It’s announcing the terrifying and wonderful reality that God is still at work in us. We are not yet who we will be. Sometimes we can see it happening. A no becomes a yes. We meet people who change us. The tight grip on a conviction we held so tight begins to loosen. We apologize. We forgive. We finally walk into the vineyard.
And sometimes the work remains painfully unfinished. There are noes we will never have time to repair and wounds we cannot heal. But even then, God is not finished. Death does not close the future God has opened. In the resurrection we will finally become who God has been making us to be all along.
In this life, though, I’m almost who I am, but never quite. Amen.
