Pastor Mark

"God's Pale Blue Dot" – Matthew 21:33-46

Matthew 21:33-46

[Jesus said,] “Listen to another parable: A landowner planted a vineyard. He put a fence around it, dug a wine press in it, and built a watchtower. Then he leased it to some tenants and went away to another country. When the time of the harvest came, he sent some of his slaves to collect his produce. But the tenants seized the slaves, they beat one, killed another, and stoned another. Again, the landowner sent other slaves, this time more than the first, but they treated them the same way. Finally, he sent his son, saying, ‘They will respect my son.’ But when the tenants saw the son coming, they said to themselves, ‘This is the heir. Let us kill him and collect his inheritance.’ So they seized him, threw him out of the vineyard, and killed him. Now, what do you think the owner of the vineyard will do when he returns?” They said, “He will put those wretches to a miserable death. And he will lease his vineyard to other tenants who will give him his produce at the harvest time.”

Jesus said to them, “Have you not read where it is written, ‘The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone. This is the Lord’s doing and it is amazing in our eyes.’ Truly I tell you, the kingdom of heaven will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce the fruits of the kingdom. Whoever falls on this stone will be broken to pieces, and it will crush whoever it falls upon.”

The chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables and they realized that Jesus was talking to them. They wanted to arrest him, but they feared the crowds, because they regarded him as a prophet.

This parable is always about perspective for me. Jesus is letting the Pharisees and chief priests – the cream of the religious crop of his day – have it, really. He’s calling them to task for their unfaithful ways.

What the chief priests and Pharisees realize is that, in the parable, Jesus is the Son, sent to see and to celebrate what the tenants of his Father’s vineyard have been up to; how they’ve been managing things; how they’ve been caring for what has been entrusted to them; how they’ve been using the blessings they’ve been given. And, of course how welcoming and respectful they would be upon meeting the Son, in the first place – the heir to the throne, as it were.

What Jesus knows, of course, and what the chief priests and Pharisees have to admit when they look in the mirror that this parable represents for them: is that they aren’t living up to the landowner’s expectations.  If the fruits of this proverbial vineyard are more than grapes – and we know the fruits of God’s kingdom aren’t really fruits; …if the fruits of God’s kingdom are things like grace and mercy, forgiveness and welcome, love and hope and compassion and humility, then the finger pointers and the gate-keepers, the close-minded and the powerful – the chief priests and Pharisees – were like the tenants in Jesus’ parable who were not only keeping all of the goods for themselves, they were also the ones who would run the Son out of town, kill him and hang him on a cross. And all of this was hard news to hear.

And it’s supposed to be hard news for us still. And, like I said, this is all about perspective for me. So I came across this little ditty recently that is all about perspective, too.

I was told that Joseph Sittler, a well-regarded theologian who wrote and taught a lot about the care of creation and environmental theology was asked once what he thought would happen if/when humanity ever destroyed the planet earth, and his response was something like, “I think God would begin again somewhere else.”

So all of this reminds me of something Jesus is trying to get across to those chief priests and Pharisees – the leaders of the religious in his day. That if they weren’t going to play along with this new thing God was up to in the world, through Jesus…if they weren’t going to start extending grace and offering forgiveness and welcoming the outsider, and loving the “other,” that didn’t mean God’s kingdom wasn’t going to keep on coming.  It just meant that it was going to come to and for the sake of somebody who would get it, and live it, and share it the way God intends.

I’d say the Church, in our day and age, needs to hear this message just as loudly and clearly and with as much conviction as the Pharisees and chief priests heard it from the lips of Jesus. There is a generation of people – in our world, in our culture, in our neighborhoods – who don’t know or care about what we’re up to here, on Sunday mornings or on any other day of the week. None of this is relevant to their lives. None of this meets them where they live. None of this addresses their questions or meets their needs or fills the emptiness in their lives, if they even know or care that there’s an emptiness waiting to be filled.

In fact, this growing list of people – of every age and lifestyle and demographic we might imagine – identify themselves as “NONES” when they fill out surveys asking about their religious or spiritual affiliation. (“NONE” = N.O.N.E.) I’d call them “NONES,” because none of this is their fault, in my opinion. This is my fault. This is our fault. As the ones minding the store – as the workers in the vineyard – as the tenants entrusted with the produce of God’s harvest, the Church in the world has spent so much time – too much time – inside our own walls and behind our own fences, that we’ve stopped returning the fruits of God’s harvest to the world around us, unless they come asking for it.

I think the Church is like another, holy sort of “pale blue dot.” It’s a gift we’ve been given in the grand scheme of God’s plan for creation. It’s a small, but mighty, holy place we have been called to enjoy and to share; to tend to and to preserve; to use faithfully, to serve generously and with deep gratitude and wide grace, so that God’s promises and purpose aren’t lost in the midst of so much that would steal the Church’s thunder.

The Church is full of chief priests and Pharisees still, who, though we aren’t inclined to see ourselves that way for all sorts of reasons, are being invited to step up and out of ourselves in ways that extend the grace we share and celebrate in as many ways and places as we can – because that’s how we pay back the landowner for letting us live in the vineyard of God’s grace the way that we do.

And please know, this isn’t just judgment and fear and “shame on you” kind of stuff from Jesus – for those Chief Priests, those Pharisees, or for you and me, either. This is Jesus reminding us that we aren’t fully alive… we aren’t everything God created us to be… we aren’t as joyful or as complete or as fulfilled… our lives don’t have as much meaning as they could have until we’re loving like Jesus loved; until we’re forgiving like Jesus forgave; until we’re working for the justice and peace Jesus embodied; until we’re loving our enemies or sharing space with outcasts or sitting with sinners, or giving away more of what we’re tempted to keep for ourselves.

Jesus is pointing out that, just like the pale blue dot of the world won’t stop spinning, no matter how much we do to neglect or destroy it, the pale blue dot of God’s Church won’t be able to stop the Kingdom from coming to pass. God’s love will win.  God’s grace will rule the day. God’s vineyard will bear fruit that lasts. Our invitation and our joy – our calling as baptized workers in the vineyard – is to get on board, or stay on board, and invite others to join us for the harvest, because we and the pale blue dot of God’s world will be blessed and better for it, when we do.

Amen

"Snarks on a Plane" – Matthew 20:1-16

If I did the math correctly, I figure I flew on 16 different airplanes over the course of my last four months of this summer’s sabbatical. (Lots of trains, boats, buses and automobiles, too. And I know many of you travel quite a bit, but 16 planes is a lot, for me, in that short span of time.) And, do you know what one of the things is that has the potential to stress me out as much as almost anything else? Yeah…flying in an airplane.  Specifically, waiting to get off of an airplane.  (I’m talking about anxiety and stress, here.  Not a fear of flying.)

It’s small and petty, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things and I’m aware of this, even as it’s happening.  But it ranks right up there, for me, with stubbing a toe, or installing car seats (especially the ones with that little metal clip), or with the feeling I get when I open the door that leads from the garage into my house after someone has left the pantry door open – that sits just beyond it – in a way that stops me in my tracks with a sharp, loud bang. It’s an annoying, frustrating kind of design flaw in our kitchen that both doors can’t be opened at the same time. It’s especially maddening when I’m holding onto an armload of groceries for dear life.

Anyway, these things – the toe-stubbing, the car seat installing, and that god-forsaken door – small and petty and inconsequential as they are in the grand scheme of things, can make my blood pressure shoot up and my frustration peak, in an instant. And I think and feel and say very un-Christian things in those moments, if you know what I mean.

And the same thing happens more often than I’d like to admit almost every time I get off of an airplane. And it’s all because of those people who don’t wait their turn. Do you know what I’m talking about?

Common sense and common courtesy and a simple ability and willingness to pay attention should tell any traveler that the people at the front of the plane get off first; that row two follows row one; that row three follows row two, and so on; that you wait your turn; that you are patient; that everyone is anxious to be out of that floating metal tube no matter how long or short the flight has been.

But there always…always…always seems to be that person – those people – seated at the back of the plane in row 37 who think they need to…that they HAVE to…that they DESERVE TO…get up and muscle their way off of the plane before it’s their turn. And more than once this summer – because of my predilection for stress and frustration on airplanes in the first place, remember – I let these knuckleheads get the best of me. By that I mean, when my blood pressure shot up, as my ears started steaming, I thought some things that weren’t very Christ-like.

I even said some things… I even DID some things… on more than one occasion that weren’t very nice, or pastoral, let alone anything like what Jesus would do.

To one woman who barreled her way past me as I tried to stand, I said, with as much snark and sarcasm as I could muster, “Oh, you just go right on ahead.” She turned around, completely unaware of her transgression and simply, genuinely said “Thank you.”  And after another long flight, I pretended not to notice the passenger or their suitcase that had snuck up beside me as I waited to stand up, and I kicked it (the suitcase, not the passenger), pretending to trip on it, hoping they might get the point. Jesus would be proud, don’t you think? What’s funny is, they just apologized and hurried on past, so that they ended up getting off the dang plane ahead of me anyway!

I didn’t think it at the time, but when I read our parable for this morning, I couldn’t help it: “The last will be first and the first will be last.” That’s the lesson we learn from those workers in the vineyard, right? Most of us have heard this story before. It’s a good one for Lutherans, because it paints such a clear-cut picture of what grace is supposed to look like in God’s kingdom.

No matter how much time you put in, or not… No matter how hard you work, or not… No matter what you think you or him or her or “they” deserve, or not… everyone gets the same pay, the same reward, the same forgiveness, the same seat at the table, the same fullness of God’s love. And, in fact, in some cases because of what some have done or left undone – the last, the least, the most prolific of sinners, I mean – their measure of grace and mercy and peace and reward is even greater than those you and I might believe have earned the blessings we all desire.

“The last will be first and the first will be last.”

And that may be hard to wrap our hearts and minds around, but we can’t deny the simplicity of it. The parable is clear, confounding as it may be. And we can smile and nod our way through it, familiar, at least, with that moral to the story: “The last will be first and the first will be last.”

What worries me though, to be honest, is that if I struggle to honor it when I’m getting off of the airplane, what will it look like when and where it really matters?

Can I stop keeping score enough to forgive others – or at least enough to suggest that God can forgive when I can’t manage it? (The last will be first and the first will be last.)

Can I stop protecting my own self-interests to let the refugees in? (The last will be first and the first will be last.)

Can I stop justifying and judging enough so that I don’t have to take sides in Ferguson, or Israel, or Palestine; in Egypt or Syria or Iraq? (The last will be first and the first will be last.)

Can I stop quantifying and qualifying and comparing sins in ways that would let others in and keep others out? (The last will be first and the first will be last.)

Again, I’m afraid – because of all the snark and sarcasm and luggage-kicking on airplanes – that I’m not equal to the task. My hope, though… Our hope – thanks be to Jesus – is that God is better at all of this than we can ever be.

This is not an excuse to leave it up to Jesus. This is not a cop-out that lets us keep on kicking and screaming and snarking our way through life as we know it – holding grudges or keeping score or laying low and letting God sort it out in the end.

This is an invitation to remember that we have all been – and will all be – allowed to pass, with full benefit of God’s grace and mercy and love, whether we earn it or deserve it or work for it, or not, in the end. And the truth of that calls us to let go of the hard work of judgment – all of that score-keeping is hard, destructive, life-stealing work.  And God’s grace – like the Landowner in the parable – means to release us from the wear and tear and stress and destruction that it pours into our lives. (“Take what belongs to you and go. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am so generous?”)

Our invitation, then, is to let God’s love be God’s love and to start practicing that kind of love and generosity, here and now – on airplanes, at the grocery store, in our classrooms, at the kitchen table, around this altar – to reverse the order of things right where we live; to forgive the sin; to drop the scorecard; to make room for the other; and to get out of the way so that the last will be first, for a change, for a CHANGE, trusting that we are already and that we will all one day be right where we belong: in the arms of God’s amazing, abundant, all-consuming, all empowering, all-loving grace.