The God beyond all knowing, all human testing, has come into this world in Christ Jesus and called us to a way of life that is our worship; beyond that, there is much we cannot know about God and what God is doing, and that’s OK.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 29 A
   texts:  Isaiah 45:1-7; 1 Thessalonians 1:1-10; Matthew 22:15-22

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

“Here be dragons.”

Supposedly when old mapmakers got to the end of what they knew to draw, that’s what they wrote on the edge of their maps.  Meaning: beyond here we don’t know, but it’s dangerous.  According to The Atlantic (Dec. 2012), however, no known ancient maps actually have that phrase, though one globe from the early sixteenth century does.  But such a warning is helpful.  It’s good to recall there are limits to our knowledge, edges to our certainty.  We know some things.  Much we do not.

We should keep this in mind when speaking of God.  There are definite limits to what we can know about God.  Beyond is real danger trying to speak definitively.  Plenty of people of faith are willing to fight, even to kill, to defend firm convictions about God.

Christian faith doesn’t let us do that.  It is central to our faith in Christ that we place serious boundaries around what we claim to know about God’s action and life in the world. Tom Wright has said, “Because of the cross, being a Christian, or being a church, does not mean claiming that we’ve got it all together.  It means claiming that God’s got it all together; and that we are merely, as Paul says, those who are overwhelmed by his love.” [1] 

Beyond that there be dragons.  But if we believe the Triune God is who Jesus revealed, and works as Jesus claims, that’s just fine.  God will handle the dragons, and we can focus on what we’re really called to be as followers of the crucified and risen One.

Our readings today ask what God is up to in the world.  There’s disagreement amongst them.

Israelites returning from exile saw God’s hand in a foreign general, Cyrus of Persia, who destroyed Babylon’s power and sent them home.  Isaiah claims the LORD God of Israel, the one, true God, anointed Cyrus to save Israel.  Anointed him, made him Messiah.

Cyrus doesn’t even know the God of Israel.  He was just taking down the current empire and setting up his own.  Yet Israel believed this was God’s doing.  Even if, as we heard today, it meant God having to do a meet and greet with this pagan emperor first.  These people of faith knew their theological limits and were willing to see God’s hand acting in a way outside their boundaries.

The Pharisees struggle with such limits.

To be fair, their job was to interpret God’s law, and they were good at it.  Israel had a core belief that the God of all time was also the LORD, the God of Israel, and had given them laws to live by to make this world a place of healing and life.  The Pharisees defended that law.

This rabbi from Nazareth played a little too fast and loose with it, they thought.  Had they the openness of their exilic ancestors, they might have seen Jesus as the true successor to the prophets of Israel.  Even his summing of all God’s law into love of God and love of neighbor was taken straight from the Torah.

But he did challenge their interpretation, question their authority.  So in these last weeks of his life, they tested him again and again.

It’s an odd switch.  Their ancestors, with little evidence other than their rescue and new life back home, called a foreigner the Messiah of God.  They, with all sorts of evidence, called the true Messiah of God a blasphemer.

Here be dragons indeed.  They, like us, wanted to draw to the edges of the map of reality and claim knowledge and certainty about it all.  The Triune God, though, seems to enjoy messing about the margins doing whatever pleases God, even if it doesn’t fit our boxes.

Paul wrote: “In every place your faith in God has become known, how you turned to God from Idols, to serve a living and true God.”

That’s what this is about, isn’t it?  Caesar or God, Cyrus as Messiah, Greek pantheon or the Triune God, it’s a question of who the true God is, what the true God is doing.

As followers of the crucified and risen Christ Jesus, we center our life and worship around serving this true and living God, just like Paul’s friends.  Because of the cross, our whole life is worship of God, as we offer ourselves in service to the world as embodiments of Christ’s love.

Beyond that, though, God will keep doing whatever God wants to do.  That’s OK for us, for because of the cross, we claim God’s got it all together, not us, and we’re only those who are overwhelmed by God’s love, who know we don’t control where and how God gives that love.

That’s the difference between the true God and idols: who’s in charge.

The one true God stands outside human endeavor and speaks into our lives.  We do not make a true God, nor can we tell God what to do.  Idols, set up by us, do what we want because we make them, we create them, we shape them.  In ancient times, idols were made in human images, animal images; today they are reflections of our wants, our desires.  Reflections of us.

The witness of the Scriptures is that the one true God isn’t made in our image, though, we are made in the image of God.  So our faith doesn’t create God, shape God; God shapes us, creates us through our faith.

It is the very existence of boundaries beyond which we cannot know that reveals our connection to the true God.  If we create our gods, there’s nothing we don’t know about them, nothing we can’t explain or control.  But the true God creates us, comes to us from the outside, and has much that is unknowable, uncontrollable.

That’s how we know God is true.

God is beyond us, except when God comes to us.  That’s what we cling to.

We have seen and believe for ourselves what others have witnessed to us, that God has entered our world.  We have encountered our Lord Jesus at the cross and have seen God there.  We have seen the shape of the true human life to which he calls us, have experienced his risen presence in this world, in our hearts, in our worship.  We trust in the Triune God he has revealed to us.  We live in God’s presence now; we await a life to come where we’re even more fully alive in that presence.  That’s what we know.

Now, like most people, we long for absolute certainty, argue for it with others.  We don’t wish to kill for it, but we recognize a similar discomfort when others describe God in ways we can’t explain or understand.  We convince ourselves we have a say in who God is, or if we think the right things we’ll be saved.

The truth is we are not saved by our thoughts anymore than by our works, we are saved by the cross-shaped love of the Triune God.  That’s our place of wonder and joy and faith, like Psalm 8, that a God who is so beyond us has come to this world to bring hope and life and grace.

We claim that in the cross and resurrection of Christ Jesus the true God is re-making the world and bringing life to all.

We claim that our life in Jesus’ resurrection is the cross-shaped life of Christ to which he calls us, so we live that for the sake of the world.  We love God and our neighbor with all we have, because that’s the life our Lord lived, that’s the gift his resurrection empowers in us.  We tell others about this God so they, too, can know and rejoice.

Beyond this, we don’t always know what else God is doing.

We might want to keep our eyes open, though.  God is almost certainly doing far more interesting things than dragons out there if we’re open to seeing it.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

God’s deepest desire and firmest promise is to hold a feast for all peoples where death and pain is no more, where all have enough to eat, where all, all are welcome; our only question is why we’re so reluctant to come to the party.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 28 A
   texts:  Matthew 22:1-14; Isaiah 25:1-9; Psalm 23; Philippians 4:1-9

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

You realize there’s no reason we can’t stop the Gospel reading after verse 4, don’t you?

“The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son.  He sent his slaves to call those who had been invited to the wedding banquet, but they would not come.  Again he sent other slaves, saying, ‘Tell those who have been invited: Look, I have prepared my dinner, my oxen and my fat calves have been slaughtered, and everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet.’”

The end.  The party is ready, the food’s on the table, all are invited to the royal wedding.  Come and have a feast, a celebration, a party.  This could be the end of the story, the beginning of the joy.

The rest of this parable – the reaction, the killing, the horrifying consequences to the rejected invitation, the casting out of one guest – none of that has to happen.

Imagine all we heard from Scripture today was Isaiah’s vision of God’s feast, David’s joy in the Shepherd’s table, Paul’s exhortation to rejoice, and those first 4 verses of Matthew 22.  This would be a day of celebration.

You do realize there’s nothing preventing that, don’t you?  Nothing keeping us from stopping after 4?  We’re forcing the other ending.

If we did stop there, we could recognize important things about this feast God wants to have.

We could realize God’s feast is inclusive of all.

Certainly Jesus’ story shows the kingdom of heaven as a feast opening its doors to the many.  By the end, all are brought in, “both the good and the bad.”  Isaiah more powerfully promises a time when the Lord of hosts will “make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines.”  It sounds marvelous.

And it’s for all peoples.  It’s inclusive because God is inclusive: no one is left out.  All peoples, even, presumably, our enemies, will be at the feast.

David sang of God making us a table in the presence of our enemies.  Maybe we’ve misheard that, thinking it’s trust that we can bravely eat with God while our enemies howl at us.  What if David meant what Isaiah said?  The feast is for all peoples, so the Good Shepherd’s gift is that enemies are made companions, sharers of bread, fellow feasters.

That’s what this feast could be for us and for the world, if we want it.

We could realize God’s feast is restorative, too.

That vision, that even enemies are changed to friends and eat with us at God’s table, is magnificent in its hope for a new world unlike anything we experience.  This feast God provides, by bringing in all people, gives life and restoration to a world of death and brokenness.  “You restore my soul,” David sings.  Surely that happens when the table is spread in the midst of our enemies and all eat together.

The restoration goes even deeper: in the death and resurrection of Christ Jesus, the feast God spreads for the peoples of the world is a healing gift of forgiveness and grace, where all – good and bad – are welcomed, where reconciliation is offered, where new life begins.

This restoration is actually complete: Isaiah declares a feast paired with the death of death.  The funeral pall covering this earth, pulled over the face of the world as a medical examiner might do at the scene of a crime, that sheet is now ripped away, destroyed, that all might live.  Tears are wiped away, with no need for new ones, unless they are tears of joy at this life.  At this feast all anyone can say is, “This is the LORD for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”

That’s what this feast could be for us and for the world, if we want it.

We could also realize God’s feast is now, and it is a foretaste.

Isaiah sings of a coming time when death is no more.  David sings in the valley of the shadow of death.  Both sing of a great feast hosted by God.

Recognizing this about God’s providing, God’s feasting, Paul encourages the Philippians to rejoice in the Lord always.  Again, he repeats, I say rejoice.  He sees this feast of God not only in our future, but alive in our present.  So alive we can let go of all our anxiety, praying all things with thanksgiving knowing God answers with abundance.

The meal the risen Christ spreads before us of his Body and Blood, this Table of life at which we eat here, we call a foretaste of God’s great feast to come.  It’s also a sign of this present joy: at this table, around the world, gather friends and enemies, all to receive life and forgiveness and salvation.  It isn’t yet inclusive of all; it’s not the full feast God intends for the whole creation.  We wait for the time yet to come for that fullness.

But it is a sign of this greater feast of God that is beginning even now.

That’s what this feast could be for us and for the world, if we want it.

The king says: All is ready, come to my feast.  What’s keeping us?

Well, life is busy and complicated.  As with some in Jesus’ story, we might have business to attend to, life to live, work to be done.  We can’t stop such important things.  Like some in the parable, we might also “make light of it,” deciding this “feast” is just pie-in-the-sky unrealistic dreaming, focusing our attention on the “real” life.  Either way, we can’t be bothered to come to God’s feast.

We might struggle with our abundance.  As last week’s parable said, we live in a garden we did not make, with a harvest we don’t deserve; letting go of that isn’t easy.  We might not come to God’s feast if we have to share with others.

We may have something in common with the ill-dressed wedding guest.  The host provided wedding garments for everyone; he didn’t want to wear it.  Did he think his own clothes were nice enough, he didn’t need to wear someone else’s?  Do we also fool ourselves into thinking we deserve to be at God’s feast in our own right, by who we are, by what we’ve done, clothed in our own rightness, not clothed by God in the goodness of Christ Jesus?

This feast could be life for us and for the world.  Somehow, we’re the ones who keep us from living that.

My friends, listen to what our brother Paul says: Rejoice!  Rejoice!

There is no need for you or anyone to live outside God’s gracious providing.  The Lord is near, and you can pray with thanksgiving for all you need.  So keep your mind on the feast God is offering: “Beloved,” Paul says, “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”  Think about these things and rejoice.  Set aside your worries, and trust in the Triune God, who, in Christ Jesus, has made all things new, true, just, honorable, worthy of praise, and is making a feast for all peoples to live in God’s abundant life.

This is the feast God is doing in the world, for us and for the world, if only we want it.  So we return to the prayer with which we began this morning:

“Call us again to your banquet, Lord of the feast.”

Ask us once more, gracious God.  We have held back, for many reasons, but we see now you dream for abundant life among all peoples; we want to be a part of that.  We want to come.

This feast God provides is found in its fullness in the time to come, yet even now God makes it in this world of evil and pain.  It’s a potluck feast, where everyone brings what they have for all.  Those with material abundance bring that to share; those with spiritual abundance bring that to share; those who think they have nothing still discover gifts they can place on God’s table for all to enjoy.

We know this: God’s hope and desire is to bring all peoples together, even in this life, in a feast of life and grace and love.  There’s absolutely no reason for us not to accept this invitation and step forward ready to work with God to make it a reality in this world.  No reason for us not to say with joy and hope: “This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

God’s deepest desire and firmest promise is to hold a feast for all peoples where death and pain is no more, where all have enough to eat, where all, all are welcome; our only question is why we’re so reluctant to come to the party.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
   Eighteenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 28 A
   texts:  Matthew 22:1-14; Isaiah 25:1-9; Psalm 23; Philippians 4:1-9

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

You realize there’s no reason we can’t stop the Gospel reading after verse 4, don’t you?

“The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son.  He sent his slaves to call those who had been invited to the wedding banquet, but they would not come.  Again he sent other slaves, saying, ‘Tell those who have been invited: Look, I have prepared my dinner, my oxen and my fat calves have been slaughtered, and everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet.’”

The end.  The party is ready, the food’s on the table, all are invited to the royal wedding.  Come and have a feast, a celebration, a party.  This could be the end of the story, the beginning of the joy.

The rest of this parable – the reaction, the killing, the horrifying consequences to the rejected invitation, the casting out of one guest – none of that has to happen.

Imagine all we heard from Scripture today was Isaiah’s vision of God’s feast, David’s joy in the Shepherd’s table, Paul’s exhortation to rejoice, and those first 4 verses of Matthew 22.  This would be a day of celebration.

You do realize there’s nothing preventing that, don’t you?  Nothing keeping us from stopping after 4?  We’re forcing the other ending.

If we did stop there, we could recognize important things about this feast God wants to have.

We could realize God’s feast is inclusive of all.

Certainly Jesus’ story shows the kingdom of heaven as a feast opening its doors to the many.  By the end, all are brought in, “both the good and the bad.”  Isaiah more powerfully promises a time when the Lord of hosts will “make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines.”  It sounds marvelous.

And it’s for all peoples.  It’s inclusive because God is inclusive: no one is left out.  All peoples, even, presumably, our enemies, will be at the feast.

David sang of God making us a table in the presence of our enemies.  Maybe we’ve misheard that, thinking it’s trust that we can bravely eat with God while our enemies howl at us.  What if David meant what Isaiah said?  The feast is for all peoples, so the Good Shepherd’s gift is that enemies are made companions, sharers of bread, fellow feasters.

That’s what this feast could be for us and for the world, if we want it.

We could realize God’s feast is restorative, too.

That vision, that even enemies are changed to friends and eat with us at God’s table, is magnificent in its hope for a new world unlike anything we experience.  This feast God provides, by bringing in all people, gives life and restoration to a world of death and brokenness.  “You restore my soul,” David sings.  Surely that happens when the table is spread in the midst of our enemies and all eat together.

The restoration goes even deeper: in the death and resurrection of Christ Jesus, the feast God spreads for the peoples of the world is a healing gift of forgiveness and grace, where all – good and bad – are welcomed, where reconciliation is offered, where new life begins.

This restoration is actually complete: Isaiah declares a feast paired with the death of death.  The funeral pall covering this earth, pulled over the face of the world as a medical examiner might do at the scene of a crime, that sheet is now ripped away, destroyed, that all might live.  Tears are wiped away, with no need for new ones, unless they are tears of joy at this life.  At this feast all anyone can say is, “This is the LORD for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”

That’s what this feast could be for us and for the world, if we want it.

We could also realize God’s feast is now, and it is a foretaste.

Isaiah sings of a coming time when death is no more.  David sings in the valley of the shadow of death.  Both sing of a great feast hosted by God.

Recognizing this about God’s providing, God’s feasting, Paul encourages the Philippians to rejoice in the Lord always.  Again, he repeats, I say rejoice.  He sees this feast of God not only in our future, but alive in our present.  So alive we can let go of all our anxiety, praying all things with thanksgiving knowing God answers with abundance.

The meal the risen Christ spreads before us of his Body and Blood, this Table of life at which we eat here, we call a foretaste of God’s great feast to come.  It’s also a sign of this present joy: at this table, around the world, gather friends and enemies, all to receive life and forgiveness and salvation.  It isn’t yet inclusive of all; it’s not the full feast God intends for the whole creation.  We wait for the time yet to come for that fullness.

But it is a sign of this greater feast of God that is beginning even now.

That’s what this feast could be for us and for the world, if we want it.

The king says: All is ready, come to my feast.  What’s keeping us?

Well, life is busy and complicated.  As with some in Jesus’ story, we might have business to attend to, life to live, work to be done.  We can’t stop such important things.  Like some in the parable, we might also “make light of it,” deciding this “feast” is just pie-in-the-sky unrealistic dreaming, focusing our attention on the “real” life.  Either way, we can’t be bothered to come to God’s feast.

We might struggle with our abundance.  As last week’s parable said, we live in a garden we did not make, with a harvest we don’t deserve; letting go of that isn’t easy.  We might not come to God’s feast if we have to share with others.

We may have something in common with the ill-dressed wedding guest.  The host provided wedding garments for everyone; he didn’t want to wear it.  Did he think his own clothes were nice enough, he didn’t need to wear someone else’s?  Do we also fool ourselves into thinking we deserve to be at God’s feast in our own right, by who we are, by what we’ve done, clothed in our own rightness, not clothed by God in the goodness of Christ Jesus?

This feast could be life for us and for the world.  Somehow, we’re the ones who keep us from living that.

My friends, listen to what our brother Paul says: Rejoice!  Rejoice!

There is no need for you or anyone to live outside God’s gracious providing.  The Lord is near, and you can pray with thanksgiving for all you need.  So keep your mind on the feast God is offering: “Beloved,” Paul says, “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.”  Think about these things and rejoice.  Set aside your worries, and trust in the Triune God, who, in Christ Jesus, has made all things new, true, just, honorable, worthy of praise, and is making a feast for all peoples to live in God’s abundant life.

This is the feast God is doing in the world, for us and for the world, if only we want it.  So we return to the prayer with which we began this morning:

“Call us again to your banquet, Lord of the feast.”

Ask us once more, gracious God.  We have held back, for many reasons, but we see now you dream for abundant life among all peoples; we want to be a part of that.  We want to come.

This feast God provides is found in its fullness in the time to come, yet even now God makes it in this world of evil and pain.  It’s a potluck feast, where everyone brings what they have for all.  Those with material abundance bring that to share; those with spiritual abundance bring that to share; those who think they have nothing still discover gifts they can place on God’s table for all to enjoy.

We know this: God’s hope and desire is to bring all peoples together, even in this life, in a feast of life and grace and love.  There’s absolutely no reason for us not to accept this invitation and step forward ready to work with God to make it a reality in this world.  No reason for us not to say with joy and hope: “This is the Lord for whom we have waited; let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation.”

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

We are heirs of the Beloved! Jesus invites us to be heirs of God’s kingdom, an abundance we cannot begin to imagine. It is given to us freely, and in response, we are called to receive the gifts of God, tend them, and share them with everyone around us. 

Vicar Meagan McLaughlin
   Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 27 A
   Texts: Isaiah 5:1-7, Psalm 80:7-15, Philippians 3:4b-14, Matthew 21:33-46

Grace and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I don’t know about you, but from the time I was a child, I was taught to secure my future by working hard, dressing well, saving money, getting a degree from a “good” school, earning the right title in the right organization. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing inherently wrong with these things, and I knew I was loved, but I always felt somehow that I would be loved a little more, be a little more successful, if I could just master these basic credentials. And as I reflect on this experience, I recognize that I adopted an underlying belief that all good things in the world, even love—perhaps especially love—were a scarce commodity that needed to be earned, and once earned, defended. I suspect that this is a common perspective among those of us who have grown up in middle-class America, who have been taught that you get what you deserve, that there is “no free lunch.”

The readings for today paint a very different picture of God’s kingdom. In the passage from Isaiah, we hear a song to the Beloved who has created a place of abundance for us—a vineyard on a very fertile hill, cleared of stones, planted with choice vines. There is a watchtower, a winepress, all that is needed for a full life. It is a gift freely given by God to God’s people, before they have done anything to earn it. Matthew echoes this image, describing almost identically a lush vineyard in which God’s people live, in which they—we—can bear the fruits of the kingdom, or as Isaiah puts it, produce grapes instead of wild grapes. We are given all we need to live a fruitful life.

Most of us probably haven’t spent a lot of time in a vineyard, but hopefully all of us can imagine a place of great love and abundance. A place where there is always room for us. All needs are met. We are loved without condition, without measure. Close your eyes for a moment. (Come on, close them!) Where is this place for you? What does it look like? What does it feel like? Who is there? What food is served? What happens when new people come, asking to share in the love of this place? How do you feel when you are there? This is what Isaiah, and Matthew, and the psalmist, are talking about—this is what God has promised us. We are heirs of Isaiah’s Beloved, the God who loves each of us abundantly.

Unfortunately, the tenants in Matthew’s vineyard don’t seem to experience this promise. When the landowner sends messengers to ask for a share of the produce, they have forgotten that the land is a gift from a God of extravagant abundance, and that there is enough for all. They react by defending their territory, casting the messengers out of the kingdom, even killing them, because they are afraid. They believe that the only way to be sure they will have what they need is to defend it, by violent means if necessary. And when the vineyard owner sends his son, they kill him too, sure that this will guarantee their future. They have claimed the vineyard as their own property, forgotten that it belongs to God. Rather than receiving the gift, tending it and sharing it, they mistakenly think that they have earned it and must defend it. And in the very process of defending it, they lose the inheritance they sought to keep for themselves.

Before we let ourselves off the hook, though, claiming that we have not killed anyone to defend what we have, it is important that we acknowledge that violence does not always mean physical death. There is a violence inherent in the systems — racism, classism, ableism, sexism, heterosexism, ageism—that protect those of us in privileged positions, ensuring that we will have more than we need while others in less privileged positions don’t have enough. 17th century German preacher Franz Hunolt quotes Augustine as saying, “He who refuses to share his superfluous wealth with the poor is evidently guilty of keeping what belongs to another.”   Keeping what belongs to another. What we have is not our own. It belongs not just to us, but to all the heirs of the Beloved. When we ignore these systems, and hold on to what we have while others go without, we are acting as the tenants did. We will inevitably cease producing fruit, and we will lose the kingdom.

We miss out on the abundant blessing of the kingdom when we claim ownership of that abundance by virtue of our own credentials, our degrees, accomplishments, even religious affiliation. Our attempts to earn or prove our place generate only exhaustion, and inevitably fail. Paul speaks to this in his letter to the Philippians, saying that if anyone can claim to belong to God’s kingdom based on their own merit it is he, and then lists an impressive resume . . . circumcision, heritage, religious connection, righteousness under the law, even persecution of the church that some believed to be a threat to Judaism. Paul goes on to say that all of this is counted as loss—he actually uses the word “dung”—in comparison with knowing Jesus, being in relationship with the Beloved.

The abundance of the kingdom of the Beloved extends far beyond monetary wealth. We all have gifts and passions we have been given, for the purpose of sharing them. We take the role of the tenants when we hold ourselves back, believing that the gifts we have are not good enough to be shared with others, fearing that we might be rejected, afraid that somehow we might not get what we need. We bring death to ourselves as well as those around us by not sharing the abundant life and love our Beloved has created within us.

So, then, how shall we live? When we are aware that what we have comes from God, the Beloved, we live in abundance and not in scarcity. Rather than trusting in our own efforts or credentials, living in fear that we will not have enough or that what we have will be taken from us, we will bear the fruits of the spirit—love, joy, peace, patience . . . . We will share ourselves and what we have freely with those around us. And when we see systems or circumstances that keep others locked in oppression, that prevent our neighbors from being able to fully participate in the abundance of this world, we will courageously work to ensure that everyone can take their place as heirs of the Beloved. And we will tend the kingdom by caring for ourselves, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, and allowing others to care for us as we care for others.

None of this is easy, because it is not what the world around us teaches, and because it requires us to surrender, a challenging task for those of us who like to feel that we have some measure of control. As with everything in the spiritual life, we are to live into the promise—and the call—knowing we cannot do it without God. Paul says, “Not that I have already attained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.” Because Jesus has claimed us, we can claim the kingdom, not solely as future promise, but also here, in this moment, as a present reality.

Jesus invites us to be heirs of God’s kingdom, an abundance we cannot begin to imagine. We do not have to earn it; in fact, we can’t. It is given to us freely, as a gift. And in response, we are called to receive the gifts of God, tend them, and share them with everyone around us. We are heirs of the Beloved! With whom will you share your abundance today?

We are heirs of the Beloved! Jesus invites us to be heirs of God’s kingdom, an abundance we cannot begin to imagine. It is given to us freely, and in response, we are called to receive the gifts of God, tend them, and share them with everyone around us. 

Vicar Meagan McLaughlin
   Seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 27 A
   Texts: Isaiah 5:1-7, Psalm 80:7-15, Philippians 3:4b-14, Matthew 21:33-46

Grace and peace to you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

I don’t know about you, but from the time I was a child, I was taught to secure my future by working hard, dressing well, saving money, getting a degree from a “good” school, earning the right title in the right organization. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing inherently wrong with these things, and I knew I was loved, but I always felt somehow that I would be loved a little more, be a little more successful, if I could just master these basic credentials. And as I reflect on this experience, I recognize that I adopted an underlying belief that all good things in the world, even love—perhaps especially love—were a scarce commodity that needed to be earned, and once earned, defended. I suspect that this is a common perspective among those of us who have grown up in middle-class America, who have been taught that you get what you deserve, that there is “no free lunch.”

The readings for today paint a very different picture of God’s kingdom. In the passage from Isaiah, we hear a song to the Beloved who has created a place of abundance for us—a vineyard on a very fertile hill, cleared of stones, planted with choice vines. There is a watchtower, a winepress, all that is needed for a full life. It is a gift freely given by God to God’s people, before they have done anything to earn it. Matthew echoes this image, describing almost identically a lush vineyard in which God’s people live, in which they—we—can bear the fruits of the kingdom, or as Isaiah puts it, produce grapes instead of wild grapes. We are given all we need to live a fruitful life.

Most of us probably haven’t spent a lot of time in a vineyard, but hopefully all of us can imagine a place of great love and abundance. A place where there is always room for us. All needs are met. We are loved without condition, without measure. Close your eyes for a moment. (Come on, close them!) Where is this place for you? What does it look like? What does it feel like? Who is there? What food is served? What happens when new people come, asking to share in the love of this place? How do you feel when you are there? This is what Isaiah, and Matthew, and the psalmist, are talking about—this is what God has promised us. We are heirs of Isaiah’s Beloved, the God who loves each of us abundantly.

Unfortunately, the tenants in Matthew’s vineyard don’t seem to experience this promise. When the landowner sends messengers to ask for a share of the produce, they have forgotten that the land is a gift from a God of extravagant abundance, and that there is enough for all. They react by defending their territory, casting the messengers out of the kingdom, even killing them, because they are afraid. They believe that the only way to be sure they will have what they need is to defend it, by violent means if necessary. And when the vineyard owner sends his son, they kill him too, sure that this will guarantee their future. They have claimed the vineyard as their own property, forgotten that it belongs to God. Rather than receiving the gift, tending it and sharing it, they mistakenly think that they have earned it and must defend it. And in the very process of defending it, they lose the inheritance they sought to keep for themselves.

Before we let ourselves off the hook, though, claiming that we have not killed anyone to defend what we have, it is important that we acknowledge that violence does not always mean physical death. There is a violence inherent in the systems — racism, classism, ableism, sexism, heterosexism, ageism—that protect those of us in privileged positions, ensuring that we will have more than we need while others in less privileged positions don’t have enough. 17th century German preacher Franz Hunolt quotes Augustine as saying, “He who refuses to share his superfluous wealth with the poor is evidently guilty of keeping what belongs to another.”   Keeping what belongs to another. What we have is not our own. It belongs not just to us, but to all the heirs of the Beloved. When we ignore these systems, and hold on to what we have while others go without, we are acting as the tenants did. We will inevitably cease producing fruit, and we will lose the kingdom.

We miss out on the abundant blessing of the kingdom when we claim ownership of that abundance by virtue of our own credentials, our degrees, accomplishments, even religious affiliation. Our attempts to earn or prove our place generate only exhaustion, and inevitably fail. Paul speaks to this in his letter to the Philippians, saying that if anyone can claim to belong to God’s kingdom based on their own merit it is he, and then lists an impressive resume . . . circumcision, heritage, religious connection, righteousness under the law, even persecution of the church that some believed to be a threat to Judaism. Paul goes on to say that all of this is counted as loss—he actually uses the word “dung”—in comparison with knowing Jesus, being in relationship with the Beloved.

The abundance of the kingdom of the Beloved extends far beyond monetary wealth. We all have gifts and passions we have been given, for the purpose of sharing them. We take the role of the tenants when we hold ourselves back, believing that the gifts we have are not good enough to be shared with others, fearing that we might be rejected, afraid that somehow we might not get what we need. We bring death to ourselves as well as those around us by not sharing the abundant life and love our Beloved has created within us.

So, then, how shall we live? When we are aware that what we have comes from God, the Beloved, we live in abundance and not in scarcity. Rather than trusting in our own efforts or credentials, living in fear that we will not have enough or that what we have will be taken from us, we will bear the fruits of the spirit—love, joy, peace, patience . . . . We will share ourselves and what we have freely with those around us. And when we see systems or circumstances that keep others locked in oppression, that prevent our neighbors from being able to fully participate in the abundance of this world, we will courageously work to ensure that everyone can take their place as heirs of the Beloved. And we will tend the kingdom by caring for ourselves, physically, emotionally, and spiritually, and allowing others to care for us as we care for others.

None of this is easy, because it is not what the world around us teaches, and because it requires us to surrender, a challenging task for those of us who like to feel that we have some measure of control. As with everything in the spiritual life, we are to live into the promise—and the call—knowing we cannot do it without God. Paul says, “Not that I have already attained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.” Because Jesus has claimed us, we can claim the kingdom, not solely as future promise, but also here, in this moment, as a present reality.

Jesus invites us to be heirs of God’s kingdom, an abundance we cannot begin to imagine. We do not have to earn it; in fact, we can’t. It is given to us freely, as a gift. And in response, we are called to receive the gifts of God, tend them, and share them with everyone around us. We are heirs of the Beloved! With whom will you share your abundance today?