4/10/26

Hear the Word of the Lord

The Master was a skilful storyteller. It was his main method of teaching, and we still use his stories today.

In the gospel set down for this weekend He tells a real rip snorter and it finds its mark, in part, because the setting is very familiar to his listeners who are the religious leaders of the day. The setting is a vineyard, and vineyards crop up on more than one occasion, which makes me think that he must have been familiar with at least one winery, or maybe he just got chatting to the folk who were running the wedding reception at Cana.

The audience he is addressing is the local clergy, parish wardens, maybe even the parish nominators and the board of electors.

In today’s parable, the owner puts a heck of a lot of work into establishing a really good vineyard.

He puts a wall around it, digs a winepress in it and builds a watchtower.  But his choice of tenants is not as fastidious. They turn out to be a great disappointment to him, and that is me politely understating it.

When the owner of the vineyard sends some folk and asks for the fruit, the tenants seize his servants, beat one, kill another, and stone a third.

Ever patient and persistent to reap what is rightfully his, the owner sends more people, and this next lot of debt collectors are treated in the same way and also meet a grizzly end.

Finally, the owner sends his son, and instead of showing respect and honour, they see this from a different perspective altogether. This is their big chance to make a takeover big for this prize winning winery.

Come, let’s kill him and take his inheritance.’  So they take the son and throw him out of the vineyard and kill him too.

Their sense of entitlement and propriety is as gob-smacking as it is ludicrous.

The local clergy, parish wardens, the parish nominators and the board of electors are listening intently to this enthralling little story. So far, so good..  But then the master does something … um… master-full

He turns, looks them in the eye and in a firm and dulcet, non-threatening way asks them a question.

“Therefore, when the owner of the vineyard comes, what will he do to those tenants?”

And that is when the fuse finally meets the powder and the things explode.

For our little cluster of Holy ones, realise who the parable is really about. This story is all about and is for …them.

A few things to ruminate on.

The master knows exactly what is going to happen to Him. He makes it very clear that he will die at their hands, and this is one of the things that stirs me and makes me uncomfortable every Lent. As Jesus approaches Jerusalem, he knows that each step takes him closer to the place of his own crucifixion.

The religious leaders of the day know this too. They can see that the little, loving, truth-telling man in front of them is too prepared to embrace his death at their own hands. All the cards are clearly face up and on the table here.

It’s almost as if Our Lord is saying…Come on, folks… We all know what’s really going on here. We all know what you are going to do. We all know that you will bruise me and crush me.

We all know that I lay down my life of my own free will, and I will allow you to do this because I love you; because of this, I will be, and I am, the cornerstone. The foundation of love that is unshakable; the gates of the underworld of sin and hate and fear and greed will be vanquished. The empire of retribution and greed turned to rubble, and out of the dust, love will rise triumphant.’

There is good news here for us today. The fruit and the triumph and glory are not ours to keep to ourselves but have always belonged to the owner. It should be enough for us to simply turn up to the vineyard and enjoy the privilege of working for Him who wants us to be there.

Similarly, if there are mistakes and failures, disappointments and frustrations, even when we have tried our best, then we are not to be too hard on ourselves. We are not the owners of the vineyard. No one expects us to save the universe, sort out the parish finances, bring peace on earth and good will to all people, persuade God to come as our Bishop and lure the Blessed Virgin Mary to become our next parish priest. We just get on, do and be the faithful tenants we have always been called to be, gaining wisdom and experience with each passing mistake.

Finally,… at the end of the readings, we have a simple statement and response.

‘Hear the word of the Lord’ and the response  ‘Thanks be to God.’

We listen, sometimes a little more attentively than other times, but sometimes we don’t hear and sometimes don’t take it to ourselves and amend our lives accordingly.

The religious leaders of the day understood that this parable was explicitly and implicitly for them. They get it.

And if they can hear it, if they can understand it … If they can get it… then why can’t I?

Hear the word of the Lord… Thanks be to God.

What’s a Deanery Day?

A deanery day is a day for clerics to get together to consume food and quaff refreshing beverages. In the course of their conversation, they discover again that they are all flawed, all have their failures, and all do have some wins. We brag about our faithful folk who tirelessly support us even when we let them down. Those who inspire us with their remarkable courage and who enthral us with their sparkling sense of humour.

In the bubbling cauldron of conversation, an unseen but pertinent process is happening where our miserable failures are transformed into points of hilarity. Almost, but not quite, a competition as to who can muck up in the most comical and spectacular fashion.

We also learn about each other, we learn about ordained life, and we learn that if young, bright so-and-so, with all the wit, holiness and charm of the archangel Gabrielle, can make a few blunders, then perhaps there is hope for this little mite after all.

So you see how ‘Deanery Days’ are actually vital to the well-being and spiritual refreshment of your priest/minister/pastor/religious-guru. We come away inspired, happier, enriched and humbled. The bonds between us are strengthened, and the glow on our cheeks has more to do with the bonhomie we have enjoyed, rather than the red cordial we may have consumed.

So when your clergy aren’t necessarily right there at the end of the phone and answer at the first ring, it may be that they are doing something very important, like going to a ‘Deanery Day’. They are most likely raving about how wonderful you are to their fellow collar-wearing colleagues. They are probably getting to know others and themselves just a little better. Another toast to Deanery Day’s

Recently I was privileged to see the musical ‘Pretty Woman’. You may have seen the film starring the handsome Richard Gere and the very attractive Julia Roberts.

Near the end, an iconic exchange occurs when Edward (Richard Gere) conquers his fear of heights to climb the fire escape of Vivian’s (Julia Roberts) apartment building, playing out her childhood fantasy of a knight rescuing a princess from a tower. When he asks what happens next, Vivian puts an empowered spin on the classic fairy tale.

'What happens when the dashing knight rescues the damsel from the entrapment of her tower?’

Answer: ‘She rescues him right back,’  highlighting that their relationship is actually a mutual rescue where they have both fundamentally changed and saved each other.

In the film/show, Vivian rescues Edward from the entrapment of the cold-hearted slavery of making dollars at the expense of others and himself. In turn, he rescues her from a life of prostitution. Thus both are enriched and liberated. Both can now explore a freedom that they have needed.

But there is a solemn little warning for all of us who seek to free others from whatever encumbrance we imagine they might have.

Everyone needs freeing. Our snares could be cash, the need to be needed, the longing to be noticed, the addiction to guilt. Clergy and carers of all sorts can be particularly unseeing of their own enslavement. So fervent are we in rushing to save one poor soul after another that we forget we have locked ourselves up in a tower of entitlement and self-congratulatory praise.

We need to be reminded that we also are continuously tempted; the tendrils of ego are forever growing and entwining, and we should always remember the humbling truth that the tax collectors and prostitutes are getting into heaven ahead of us.

21/9/26

Egbert and Fr. David

The usual path for the aspiring preacher for today’s little parable of the two sons is, I think, as follows.

Dad has two sons. One is devious and disobedient, and on our grumpy day we would call him a bare-faced liar. He says he will go and work in the vineyard but does not. The other is more honest and says a polite, or not-so-polite, ‘No thanks, it’s too hot, the work is tedious and boring, and you don’t pay according to the standard minimum wage, let alone any overtime I do.’

Later he thinks all that was probably a bit harsh and Dad probably did catch him at an awkward moment. So he quietly, unobtrusively slinks off to the vineyard and just gets on and does it.

Then our fearless preacher would point out that even when we grumble about doing God’s will, it’s better than telling fibs and not doing it at all. A change of heart, a reorientation to God’s will and doing what He asks, even if we have been wicked and mischievous, is better than hypocrisy. Thus, tax collectors and prostitutes, even though they might live on the seedy side of life, will make it into heaven before those who are full of their own self-entitlement and self-righteousness. My pet theory is that there will be many such people waiting to greet me when I get to the other side and what an entertaining group of people they will be.

Of course it’s better still if you can always say ‘Yes’ and always do it with a completely joyful and gleeful attitude; but few can achieve that and none can sustain that emotion perpetually. We all have our grizzly and glum days. Don’t take yourself too seriously and just get on and always try to give it your best shot. Reorientation and conversion are an ongoing process and God’s will is not always palatable, glitzy and glamorous.

But when preaching about this parable, not a lot is said about the third person in the parable, and that is the Dad.

In my opinion, the Father is just as vital to the story as the two sons.

Here’s why.

The father knows his sons very well. He’s watched them grow and burgeon and develop over the years. He knows their gifts and their foibles. For all this, he makes a conscious decision each and every year to go and work in his vineyard. The vineyard is his livelihood, his sustenance. It’s his business, and ultimately it is what puts food on his table at night.

So to ask the sons to go and work in the vineyard is a risk. What if they muck up the harvest? What if they don’t prune the vines in the right way? What if they eat more than they harvest? When the Master sends out his sons into the vineyard, it makes Him vulnerable, as love always is.

And to push the parable even further than I should, try this hoodie on for size.

What if this is not the first time that Dad has asked his sons to go and work in the vineyard? Is it not possible that he knows jolly well that Son number 1, let’s call him Fr. David, will lie to his face and say one thing and go off and play his Nintendo Switch all afternoon whilst quaffing refreshing beverages and sampling Stilton cheese.

And with son number 2, let's call him Egbert, Dad knows that there is a chance that ultimately, eventually he might finish up in the vineyard testily doing the right thing even if his heart is not in it.

What if, for the last umpteen years, at every harvest, this has been the pattern of things for this winemaker and his sons? And what if every year, Dad still asks, still puts his livelihood and the vineyard’s reputation on the line, and he knows that frequently, his sons will let him down. But he will never give up on them; he will continue to ask, and the invitation will always be there. The good news of this parable is Our Loving heavenly Father’s unending love. The invitation with no use-by date to go and reap a reward in the vineyard that is tricky and rocky, but utterly inexhaustible in its mysteries and joys.

One last thing to ponder. There is an echo of today’s parable with the story of the prodigal son. Dad and two sons. One who stays at home and is self-entitled about his inheritance. The other is a ratbag who nicks off and squanders his inheritance. Both parables have a dad and two sons. Both contrast one son against the other. But the most important thing that links them is the uninterrupted and burning desire that the Father has for his sons. He craves intimacy and relationship with the two sons.  He craves intimacy and relationship with all his children. He craves intimacy and relationship with you and me. He always has done, and he always will forever and ever. Amen.

20/9/26

A Special Kind of Blindness.

The folk who compile our lectionary try to offer a common theme between the readings. It’s not always obvious, but it can be discerned with some time, effort and patience.

The common thread in today’s readings could be titled ‘a special kind of blindness.’

Let’s start with the gospel, the parable of the generous employer.

Various people are hired at different times of the day to go and work in the vineyard. There are some that sign on at the crack of dawn whilst others drift in at various times throughout the day.

All are given the understanding that they will be paid a full day’s wages.

The working day comes to a close and the viticulturists, wine makers and bottlers all line up to get paid.

First, those who have only worked a few hours. As agreed, they are paid a full day's wages. So when those who got out of bed with the sparrows come along, they expect significantly more. But not so. They are paid what was agreed. A full day’s wages. Exactly the same as their counterparts who only worked a few hours.

Understandably, they whinge to Benno Seppelt, the owner of the vineyard, who asks them, politely mind, to go back and read their fair work agreement contract.

They grumble because they have fallen into the trap of comparison. They are comparing themselves and the long day they have worked with the 'Jenny and Johnny come latelys'. And at one level I completely understand their rumblings and rumination, but comparing yourself to someone else is not healthy. This is because you can become so fixated on someone else, their good bits and bad bits, that you are distracted from taking a good, honest look at your own bad bits and good bits.

The grumpy labourers are so antsy about their fellow workers that they have forgotten all the remarkable work they have accomplished. They fail to celebrate and rejoice in the things they have achieved in the vineyard on the Northern slopes of Coonawarra.  It’s a very subtle form of spiritual blindness, not easily spotted, but very potent.

So what’s the link or theme with these disgruntled cellar hands and our friends in the Old Testament lesson?

First, the Israelites could cheerfully be labelled as a pack of old whinge-bags. Whilst trekking through the wilderness, they complain about the lack of water, the quality of the water, the biting snakes, the length of time Moses goes up the mountain, the lack of bread and the lack of meat.

So there is a really good homily linking the readings, about the temptation of whinging and how infectious it can be.

But there’s another theme in both readings. The blindness of both groups of people. Time and their new standard of living have blinded the Israelites to all the miraculous things God has done in the past to enable their escape from slavery. And day by day, they always have the pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night. God in fact has not abandoned them, but all the time is leading them on to the promised land. Moses might be fallible, but he does not give up on them. He does not phone the Bishop, type a quick letter of resignation, take his long service leave and annual leave and disappear into the mists of blissful retirement at Miners Rest.

Similarly, by casting aspersions on their boss, the whinging workers in the vineyard have forgotten how blessed they were to have a full day's work and full day's pay.

Both groups fail to see.

There’s another bit of blindness right at the end of the first lesson.

God provides quails… for the Israelites to eat. Yum Yum. But also some bread.

“In the morning there on the surface of the wilderness was a fine flaky substance, as fine as frost on the ground.  When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, “What is it?” For they did not know what it was. Moses said to them, “It is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat.’

They fail to see what it is right before them. The bread God gives them; and here we have one of the very first references to God giving bread for the nourishment of his people. There will be more, of course, culminating in the bread of life that we receive from the altar at the Eucharist. And there are times when it becomes so familiar that we forget what it is and who it is that we receive. This is my body. Our Lord always chose his words very carefully, and he means what he says. This is my body… this is my blood.

The takeaway this morning is about spiritual blindness. By comparing ourselves to others, we cannot see the marvellous gifts God has given us. We fail to see who it is that is in our hands. We fail to see how gifted and blessed we are and all we have achieved in Our Lord’s vineyard.

Others can see how special we are. God sees how exquisitely remarkable and miraculous we are. And if they can so easily see those sparkling gifts in our very own selves … why can’t I?

Anything which must be remembered must be said/shown.

I am re-reading the book ‘I Heard the Owl Call My Name’ by Margaret Craven. It’s about a young priest sent to a scenic but remote part of British Columbia. He has much to learn but is blessed to have a ‘local’ who is wise and patient.

At one point, the ‘local’ says to Fr. Mark ‘Anything which must be remembered, must be said.’

Within the context of the book, it applies to the village’s old language, Kwakwala, which is not written down and so is only spoken.

But when I read this line just the other day I saw something different. I interpreted it as a firm reminder that if you want someone to remember something and never forget it, you actually have to tell them… frequently. It may be a boy thing, or maybe in my dotage I am more forgetful; or it might be my familiarity with sister death, but the pressing need to let your loved ones know that they are … well… loved, is all the more urgent with each passing hour. Say it earnestly, say it tenderly and say it often. You can’t get family back. You can’t get friends back.

Another thought after I read my quote. There are a whole lot of marvellous things that can’t be written down. Ask anyone who has ever fallen in love to adequately describe the experience in the English language. They will almost certainly begin with …It was like….admitting that words just don’t cut it. Words diminish the experience because of their inadequacy. Falling in love is to enter into a new dimension, a different world where things are ‘shown’ not spoken or written.  Can I change my quote to

‘Where there is no written language, …anything which must be remembered, must be shown?’

When this one thing finishes … then everything else can begin.

Over the decades, I have had the humbling privilege of walking alongside folk as they have transitioned from one ‘place’ to another, and perhaps this is a daily process.

Some are subtle, like grey hair, a wrinkle and a common cold. Others are monstrous and uninvited. Sometimes the development is welcome, like the transit from heavily uncomfortable and pregnant to the birth of a child.

Sometimes it is a traumatic upheaval from life to death. I have not sought these companionable opportunities and the most fruitful occasions are when they have found me.

On these fraught occasions I come back to the line

“When this one thing finishes,… then everything else can begin.” This sounds easy, exciting and something to look forward to; but it isn’t always. The ‘everything else’ isn’t always clear, is often painful, and frequently is not looked for or looked forward to.

It takes months, sometimes years, to know what the strange bumpy terrain feels like. I suspect the trick is to be exceptionally gentle with yourself. To be patient and to listen to others who have traversed this country before you. Where are the boulders and the pitfalls?

Now I find myself looking to my own transition. Sometimes straining ahead, eager and enchanted. Sometimes poignantly not really ready to relinquish the treasures I know I must surrender. If it were anyone else, I would know exactly what to say and how to listen, but when you're in the centre of the maelstrom yourself, it’s almost impossible to be objective. The eye of the cyclone is supposed to be still and calm, but when everything else is swirling frenetically around you… So I cling to my mantra “When this one thing finishes,… then everything else can begin.”

Be.

Daily, I read a chunk of Psalms. Sometimes they are severely grumpy.

‘Appoint someone evil to oppose my enemy;
let an accuser stand at his right hand.’

Sometimes they are gleeful

‘Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth"

Other times there is sage advice.

‘Be still my soul.’

Odd that you can read something over and over again and still not properly see it. Just the other day I saw the words ‘Be still’ and I thought…

For far too long and far too often, I am not still.

I am not still; not in my soul where I should be calm and doona like. I am not still; in my scurrying around, like a dorky dad dance. I am not still; in my thoughts which are often more like scrambled eggs than a concise 3-point dot plan.

What is it that stirs up this tempest and why can’t I seem to quiet it down? Other people can manage beautifully, so what’s wrong with me?

I suspect that the starting place for a stiller life is at the deepest place within me. My inner core, my soul, my being, call it what you like. That invisible part that I am drawn to and yet which is also elusive. That which has always been there, seems to do nothing, but every so often will leap out and bewilder me.

If I can calm this beast, stroke it and make it purr, then the rest of me becomes placid and appropriate.

If I just start with that first word, ‘Be’. I don’t have to climb mountains, solve the housing crisis or stop crazy wars. I just have to BE. It should be a simple thing, but it is always the hardest thing, and yet it will always be the most rewarding and essential thing.

Be.

Badges of Honour

You know how you look in the mirror and notice a change or two. That somehow you weren’t quite as suave and smooth-skinned as you were 20 years ago. This especially applies to those of us who are in our dotage. The folk who have noticed some grey hairs.

For me it was the jowls that I noticed. There are lines on my cheeks and around my neck that I’m sure weren’t there when I was 22. I jokingly mentioned to someone who knows me better than I know myself that perhaps I could get some work done. Maybe tighten things up a bit.  Make the ugly, flappy bits disappear and help me look a bit younger and more gorgeous than I really am.

Apart from the cost, they kindly and appropriately reminded me that my jowls and lines are actually badges of honour.

These ‘interesting bits’ have been hard won over decades now. They display to all who can stand to look long enough that I have actually been around the block a few times, and while I have stumbled and tripped each time, experience does count for something. It must count for a lot, actually.

Perhaps then I ought not to shy and shirk away from the wounds of The Master. Sure, it was ugly, messy and bloody, but come the time to see his buddies again, these unsightly bits are proof of his ID. Yes, it really is me, chaps and here’s the picture to go with the story.

More than that, the mushed bits and ugly bits on his hands and feet are proof of love and marks of honour. They are the visual outward display of the love that burns on the inside.

Perhaps I’ll save my pennies and wear my jowls with pride after all.