You ever been paid for something you really didn't
do? I'm not talking about a little oops on your
paycheck, an extra hour of overtime the boss
didn't catch. I mean, in full, paid in full.
For work you barely touched. If that's ever happened
to you, you know that strange mix of relief and
guilt that settles in. One voice says, thank
God. The other side says, don't look too happy.
Someone's going to notice. Now, flip that feeling
around. Imagine working from the crack of dawn.
Hands blistered. Shirt stuck to your back. And
then finding out the new guy, the one who clocked
in at 4 .55, is getting the exact same wage.
It's not just a knot in your stomach. That's
a heat that crawls up your neck. That's where
Jesus takes us tonight in Matthew chapter 20.
A master of the house keeps going back to the
hiring square all day long. Early, late, last
minute, and every time. He calls more folks into
the vineyard. And at sundown, he pays them all
the same wage. Now, depending on where you're
standing in that line, it's either the best news
you've ever heard or the kind of thing that makes
you want to throw your coin back at the foreman
and walk off. But here's the twist. We're not
going to just talk about wages and money tonight.
We're going to walk into the vineyard. Feel the
heat, watch the master's eyes, and wrestle with
the truth that's been humming underneath the
whole day. God's grace does not require your
consent. Not to start, not to keep going, not
to finish. So, lace up or kick off your sandals.
Let's step into the square and see what happens
when the kingdom starts handing out coins in
a currency our ledgers. can't seem to balance.
I'll see you on the other side. And tonight we're
going to begin a journey in where we look at
the parables. And a parable is a type of storytelling
that teaches a moral lesson. All parables are
stories, but not all stories are parables. Stories
clearly point to a moral lesson. to the moral
of the story. That's the point of the story.
Parables are more complex. The hero or the moral
of the parable is not always, not necessarily
evident. Sometimes the one we think is the villain
in the parable is actually the hero. And one
other thing I'd like to point out as we begin
this journey in the look of parables. is parables
only have one meaning. There might be other things
that we can glean from parables that are God's
truth, but when Jesus, Jesus, the guy we like
from the Bible, when he tells stories, he doesn't
tell stories, he tells parables. Because he doesn't
want you to just digest the information in your
head. He wants you to feel the truth of the story
in your heart. And Jesus also knows us well enough
that if he throws six or eight or ten things
at us in a story, we won't remember any. So Jesus
makes a point. And in the parables, there's only
one meaning to the parable. One of the ones I
love to illustrate is the one most people know.
The guy with the... bags the coins, and he gives
one slave a bunch, and then he gives another
half of that, and then one, the one. And the
guy that returns double, the slave, gets rewarded.
And we have been taught that that means that
the meaning of the parable is that if we don't
use the things God has given us, then we can
be punished. We won't actually be worthy of our
blessing. Okay, now all of that flies in the
face of the nature of God. We're not talking
about that parable tonight. That's for another
night, right? The guy who gets thrown out, the
one who buried the coins, is actually the hero
in that story. So you have to have ears to hear
to actually get it. And we'll take them slow.
Also, welcome to, I'm calling it Bible Story
now on Wednesday nights. Instead of Bible study,
and I think it's because the more I've been trying
to tell stories, the more I've realized, I think
I'm actually a better storyteller than I am a
preacher. So I think I'll just lean into the
storytelling for a while and give me your feedback,
but don't hurt my feelings. So like, if you think
I'm not a very good storyteller, you could just
say, hey, pastor, I think you're a better preacher
than storyteller. Or the other way around. If
you like the storytelling, say, hey, man, I dig
the storytelling. Because that tells me I could
go back to the boring preaching stuff if you
guys want. I think this is a lot more fun. So
I don't want to assume you know the story. We're
going to always begin these stories with the
scripture, the whole thing that we're going to
be talking about, okay? So tune your ears to
the reading of the word. Matthew chapter 20.
We're looking at verses 1 through 16 this evening.
This is Jesus speaking. For the kingdom of heaven.
is like a master of a house who went out early
in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard.
After agreeing with the laborers for a denarius
a day, he sent them into the vineyard. And going
about the third hour, he saw others standing
idle in the marketplace. To them he said, You
go into the vineyard too, and whatever's right
I will give you. So they went. Going out again
about the sixth hour and the ninth hour, he did
the same. And about the eleventh hour, he went
out and found others standing. He said, Why do
you stand idle here all day? They said to him,
Because no one has hired us. He said to them,
You go into the vineyard too. When the evening
came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman,
Call the laborers and pay them their wages, beginning
with the last up to the first. And when those
were hired, about the eleventh hour came, each
one of them received a denarius. Now, when those
hired first came, they thought they would receive
much more, but each of them also received a denarius.
And on receiving it, they grumbled at the master
of the house, saying, These last worked only
one hour, and you made them equal to us, who
have borne the burden of the day. And the scorching
heat, he replied to one of the friend, I'm doing
you no wrong. Did you not agree with me for a
denarius? Take what belongs to you and go. I
choose to give to the last worker as I give to
you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with
what belongs to me? Or do you begrudge my generosity?
Jesus ends with this truth. So the last will
be first, and the first will be last. They say
it's the darkest before the dawn, right? So it's
the blackest part of night. Somewhere past the
rooftops, a rooster tests his throat like a trumpet
warming up. Men are already gathering in the
hiring square. They don't shout. They stand in
knots as if... Heat might grow from being close,
hands tucked inside sleeves, shoulders rounded
against the chill that is both weather and worry.
The hiring square is not new to them. Their feet
know the ruts, the places where the cobbles are
loose, the groove where a cartwheel catches,
the corner where you might catch a blink of first
light before it peeks over the eastern wall.
They don't say it out loud, but it lives under
every breath. If you're still standing here,
After the first hour of sun, this day will pass
you by. You watch all of this because last night
you slept poorly and woke early. The dark felt
heavy. You drifted towards the square, the way
folks drift towards a porch light, half hoping,
half afraid. There you are now, back against
the cool stone, watching hope run its fingers
through the crowd, touching one face. and not
the next. And he comes like he always does, the
master of the house. Not hurried, not slow, he
walks in the way of a man who knows the shape
of his day before it starts. The leather of his
sandals is new enough to squeak when it bends.
His eyes work like hands, weighing shoulders,
measuring grip, reading the story written in
the knuckles and the posture and the set of the
jaw. of those that have learned to keep quiet.
He names his price clean, no bargaining, no sermon,
a denarius for the day. It's just, which is just
another way of saying it won't buy luxury, but
it'll keep a table honest. Bread, oil, a little
wine if the day has any mercy. No one argues
because argue is what men do when they have options.
And he points and says, you, you. And when his
fingers land on a man, that man's breath loosens
a notch. Sandals whisper on the dust. Chosen
fall in behind him, their silhouettes cutting
across the square like mercy drawn in thin black
lines. You follow in your mind as they pass through
the vineyard gate. The morning there is still.
A hush right before the day makes its demands
upon you. Vines stretch out in careful rows,
each planted, trellised to a stake that leans
like a man who has learned to pray. New growth
makes a green smell that rises up like a song.
The earth gives when you step on it, dew beads
on the edge of leaves and slowly lets go, dripping
down to the ground, drop by drop, hitting the
dirt. First hired begin as first hired do, with
quiet confidence. The master's word was good,
the contract clear, and that clarity puts a certain
strength in their hands. They don't hurry, but
they don't stop. Their work is a long string
of small obediences, a twig clipped here, a line
tightened there, a steady carry of pruned vine
is tossed onto piles that we later burn down
to their ashes. The sun is still gentle in the
morning when the first hem of sweat appears on
your neck. Back in the square, the light along
the eastern wall is turning from blue to gray,
that pale yellow that means decisions are being
made in rooms you cannot see. The men who remain
there are now thinning out. And shame starts
to hiss under their ribs. Not yet. Maybe today.
Maybe never again. But no man says a word. And
then, mercifully, he returns. The master of the
house steps back into the square. The third hour,
with the sun now riding high enough to gild the
stones, the men straighten. He doesn't lecture.
He doesn't ask for excuses. He just says what
he has said before. You go into the vineyard,
too, and whatever is right, I will give you.
Right. That word sits on the tongue like bread
and like a riddle. Right according to whom? Right
as in enough? Or right as in righteous? Does
a man who could pass you by without a word know
what right tastes like when your children you
know are waiting at your door, counting the sound
of your steps? That word, by the way, is diakion.
Diakion, in the Greek word, diakion means right.
It means the right thing to do. It's just. But
diakion actually has a religious connotation
to its meaning. And the implication actually
with the word diakion here is it doesn't just
mean the word fair, but the word implies according
to God's justice. So not just fair, but according
to God's justice. Okay? Still, men go. Because
nothing is sure in the square and everything
is possible in the field. In the vineyard, though,
the first hired look up and catch the sight of
new hands moving down the rows. There's a particular
way a late comer walks. Shoulders still rested,
hands still clean. A little eagerness that hadn't
been knocked out yet by noon. No one says anything,
but the older hands feel a small tug. Where were
they? when the morning was so heavy. The tug
is not yet a resentment. It's just a question
of a very sharp edge. By the sixth hour, the
light now has weight to it. Heat stands up in
waves you can see. Shimmer over the dust, a veil
over vision. Tunics begin to cling with sweat.
Dust makes a paste out of sweat and skin and
grip. Lips taste like salt and soil. In the low
places of the vineyard where the breeze forgets
to go, men work with their heads down, choosing
obedience over complaint because that is the
only choice that will pay the end of this day.
Then a sound. More footsteps. Not hurried, not
slow, but fresh. Another small group threads
into the rows. They're flushed, but not from
the labor. There's a clumsiness to them, the
way they put their hands to the vine, the way
the knife looks like it doesn't quite belong
yet where it's asked to go. And you could begin
to feel the quiet shift in the air around the
first hired. If tension had a smell, it might
smell like hot iron with a touch of vinegar.
By the ninth hour, three in the afternoon, if
you're keeping time that way. The light changes
from the harsh glare of power to the long shadow
mercy of almost over. And again, more walking
in. Another little procession of the unexpected.
You could taste the word enough sitting crooked
in the mouths of the first hired. Doesn't get
spoken, but it hangs in the air there. Isn't
there a line? Isn't there a point where right
is no longer right if it keeps getting stretched?
There are glances now. Not hostile exactly, but
tallying, counting, assigning. As if eyes could
make columns of men and numbers of hours and
solve them with arithmetic. The 11th hour now.
Five o 'clock. This particular gold that only
late afternoon knows. A soft, slanting light
that puts long shadows between the rows paints
every leaf with a last kindness of the day. The
vineyard looks tired in a beautiful way, like
a grandmother's hands, lying, capable, honest.
If you had money, you'd bet the day is done,
but the master goes out again to the square.
to the place where men no longer even pretend
to look up when sandals scuff the stones in front
of them. You can almost hear the question before
he asks it. Why do you stand here, idle all day?
And there are a thousand answers a man could
give. Defense, bluster, blame, shame. But the
words that come are the plainest. Because no
one has hired us, sir. Not laziness. Rejection.
Not refusal. Invisible. The day has called other
names, but never once called theirs. Dawn passed.
Noon passed. Afternoon went by like a cart you
can't run down, and they stayed right where hope
leaves you, on the curb, inside your own bones,
not moving, because where else can you go? And
the master says what he's been saying all day
long, like a bell that refuses to go silent.
You, go into the vineyard too. And it floats
across your mind like a rumor from a better country,
not shouted, not preached, just left out there
on the breeze. God's grace does not require my
consent. It's not a gavel. It's a gunshot. It's
a bell tone that lingers beneath the noise, soft
enough to ignore now if you want to, but strong
enough to find you again right at sundown. The
11 -hour men step into the rows with caution
of the newly blessed. They watch the others,
imitate the motions, learn how to hold a vine,
how to make a knife seem a little bit more like
a tool and less like fear. Their bodies are tense
with the old ache of being unwanted, an ache
that needs a minute to believe it's of worth
anymore. The day tilts and the world cools enough
to begin to think again. Evening comes on like
a benediction. The foreman's voice carries down
the slope, the tone of a man who has said these
words a hundred times and means them every time.
Call the laborers and pay their wages. And the
pay line forms. But then comes the odd instruction.
A sort of small, peculiar thing that can rearrange
a whole world. Begin with the last up to the
first. It's not a test if you already know the
answer. It's a lesson if you don't. The 11th
hour men shuffle forward. Some stare at their
sandals because... This is where your eyes go
when they're used to being disappointed. The
foreman's hand moves. The coins drop one by one
into newer palms. A denarius. A full day's wage
for men who've only made friends with a vine
for one small hour of light. Down the line. The
first hired are doing the math. That math that's
never failed them. An hour brings a denarius.
Then a day brings what? Twelve? Ten? At least
more than one. For the first time since morning,
a small bright thing flares in their chests.
Finally, a rightness that favors me. And you
could forgive the thought. They have, after all,
right, borne the burden of the day and all of
the scorching heat. They carry the vineyard in
their muscles. Now. They smell like obedience.
The line advances. Ninth hour men, sixth hour
men, third hour men. Coin after coin, the same
coin falling with the stubborn same rhythm of
a truth that will not move for anyone's preference.
The bright thing in the first hired flickers.
Surely there is another pile of coins somewhere.
A first crew. a bag marked merit that has simply
just not been untied yet. Then they step forward.
The foreman's hands move again. A denarius drops
into each callous palm and sits there, heavy,
honest. Somehow wrong. There's a heat that rises
from the throat when grief and anger get married.
These last only worked one hour, a voice says,
trying to keep the wobble out of it. And you've
made them equal to us who have borne the burden
of the day and the scorching heat. Made them
equal. These words are a storm all by themselves.
Equality is easy to bless on a poster, but it's
harder when it touches your pay. The complaint
is not about less. It's about equal. I'm cheated,
aren't I? But the master doesn't flinch. He looks
at the speaker the way a father looks at a son
when the son has run the same loop of anger so
many times the father knows where the sharp corners
are. Friend, he says. Not worker, not man. Not
you there, friend. He puts a balm on the wound
even as he names it. I'm doing you no wrong.
Did you not agree with me for a denarius? Every
laborer nods their head. He's not wrong. The
first hired had exactly what they were promised.
And that promise does not tremble just because
goodness is spilled over its rim. The master
continues, steady as shade. Take what belongs
to you and go. I choose to give to this last
worker as I gave to you. There's a divine stubbornness
in that sentence. Stands like an oak. I. God
says, the master says, God is the master in the
story. I choose to give. The master does not
borrow his will from our comfort. He does not
ask the foreman to pull the crews. He does not
dress his kindness in clothes just for our categories.
Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what
belongs to me? He says. I will have mercy on
whom I have mercy. And I will have compassion
on whom I have compassion. The kind of sovereignty
that makes the proud nervous and the desperate
begin to breathe again. Then the last knife slice
of the question, the one that lays open the secret
everyone hoped would stay hidden. Or, he continues.
Do you begrudge my generosity? In the language
of the alley, it's, is your eye evil because
I'm good? In the language of the heart, it's
what happens inside of you. When grace finds
someone you'd rather it miss. Silence lands like
a bird that means to stay a while. The foreman
clears his throat. The line breaks apart. Slimes
do when the coins are counted and the truth has
been told. Men drift back home. Some carry their
day with the light step of astonishment. Some
walk home heavy under the same wage because their
arithmetic came to a different conclusion and
they cannot forgive the math. Someone will say
at their table tonight, we were wrong. Some will
say we were not wrong. And both will sleep. And
both will wake and come back and need that vineyard
again. Because that's how work days work. But
the story isn't done until the master speaks
the sentence Jesus meant to wedge under every
ribcage that still worships spiritual ladders.
So the last will become first and the first last.
You can take that as a threat if you want to.
Some do. You can take it as a promise. Some of
us must. But it is, in any case, an accurate
description of the kingdom of God. It is what
happens when the king is not obligated by our
sense of order. In this field, achievement is
not a lever strong enough to move the heart of
God. This is not an economy we built. This is
an economy that outlives our own. And I can hear
someone whispering on the inside, but is it fair?
I know. I felt it too when the line first looped
around my heart. We think we want fairness until
we remember our own ledger. Because if God gives
us what we deserve, none of us get supper. If
God gives us what is right in our mouth, but
not in his mercy, we all go home hungry. Fairness
is a useful tool for wages. It is very poor for
the God of salvation. This is where the earlier
bell tone swells into a chorus. The master does
not ask permission to be good. The father did
not hold a town hall meeting to see if the cross
was proportionate enough. The spirit does not
wait on a quorum before she blows through closed
rooms and locked up lives. So let me again say,
in case it needs saying, God's grace does not
require your consent. Not to begin, not to continue,
not to finish. It can find you on the curb at
5 p .m. with your head down. It will pay you
in a currency you cannot counterfeit. It will
spend extravagance on the underdeserving because
that's the only kind of person there is. And
some of you know just what I mean. You prayed
for healing and got forgiveness first. You wanted
God to fix that other person and he reached across
the counter and put a coin in their hand while
you watched. It felt like theft at first. Then
months later, it sounded like music to your ears.
Music you didn't even know you could dance to.
Because that's how grace works. Scandal first,
sense later. Because the kingdom's order is all
the way out of order until it becomes your home
address. There's another layer, though, before
we close, we need to name. Because you've lived
long enough to see it. Sometimes the 11th hour
worker isn't a stranger. Sometimes it's you.
You're the one who spent a decade in the square
pretending to be busy so no one would see the
ache in your heart. You're the one who passed
on a dozen invitations because righteousness
made me nervous. You're the one who walked to
the vineyard gate at five with nothing to recommend
you but the honesty of your need. And the master
saw you and didn't ask for your resume. He just
asked for your working hands. Sometimes the first
hired isn't a stranger either. Sometimes it's
us. You learned how to pray when the feeling
didn't. You have the scars to prove a long day
of work. Hear me. You weren't duped. You weren't
used. You were brought into the joy of a field
that belongs to a good man. And today, in the
last light, he's not trying to take from you.
He's trying to give to someone else. Because
in God's economy, it is possible to bless that
without losing what you've been promised. And
if you want a tidy conclusion, the kingdom will
frustrate you. If you want the truth, it can
save you. Scandal here is not who gets in. The
scandal is that anyone does. That we all, at
the end of the day, are with a coin. that we
could never mint on our own at a table that feeds
us like we belong. So the last will be first
and the first last. That's not a threat. It's
a weather forecast for a kingdom where the sun
rises on people we wouldn't pick, sets on people
we can't believe still stand. It's the old promise
running like current under every day. The father
is better than you ever feared and freer than
you ever hoped. He hires early, he hires late.
He pays like the prodigal father does, throws
a party, full measure, pressed down, shaken together,
running over, and offensive to anyone who mistook
bookkeeping for holiness. So now I'll say the
part you already know by heart. By the way, if
you guys haven't figured out, I'm going to hammer
home the main point of the parable every time.
So if you didn't catch, what is the main point
of tonight's parable? God's grace does not require
your consent. You can withhold your voice. You
can withhold your vote. Grace will still carry
on with its mission. You can fold your arms and
the music will still play. You can stand in the
square rehearsing your rules, or you could step
into the field where the rules have been translated
into love. So come on in. The lamps are lit.
The table is set. Foreman's whistle is done for
the day. And there are enough coins to buy joy
for every last one of us. Amen? Amen. Thanks,
guys. Now we've walked it. We've felt the dust,
the heat, the shift in the air when those 11th
hour folks showed up. We stood in that line and
listened to the coins hit their hands, coins
that didn't earn in any math we'd ever approve.
And maybe we caught ourselves doing the same
math as the first hired. Counting hours, comparing
calluses, wondering why that master's generosity
towards someone else feels... Like it came out
of our pocket. But here's the thing about the
kingdom. It doesn't run on scarcity. There is
not a single coin in your hand that is any smaller
because somebody else got one too. The master's
table is not a potluck where your slice shrinks
if the guest list grows. This isn't about economics.
It's about grace. Grace doesn't ask you who to
vote on who gets it. That's the part that still
gets under our skin even now. God's grace does
not require your consent. You can fold your arms.
You can rehearse your arguments. You can glare
down the line all you want. He's still going
to hire, still going to pay, and still going
to love. So, if this story stirred something
in you today, if it made you shift in your seat,
Breathe a little easier. Don't keep it to yourself.
Send it to a friend who thinks it's too late.
Share it with the one who's still standing in
the square. You never know which hearing of the
invitation will be the one they finally use to
step through the gate. And if you want to keep
walking through these stories together, make
sure you follow the Semi -Seminarian Podcast
wherever you're listening. Hit the subscribe
button. Leave a review. Share the link. Not because
it helps the algorithm. but because there's someone
out there who's starving for the good news, and
you might just be the one who gets it into their
hands. The line is still forming. Lamps are being
lit, and the Master, oh, the Master is better
than you ever could think. Amen. Therefore, leaving
the principles and the doctrines of Christ, let
us go on.