I’m sorry if you’ve been led to believe that Jesus should mind his own business and stay out of the public square.
“I don’t want to hear about politics at church!”
It’s maybe the only surviving bipartisan sentiment. Church folks always want the Church to stay out of politics, which for most of us— let’s be honest now— usually means we don’t want the Church to challenge our particular hue of politics.
One Sunday back in my very first church just outside of Princeton, after I preached an allegedly “political” sermon against state-sponsored torture, which both of America’s political parties supported at the time (this was right after September 11), this ruddy-faced church member assaulted me in the narthex and, sticking his finger in my chest, hollored at me, “Just where do you get off preaching like that, preacher?!”
So he pressed me.
“If Jesus were still alive, do you honestly think he’d having anything to say about torture and the government?!”
“Um, well, uh…I mean, he was crucified, I think…um…maybe he would have…” I started to say.
He shook his head and waved me off.
“Jesus would be rolling over in his grave if knew you’d brought politics into our church!”
Of course, that’s the rub.
It’s not our church. It’s not my church. It’s not your church. It’s not our church. It’s his Church. We can insist that the Church keep out of politics— that’s fine, I’m not a sadist. It makes my life easier— but notice how such insistence assumes that we’re in charge of the Church.
Though we spent three long years plotting to kill him, unfortunately for us Jesus Christ is not dead.
With Gestapo officers standing in the back of his lecture hall, spying on him, Karl Barth said:
“If Jesus Christ is only a pleasing religious memory, there will be nothing left of the church but a human community which is puffed up with the illusion that it has inherited the kingdom task all to itself—an illusion that works its own revenge upon the church.”
Most of the time, there, I think Barth’s describing the United Methodist Church, but Barth’s point is that Jesus Christ— God’s only chosen one— is not dead.
And the God we serve is Living God, a God who speaks and acts, a God who calls and conscripts. The God we serve is a Living God, a God on the move, a God who is able— able to do more than answer the items on your prayer list.
The God we serve is a Living God who is able to push and pull and prod and provoke his Church to go where it wants not to go.
In our sin, we can do our damnedest to keep politics out of the church, but can we, in our finitude, keep the Living God from dropping politics into our laps if God so elects? Are we able to resist the Risen Lord who persists in recruiting undeserving sinners like us into his labor?
I’m not being speculative here.
Having returned from vacation last Sunday, I arrived here at church on Tuesday morning, bright and early, with a long To Do list and my whole work week meticulously laid out.
Then our Lord, as he’s wont to do, messed up all my preconceived plans. He dragged politics into his church, and he strong-armed us into doing his work.
We were in the middle of a staff meeting.
A visitor buzzed the security intercom at Door #2.
“I need help,” she shouted into the speaker in hesitant, broken English.
Dottie, our secretary, buzzed her inside and showed her to my office to wait while we finished our work at the staff meeting. I figured if her request was illegitimate then she’d grow impatient with waiting and would move on to the next easy mark.
When we were finished with our work, I walked back to my office and discovered a woman about my age, neatly but simply dressed, with her black hair pulled back taut. Three children sat across the same sofa as her.
Their names, she told me, were Scarlett, Edward, and Denis— 6, 12, and 14 years old respectively.
I offered her my hand and introduced myself in my broken Spanish.
She introduced herself as Carolina.
“I was a teacher,” she said out of the blue and looking like she was struggling to get the English right.
I must’ve looked confused because she went on to explain, and what she told me wasn’t what I was expecting nor was it what I wanted to hear with such a busy week before me.
“We just arrived here,” she said, “last night. From Nicaragua.”
I still wasn’t processing her situation and it must’ve showed because she quickly added: “We left Nicaragua fifty days ago.”
“My community very dangerous,” she said and wiped away tears, “I left— my home, my work— for them, for my children.”
And then, as best as she could, she told me about their journey, first by bus, then on foot, and finally stowed away in the back of a delivery truck.
Seeking asylum, they’d been separated and detained at the border and then eventually reunited and released on her own recognizance to report back at a later date.
She pulled a cell phone out of her back pocket and showed me the documents that corraborated her story, the first one stamped with her mug shot.
They arrived here on Monday and are now living in the basement of an acquaintance less than a minute’s walk from here.
Literally, a stone’s throw.
God apparently isn’t all that concerned with our concerns about keeping politics out of his Church.
“Do you have any food?” I asked her.
“Do you have a job lined up?”
“Do you have a lawyer— an abogado?”
“What about your children— are they registered for school?”
She shook her head and appeared overwhelmed.
“What are you going to do?”
This time she had an answer.
“I prayed and I prayed all last night,” she said, and she’d suddenly stopped crying and looked both serious and euphoric. “I prayed and finally God spoke. He answered me, and God said to me to come here.”
“God said to me that he’d make you help us.”
“He did, did he?”
And she smiled and shook her head and said “Yes.”
She said “Yes” emphatically, like she’d just witnessed a miracle.
“Isn’t that just like God,” I muttered under my breath, “he knows I don’t have time for one more thing and so he sends you my way.”
“Como?” she asked, confused by my mumbling to myself.
“Nevermind,” I said, “it sounds like Jesus is determined for us to help you so what choice do I have?”
“None,” she said matter-of-factly, “no choice,” like it had been a serious question.
As though God had made me her hired hand.
Check out this parable.
Jesus would’ve known it. It was taught by the ancient rabbis before getting recorded and canonized in the Jewish Talmud.
“A king had a vineyard for which he engaged many laborers, one of whom was especially apt and skillful. What did the king do? He took his laborer from his work, and walked through the garden conversing with him.
When the laborers came for their wage in the evening, the skillful laborer also appeared among them and received a full day’s wage from the king. The other laborers were angry at this and said, “We have toiled all day long while this man has worked but two hours; why does the king give him the full wage even as to us?”
The king said to them: “Why are you angry? Through his skill he has produced more in two hours than all of you have done all the day long.”
In the Jewish Talmudic parable, the emphasis falls on the exceptional worker’s economic productivity, but in Jesus’ remix of the parable, the stress is not on the laborer but on the landowner.
The focus is not on the worker’s activity but the owner’s activity, going out, again and again, seeking and summoning. The focus isn’t on the laborer’s contributions but on the landowner’s character, “Are you envious because I am generous?”
Actually, in Matthew’s Greek, the landowner asks the grumbling laborers, “Is your eye evil because I am good?”
Because I am good— that’s the money line; that’s the clue.
Right before Jesus spins his version of this parable, Jesus chastises a wealthy honor roll student for calling him good. “Good teacher,” the rich young man says to Jesus, “what must I do to have salvation?”
And rather than answer him outright, Jesus takes him to task for his salutation. “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone.”
No one is good, Jesus has just said, but God.
If you want salvation, Jesus then tells him, you’ve got to be free for it. Freed for it. Go, offload all your stuff on Craigslist and then come follow me.
In other words, whatever that word salvation includes it cannot exclude following and obeying Jesus Christ.
Follow me, Jesus invites the rich kid with the perfect resume.
But, Matthew reports (this was centuries before Marie Kondo), the rich young man had too much stuff in the way of following after Jesus so he turns around and turns away from Jesus and returns home.
He is the only person recorded in the Gospels who’s invited by Jesus to become a disciple but refuses.
And looking on the rich kid walking back home, Jesus says, “It’s hard for rich folks like him to follow me, about as hard as camel squeeing its humps and luggage through the eye of a needle.”
And the disciples, knowing they have more in common with the overachieving do-gooder than with the unemployed, homeless carpenter from Nazareth, throw up their hands, chagrined.
“Then there’s no hope for any of us!” they gripe, “If a success story like him can’t follow you and following you is salvation, then who can be saved?”
Jesus responds, “For mortals, it’s impossible. But for God, all things are possible,” which offends Peter, who gave up his fishing business— all on his own— to come work for the Lord and here Jesus is saying “Well, God will get even losers like this rich guy to ‘Yes.’ Watch, God will make followers of them too.”
“That’s not fair” Peter grumbles, and I get it. Trust me, no one has a beef with Christ’s poor taste in Christians quite like a pastor.
“That’s not fair,” Peter gripes.
So then Jesus doubles down with a redacted version of a familiar parable.
The denarius, which the landowner pays all the laborers, was the daily subsistence pay required by the Torah.
It’s prescribed in the Book of Leviticus. It’s minimum wage. It’s the equivalent of pulling a shift at Wendy’s. So the workers who show up just before quitting time— their pay is unearned, yes, but its not extravagant by any means. It’s not gratuitous; it’s what the Law requires.
This is not a parable of God’s grace as opposed to our works.
This is a parable about God’s gracious and determined work to enlist every last loser to his work. Like alot of the parables, this one is misnamed.
It’s not the Parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard. Heck, the laborers don’t do any labor onstage that we see at all. The laborers don’t so much as speak until they grumble at the very end.
No, this is the Parable of the Land Owner and his prodigal labor of summoning workers to his vineyard.
Nearly all the verbs in the story belong to him. He goes out— five times he goes out; he even goes out after there’s hardly anything left to be done— seeking laborers for his vineyard.
Jesus tells you the takeaway at the very top of the story.
“The Kingdom of God,” Jesus says, “is like a landowner who went out to find laborers…”
For his what?
For his vineyard.
Jesus assumes you know the Book of Isaiah where God’s self-chosen image for Israel and her vocation— her vocation to be a light to the world, to be a peculiar, set-apart, pilgrim people, to be a holy people, to be a nation within and among the nations, to be a people who embody— unlike the nations— God’s justice and righteousness— God’s image for his elect People and their vocation in the world is a vineyard.
It’s Isaiah chapter five.
God is the landowner who labors in this parable.
It’s about God’s work to find workers.
The primary difference between a Living God and a dead god, an idol, is that the latter will never shock or surprise you, never offend you or inconvenience you, and never call you to do something you wouldn’t have done apart from conversion and worship.
It’s about this vocative God of ours.
This God who refuses to accomodate our apathy and functional atheism by remaining comfortably distant and idle but is instead always on the move, going out, inviting and enlisting, calling and conscripting, seeking and finding and arm-twisting Kingdom accomplices in a world that knows not that Jesus is Lord.
We can argue whether or not there’s any work we must do as Christians who are justified by grace alone, but the reality is that Jesus Christ is not dead and if he’s got a work for you to do, by God, he’s going to give it to you and he’s going to get you to do it.
There was a young woman in one of the congregations I once served. Her name was Ann. She was a straight-A student at an Ivy League school.
She was nearing graduation, and her parents couldnʼt have been more excited about what lay in her future: maybe a graduate degree at another prestigious school; maybe a career and no less than a six figure salary.
Instead Ann threw them all for a loop and one day, out of the blue, announced to her parents that rather than doing anything they wanted, she was going to work in a clinic in some poor village in Venezuela.
I only found out about this when Annʼs mother burst into my office one day, clearly assuming I was the one who put the idea in her daughter’s head.
Red-faced and furious, she said: “Preacher, youʼve got to talk to her. Youʼve got to convince her to change her mind. Youʼve got to show her sheʼs throwing her life away.”
Ever the obedient minister, I met with Ann and communicated all her motherʼs fears: she was being naive, she was being irresponsible, she was being idealistic, her education should come first, she shouldnʼt jeopardize her career.
The Gospel’s about grace not works, I told her.
Ann looked back at me liked Iʼd disappointed her in some way. “Didnʼt Jesus tell the young man to give up all his stuff and follow him?” she asked.
“Uh, well, yeah but…I mean…Jewish hyperbole and all…he couldnʼt have been serious…that wouldʼve been irresponsible. At least tell me why youʼre doing this.”
“Why do you think?” she asked like there could be only possible answer and it should be obvious. “Jesus sorta came to me and he spoke to me and he told me to go and do it.”
“He did, did he?”
And her eyes narrowed, like she was about lay a straight flush down on the table.
“Are you telling me, pastor, that I should listen to you instead of him.”
“Um, uh…okay, I think we’re done here. Just leave me out of it when you talk to your parents.”
I know you want to keep politics out of the Church.
I get it.
But the problem is, it’s not your Church and the Risen Christ, the Living God, he’s on the move. He’s always going out, calling and conscripting.
And he is free to drop whatever work he chooses into your lap whether or not it obeys our boundaries of what’s acceptable.
The Lord is no respecter of propiety. With pictures of asylum seekers all over the newspapers, God this week brought politics in to his church here.
And just like that, God got us to working.
Meredith, our Children’s Director, found games to occupy the kids while they waited. Peter put down what he was doing and left to stuff his trunk with food for them. And I stared at the fourteen items I had on my To Do list for the day as I waited on hold, making calls all day long for Carlina, connecting her with the county, finding her a lawyer, locating services, resourcing her three kids.
When we drove them home later, I carried bags of food inside and I gave her my cell number and I told her that if there was anything else she needed to call me. It was the sort of compassionate gesture you make to someone when you don’t really expect them to take you up on the offer.
Later that night I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize.
“This is Carolina,” it said, “thank you to you and your church.”
And then I watched the text bubbles roll up and down as she texted another message. “The school say I need to go to Central Office to register my children.”
“How are you going to get there?” I texted back.
“I prayed,” she replied, “and God said you should take me.”
“He did, did he?”
And then the next text quickly followed.
“God say to tell you that I’m baptized. You have an obligation to me. As a brother. In Christ.”
“That’s the annoying inconvenience of worshipping a Living God,” I typed but didn’t send.
And so, thanks to Jesus, I spent most of the next day driving her and her children to Merrifield to get her kids registered and tested and immunized. And then the next day, Jesus apparently summoned my wife and son to go purchase school supplies for all of them.
At the end of the week, I mentioned all the details to Dottie, our secretary and she replied, “In order to be a pastor, you must have to really enjoy helping people in need.”
“Enjoy?” I asked, “Do you know many people in need? Most of them aren’t that enjoyable.”
“Then why did you choose to do it?”
“Choose? I didn’t choose it at all. I got summoned.”