September 27, 2026

18th Sunday after Pentecost
Rev. Fred Thompson

"Go and work in the vineyard today." In the Name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. There are moments in life... when the real question... is not the one being asked aloud. A child may ask, "Do I have to?" when the deeper question is, "Can I trust you?" A patient may ask, "How long will this take?" when the deeper question is, "Will I be all right?" A parish may ask, "Who authorized this change?" when the deeper question is, "Can we recognize the movement of God when it unsettles us?"

That is the scene in Matthew's Gospel. Jesus has entered Jerusalem. He has overturned tables in the temple. He has healed the blind and the lame... Children have cried out, "Hosanna to the Son of David." And now the chief priests and elders approach him with a question that sounds procedural, even respectable: "By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?"

It is not a foolish question. Authority matters. In the church, we know this. — We pray from a tradition. We worship according to a Prayer Book. We baptize, marry, bury, bless, teach, and serve within a community that has shape and order. Episcopalians do not usually distrust authority; at our best, we understand authority as a gift held in humility, accountability, and love.

But the question put to Jesus is not really humble discernment. It is a challenge. The leaders are asking, "Who gave you permission to disrupt our arrangements? Who authorized mercy in the middle of our management? Who allowed you to make God's house a place where the wounded come near and the powerful lose control?"

Jesus answers their question with a question of his own: Was the baptism of John from heaven or of human origin? Suddenly the leaders are trapped— not by cleverness for its own sake, but by the truth they have avoided. If they say John's ministry was from heaven, then they must explain why they did not believe him. If they say it was merely human, they fear the crowd, because the people knew John was a prophet. So, they answer, "We do not know."

"We do not know." Sometimes those words are holy. They can be the beginning of wisdom. They can open us to wonder, reverence, and repentance. But here they are not "honest humility". They are evasion. — They mean, "We know enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to change." — They mean, "We would rather preserve our position than respond to God."

Then Jesus tells a simple parable. A father has two sons. He tells the first to go work in the vineyard. The son says, "I will not," but later changes his mind and goes. The father tells the second son the same thing. The second says, "I go, sir," but he does not go. "Which of the two did the will of his father?" Jesus asks. The answer is obvious: the first.

This parable is not complicated, and that is part of its power. Jesus does not give us a labyrinth of theology. He gives us a mirror. One son says no and then goes. One son says yes and then stays away. One speaks poorly but acts faithfully. The other speaks beautifully... but does nothing.

For those of us who gather Sunday by Sunday, who know the language of faith, who can say the Creed by heart, who can respond, "And also with you," or "And with thy spirit," almost without thinking, this parable should give us pause. We are people trained in the holy vocabulary of yes. "Yes, Lord." "Amen." "We will, with God's help." "Send us now into the world in peace." These words matter. They form us. They carry the faith of generations. But Jesus asks whether our "yes" becomes flesh.

The vineyard is not an abstraction. It is the life God gives us today. It is the neighbor whose grief requires patience. It is the family relationship that needs truth and forgiveness. It is the hospital room, the food pantry, the vestry meeting, the quiet prayer no one sees. It is the daily work of mercy, justice, reconciliation, and worship. "Go and work in the vineyard today," the father says. Not someday. Not when everything is convenient. Today.

Jesus then says something shocking: "Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you." He is not romanticizing sin or shaming particular people for effect. He is exposing the tragedy of "respectable resistance". Those who knew themselves to be in need heard John's call...and responded. Those who had religious status, scriptural knowledge, and public honor saw repentance happening before their eyes ... and still refused to change their minds.

That phrase "changed his mind” is close to the heart of the Gospel. Repentance is more than feeling badly. It is a turning. It is allowing God to interrupt the story we have been telling about ourselves. It is the grace to say, "I was wrong," and then take a step in a new direction. The first son begins with refusal, but refusal does not have the final word. By grace, he changes. By grace, he goes.

The good news is that Jesus tells this parable before the cross. He tells it in the temple to people who are resisting him. Even as he judges their hypocrisy, he is still calling them. The door has not closed. The invitation remains. They too can change their minds. They too can enter the vineyard. They too can discover that God's authority is not domination but redeeming love.

And this is where the Gospel becomes deeply Episcopalian not because it belongs to one denomination, but because it calls us to hold Word and Sacrament, prayer and action, reverence and repentance together. At this altar, we do not come because we have earned a place. We come because Christ has invited sinners, doubters, the weary the proud, the wounded and the newly willing. We come with our polished prayers and our unfinished obedience. We come to receive the mercy that can turn a no into a yes.

So, we might ask ourselves: Where have I said yes with my lips but held back my life? Where have I mistaken being correct for being faithful? Where have I used "I do not know" to avoid the truth God has already made plain? And where, perhaps, have I said no— through fear, fatigue, cynicism, or pain— but hear Christ calling me again?

The call of Jesus is not merely to admire holiness, but to participate in it. Not merely to honor the vineyard, but to enter it. Not merely to defend tradition, but to let tradition do its living work: drawing us deeper into the life of Christ, who came not to be served but to serve.

In a few moments, we will say familiar words. We will confess our sins. We will exchange the peace. We will stretch out our hands for the Bread of Life. Those gestures are not empty. They are training in obedience. They are God's patient way of making our "yes" true.

My friends, the Father still says, "Go and work in the vineyard today." Christ still meets us with authority unlike any other: authority that heals, forgives, confronts, and raises the dead. The Holy Spirit still gives us grace to change our minds, to change our hearts, and to change our ways. So, let us not only say "yes". But let us go into the vineyard that is Park Circle. Amen.