Sermon: Peril and Desire

This sermon was preached at St. Lydia's on Sunday, March 14 as part of our exploration of the book of Matthew.  The text is Matthew 20:1-16; read it here.

I spent this weekend with two very wise priests, Donald Schell and Rick Fabian, and this sermon leans heavily on their wisdom.

I spent the weekend singing, teaching people to lead singing the way we do here at St. Lydia’s, by lining out a song, bit by bit, until everyone can sing together, and then beginning to harmonize.  Singing for three days opens you up, leaves you raw.

It reminds us that there are things that we do, not because we have to, or we must, or we should, but simply because they feel…good.  They make our entire bodies vibrate, resonate.  They give us an experience of beauty, they draw us close to the divine.

Gregory of Nyssa writes that the thing that makes us most like God is our desire.  God makes a world because she longs to embrace it, longs for it with a desire that cannot be quenched.

Our desire, also, cannot be quenched.  We long for connection, for closeness, for touch, for revelation, for beauty. 

One of my wise priest friends said that the parables, these funny stories Jesus keeps telling that seem to turn our expectations on their heads, are always about two things:

reckless abandon: throwing everything else in the world away in pursuit of one thing,

and over abundance: an overflow that has nothing to do with need, and everything to do with desire.

The landowner in our story has a single minded focus on bringing in the harvest on this day.  He will do anything to bring in that harvest.  And so he hires laborers, but it’s not enough.  So he hires more, and more, throughout the day, so that everyone who’s idle might work.  And at the end of the day, he gives, and gives, the same to everyone.  Gives in a way that confuses all of our expectations, our sensibilities of what’s right, what’s fair, what makes sense.  He just gives.  He is not interested in what is necessary, or what is enough.  He’s compelled by desire, compelled toward abundance.

This is Christ’s picture of God’s realm.  A place that is governed not by fractions and decimals, mandates or procedures, but by the pouring out of goodness on those who haven’t even earned it.

My other wise priest friend said to me, there’s peril in this parable.  Look at how the landowner calls all the workers together and pays the last ones first, right in front of the ones who had worked from the earliest hours of the day.  He's intentional about it, and there’s danger in his generosity.  You can see the sinister looks, the crossed arms and grumblings of the workers  who put in a full day.  You can feel the head of simmering of violence.  This disruption, this idea that there really is enough for all, upsets something dangerous in us.

I learned a song this weekend from my wise friend Ana.  The text is, Kosi R'vaya, Hebrew for, my cup overflows.  Ana said to me, this tune has so much space in it, so much room and ambiguity, because of the text around it.  It’s drawn from Psalm 23, God sets a table before me in the presence of my foes.  She anoints my head with oil, and my cup overflows.

 The table is set, set by God herself, and the whole world is seated here, broken and hungry and lonely.  Our cup overflows, our feast is abundant, and we sit down to eat with those who might harm us.  This is the confusion and ambiguity, the wonder and the danger of the Gospel.  This is the good news of the Gospel.

We share our sermons at St. Lydia’s, and so I invite you to speak from your experience.  What stories does the text we’ve read and the worlds I’ve shared bring up for you?