Matthew 21:28-3; Philippians 2:1-13
Presented September 25, 2011, by Joel Kline
The Fifteenth Sunday after Pentecost
Back in the mid-1800s, when our nation was deeply divided and a civil war loomed ahead of us, Frederick Douglass was heard to assert, “I prayed for twenty years but received no answer until I prayed with legs.” You may remember his story, how he escaped from slavery, attesting that, upon experiencing freedom, he “lived more in one day than in a year of [his] slave life.” Douglass soon became a noted leader of the abolitionist movement and a powerful voice for justice.
Frederick Douglass’s reflections offer significant reminder that prayer is not simply a matter of sitting on our tails and waiting for God to act, nor is it intended to be an excuse for us to take less responsibility than the situation demands. Rather, in prayerful communion with God we may well find ourselves challenged to embark upon risky action. Prayer is not a substitute for action. Instead, prayer and action are deeply intertwined; prayer and action go hand in hand.
Perhaps another way of putting it is to remind ourselves that relationship with God involves partnership. To place our trust in God does not excuse us from responsibility; rather, in prayer we find strength and courage to act wisely and boldly. As the apostle Paul urges the church at Philippi, we are to “work out [our] salvation with fear and trembling” (Philippians 2:12). “Redouble your efforts,” Eugene Peterson puts it in his paraphrase of this text in The Message. “Be energetic in your life of salvation, reverent and sensitive before God.”
Frederick Douglass spoke of finding energy as he prayed with legs. More recently, Mennonite author Lisa Weaver, in a children’s book published by Herald Press, speaks of “praying with our feet.” Weaver’s book speaks of joining in a peace march, but do we not also pray with our feet when raising our voices in a rally for justice, when participating in a CROP walk raising funds for the hungry of the world, or when doing a “prayer walk” through the community in which we pray for community residents and for the issues confronting our neighborhood? When praying with our feet, are we not partnering in God’s mission to the world around us, proclaiming God’s alternative reality—life in the realm of God? Brian McLaren describes that new realm in his book Generous Orthodoxy as “a kingdom not of oppressive control but of dreamed-of freedom, not of coercive dominance but of liberating love, not of a clenched fist but of open, wounded hands extended in a welcoming embrace of kindness, gentleness, forgiveness, and grace.”
We pray for this coming kingdom of God, not merely with our legs and feet, but also with our hands. In one of his earlier books, the noted spiritual author Henri Nouwen reminds us that prayer is no easy matter. “It demands a relationship,” writes Nouwen, “in which you allow the other to enter into the very center of your person, allow him to speak there, allow him to touch the sensitive core of your being, and allow him to see so much that you would rather leave in darkness.” Nouwen goes on to liken our resistance to prayer to that of tightly clenched fists; we resist opening ourselves, fists and hearts and all our being, to the One who invites us to risk new levels of vulnerability, new expressions of compassionate living. And yet when we do take the risk of opening ourselves and partnering with God, we discover new energy, new purpose, new direction for our living; we partner with God in mission.
This morning’s Gospel lesson is set in the midst of conflict between Jesus and the religious leaders of his day. Jesus has defiantly entered Jerusalem on that day we have come to speak of as Palm Sunday, proclaiming God’s new reality. He cleanses the Temple, throwing out the money changers; he curses a fig tree for not bearing fruit; and now he returns to the Temple, teaching and proclaiming life under the rule of God. Is it any wonder the religious leaders demand to know by what authority Jesus speaks and acts? In effect, they are questioning Jesus, Who do you think you are?
Jesus is acting as the Messiah might choose to act, but Jesus, with no social status and no formal education, has none of the proper credentials. Biblical scholar Tom Wright, in his commentary Matthew for Everyone, observes that Jesus “had walked in and behaved as though he owned the place. Here he was, a country boy from Galilee, coming to the big, smart capital city. He walked into its holiest shrine, which had been ruled for centuries by the high priests. And for a moment, he took it over. Who did he think he was?”
When confronted with that question, Jesus responds with a challenging question of his own for the religious leaders, a question about the ministry of John the Baptist that puts them on the spot. When the leaders refuse to answer, Jesus responds rather curtly, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things” (v. 27). But Jesus doesn’t stop there; he continues on, telling a story in the hopes that as the chief priests and elders ponder its meaning, they will be able to answer their own question. It’s the tale of two sons, a story with which anyone who is a parent or who has worked with children can readily identify. The father asks each of the sons to work in the vineyard. The first initially refuses, but apparently reconsiders and goes to the vineyard, working for his father. The second quickly agrees to do the work, but does not follow through on his commitment.
Which of the brothers, Jesus asks his critics, did the will of the father? The answer’s a no-brainer. It’s not ultimately what we say that makes the difference in life, but rather what we do. But Jesus is not yet finished with the religious leaders; he takes things a step further, telling them which brother they were. They were the Yes men, asserts Jesus, saying the right things, perhaps even espousing right doctrine and giving voice to right commitment, but sadly, not doing the right things.
Words of faith alone are not enough; faith is to be lived out. As we Brethren have long asserted, faith is a matter of living for the glory of God and the good of our neighbors. Faithful living is continuing the work of Jesus: Peacefully. Simply. Together.
This was a message the chief priests and elders little wanted to hear. Indeed, as Episcopal preacher Barbara Brown Taylor asserts, “If there had been an inquest into Jesus’ death, this parable of the two brothers would probably have been presented as one of the things that got him killed.” It’s one of the big surprises of Scripture, is it not, how often those who think they’ve got it made end up the recipients of judgment and condemnation, while those who little anticipate God’s favor—those relegated to the fringes of life—surprisingly find themselves touched and overwhelmed by God’s blessing and grace. Who can forget the powerful parable of Jesus, found but a few chapters later in Matthew’s Gospel, in which Jesus speaks of a time of great judgment? Those who are certain they’ve got it made find themselves on the outside looking in. Why? Because they have not put their words of faith into action. Incredulously, they ask, Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you? And Jesus answers, Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, my brothers and sisters, you did not do it to me (Matthew 25:44-45).
Even more shocked and surprised are those who receive God’s favor, those who have un-self-consciously responded to the needs of the broken, the hurting, the neglected, the forgotten. Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison, and visited you? And the Lord answers, Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me (25:37-40).
Benedictine sister Joan Chittister, reflecting on this responsibility of putting our faith into action, asserts,
The truth is that we must pray for the strength to do what we are meant to do. We must pray for the courage to meet the challenges of life. We must pray for the endurance it will take to go on even when nothing changes. We must pray that the Spirit of God is with us as we do what must be done whether we succeed in the process or not.
Joan Chittister reminds us that prayer is the surprising foundation of our partnership in God’s mission. It is where we find the strength to “hang in” even when we see little or no results. Thomas Merton once similarly defined hope as a matter of looking despair in the eye and continuing on in the struggle for justice and peace. Along the way, we hear the apostle Paul’s challenge to let go of selfish ambition and seek the best for our sisters and brothers. With Paul we define the challenge of faith as a matter of “let[ting] the same mind be in [us] that was in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 2:5)—a mind and a heart of self-giving love and servanthood.
There’s an old rabbinical tale told of two brothers who worked together on a family farm. One was unmarried and the other married with children. They shared what they grew equally. But one day the single brother said to himself, “You know, it’s not right that we should share the produce equally, and the profit, too. After all, I’m all alone, just by myself and my needs are simple. But there is my poor brother with a wife and all those children.” So in the middle of the night he took a sack of grain from his bin, crept over the field between their houses and dumped it into his brother’s bin. Meanwhile, unknown to him, his brother had the same thought. He said to himself, “It is not right that we should share produce and profit equally. After all, I am married and I have my wife to look after me and my children for years to come. But my brother has no one to take care of his future.” So he, too, in the middle of the night, took to taking a sack of grain from his bin and sneaking across the field to deposit it in his brother’s. And both were puzzled for years as to why their supply did not dwindle. Well, one night it just so happened that they both set out for each others’ house at the same moment. In the dark they bumped into each other carrying their sacks. Each was startled, but then it slowly dawned on them what was happening. They dropped their sacks and embraced one another. Suddenly, the rabbis of old tell us, the dark sky lit up and a voice from heaven spoke, “Here at last is the place where I will build my Temple. For where brothers meet in love, there my Presence shall dwell.”
Yet today, are we not frequently surprised by God’s gracious presence at those times when we find ourselves embodying Christ’s way of self-giving love and servanthood, those times when we are willing to pray with our legs and feet and hands and hearts, those times when we embrace partnership with God in a mission of justice and peace, gentleness and forgiveness, compassion and grace? This is our calling. This is our mission. Amen.