Sunday and Monday
A Strange Parable The 5th Sunday in Lent
Read: Luke 20:9-19
"Then the owner of the vineyard said, 'What shall I do? I will send my belovedson.” (Lk. 20:13)
This is the fifth Sunday in Lent, so once again we turn to the Gospel lesson
for today. Remember this about the text: Jesus is present there, and whatever
He is doing or saying is for you.
Once again this week, we hear our Lord tell a parable about His kingdom;
and if you ask me, the storyline just doesn't make any sense. A man plants a
vineyard—which involves no small amount of time or expense. Once it is
completed, he rents it out to some tenants and goes away. It sounds like a pretty
standard business deal: in return for use of the vineyard, the tenants will pay a
share to the owner. But when the owner sends a servant to collect, the tenants
beat him and send him back with nothing. The owner sends another servant,
then another with the same result: all return shamed, wounded and emptyhanded.
That's a strange enough start (why would the owner send the second and
third servants without an armed escort?), but then it gets downright bizarre. The
owner decides to send his son to the tenants, reasoning that they'll respect the
son. This decision always blows my mind—given the evidence, how can the
owner even think to send his son? But as far as crazy reasoning goes, first prize
must go to the tenants: they are, after all, the ones who decide to kill the son—
because they figure that if they kill the only heir, then the owner will just up and
give them the vineyard! They've got to be blind.
It's a strange story...but then, the Kingdom of God will always sound strange
to sinners' ears. Jesus tells this story about the Pharisees. God gave the Promised
Land to His people. When they turned away, He sent His servants—prophets—
to call them back. The people—the Pharisees' forefathers—beat and killed God's
prophets. Now, God has sent His Son to call them to repentance—and the
Pharisees are plotting His death! They believe that, when they kill the Son, they
do so in service to the Father! Indeed, they will regard the crucifixion of Jesus
as one more work that earns God's favor. How blind.
It is just as blind to say today that one earns salvation by his works for God.
Such a belief says that Jesus died for nothing: we don't really need Him, because
we can get to heaven on our own. That is not how the Kingdom of Heaven
works.
Instead, the Son still comes into your midst in the vineyard. He's brought
you into His vineyard, His kingdom, through the waters of Holy Baptism. He
calls you to repentance by His Law to deliver you from believing in your own
doings, and He enlivens you with His Gospel. He feeds you His body and blood
to forgive your sins and strengthen faith. Those who do not respect the Son face
destruction, but that is not for you. The Son comes even now to give you grace
and life, that you might be in His kingdom forever.
29. The Kyrie Monday
Read Matthew 15:22-28 (If you like, Mt. 9:27-31; 20:29-34; Mark 10:46-52;
Luke 17:11-19; and review devotion 13)
Then she came and worshiped Him, saying, "Lord, help me!” (Mt. 15:25)
The story sounds troubling at first: a woman comes to Jesus crying, “Have
mercy!,” and Jesus calls her a dog. Let's give it a closer look.
The woman is a Canaanite, not a Jew, but she calls Jesus “Son of David.”
That's a very Jewish title; and it suggests she's trying to pretend to be someone
she's not: “If only I can fool this Jesus into thinking I'm Jewish like Him, then
He'll help me.” But this doesn't last, for Jesus' first words are, “I was not sent
except to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.” Her gambit isn't going to work.
She persists, anyway: “Lord, help me!” Once again, He seems to demur: “It is
not good to take the children's bread and throw it to the little dogs”—“dogs”
being slang for “Gentiles.” The woman doggedly insists, “Yes, Lord, yet even
the little dogs eat the crumbs which fall from their masters' table.” It's then that
Jesus commends her for great faith, and heals her daughter. What has
happened? The woman apparently begins the encounter with the belief that she
must do something, be something, before Jesus will help her. As long as she
keeps believing that Jesus will help her because of some merit she has, He does
not. However, with her final words, she puts it all on Him: “Fine, Lord. If I'm a
dog, I'm a dog. But You're still the Savior of all. It doesn't matter who I am,
and it doesn't matter that I have nothing to give, or am nothing that impresses.
You are still You, You are still the Savior, and You can heal my daughter.”
That's when Jesus does.
If you read through all five texts above, you'll find a common phrase among
them: “Lord, have mercy!” Those who cry out are a collection of Jew and
Gentile, blind, leprous, desperate. Their cry announces two important things
about faith: first, they have nothing to trade for help, and must rely solely on the
mercy of Jesus. Second, Jesus is there. Immanuel is with them, and that is why,
at that particular time, they cry out, “Lord, have mercy!”
We echo that cry in the liturgy when we sing the Kyrie (“Kyrie Eleison” is
Latin for “Lord, have mercy”), “Lord have mercy upon us.” In doing so, we
make an important confession of faith: we do not come in worship to barter with
the Lord. Instead, we are gathered as poor, miserable sinners, as beggars who
have nothing to give. But with the Kyrie (KEER-ee-ay), we also confess that
Jesus is present in that service, ready to pour His mercy and forgiveness upon
us. This mercy is, well, solely by His mercy, and this is a great blessing to you
and me. If we had to be something, do something to earn the Lord's help, we
could never be sure if we had been or done enough.
There will be Sunday mornings when you arrive for worship, beaten and
battered by life, barely there. There will be times when the longest prayer your
exhausted sorrow can manage is, “Lord, have mercy.” There is great comfort in
the Kyrie you sing: no matter what life has wrought, your Savior comes in Word
and Sacrament for your good. There He is, point-to-Him-present in His means
of grace, with mercy. Guaranteed.