Wild zucchini - Matthew 20:1-16 - Living by the Word - Column

Christian Century, August 25, 1993 by Anthony B. Robinson

OFTEN CALLED "the parable of the workers in the vineyard," Matthew 20:1-16 might be better described as "the parable of the generous landowner." It would be difficult to imagine a parable that is at once more disturbing and yet more relevant to our lives and society. It offends our sense of justice and fair play. it puts a finger, none too gingerly, on that most common human experience--the sense that others have gotten more than their due and that we have not received what we deserve.

Jesus tells of a landowner who went out to hire workers. He first went out to hire at the break of day and "after agreeing with the laborers for the usual daily wage, he sent them out into his vineyard." The landowner returned to the marketplace four more times as the day wore on: at nine, at noon, at three and finally at five--just an hour before the end of the work day. When the day ended, the landowner lined up the workers, and began with the last to be hired, who received for their hour of work a day's pay. The first ones hired also received a full day's wage--just as they had bargained for and just as they had been promised.

If we find ourselves identifying with the first-hired workers who "have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat," that is probably as Jesus and Matthew intended. We think of all the times we arrived early and stayed late, all the committees we have served on, all the wash we have done, all the work we have undertaken, and we say, "It's not fair!"

As I ponder this text it is summer in the Northwest, and my vegetable garden is growing well. But there's a secret about my vegetable garden. The part of the garden that is really flourishing is not the rows that I so carefully planted. The part that is going gangbusters is a surprise patch of pumpkins and zucchini that I never knowingly planted. Other seeds I measured out, patted into the earth, watered and weeded. The pumpkin and zucchini came as a surprise. Apparently they were in the compost that I cast haphazardly around early in the spring. It's hard to take credit for their flourishing. They remind me that even though I have put labor and intention into the rest of the garden, it too, finally, has the quality of gift--of an abundance and beauty that is not in exact proportion to my labor or skill but wondrously exceeds them.

Are we really like the all-day workers? Or are we the inheritors of gift and grace, of zucchini and pumpkin, of mercy and blessing that are not strictly correlated to our efforts and virtues, and are far greater and wilder than we imagine or deserve? Is it possible that from God's perspective we've all shown up at 5:00 P.M.?

The point is not that fair play and justice do not matter. The point is to gain a fresh view of the world in which people presume that God ought to operate according to their ideas of fairness, a world in which grace, gratitude and graciousness are edged out of the equation.

When I was discussing this parable with a group in my congregation one person observed, "What is so powerful about this text is its challenge to the incredibly thick soup of meritocratic assumptions we all live in." He went on to observe how pervasive are economic criteria and ways of evaluating almost everything. There is value in hard work. There is value in fair play. But when the focus is single-mindedly on a "you get what you deserve" calculus, some truth about ourselves and some element of humanity seems at risk.

When our only measure is fairness, when our preoccupation is our just desserts, we lose touch with a sense of grace and graciousness. We forget about the wild zucchinis, the people who love us more than we deserve, and the God who has extended generosity and forgiveness to us. True compassion is probably most evident not when the deserving share their well-deserved surplus, but when those who feel that they have been blessed and forgiven beyond what they have right or reason to expect express their gratitude.

Many have commented in recent years about the hard edge of anger building up in our society. Could it be that when life is reduced to "you-get-what-you-deserve" and to economic values alone, hearts contract and compassion and kindness dry up? Perhaps knowing ourselves as receivers of astonishing mercy is what opens our hearts and our hands to others.

Babette's Feast showed such a transformation by grace. The film portrayed a religious group that had become fractious while revering the memory of its long-departed founder. Their traditions and rituals had become ends in themselves, empty of the power they once conveyed. A political refugee, Babette, came into their midst. Unknown to them she was a great French cook, an artist. She was hired as a housemaid and cook and instructed to prepare the usual fare--boiled fish and tea.

After some years, Babette came into a sum of money and asked to be allowed to prepare a French dinner. The group was nervous about this departure from their routine, and as the day of the feast approached they began to suspect that they had placed themselves in the hands of some sort of witch who would weave a spell. Indeed, Babette did weave a spell. The feast became a religious experience, an experience of grace which prompted transformation and renewal and reconciliation among members of the group. They experienced their own need for God's grace and a power not their own. Perhaps it is this need and reality to which the parable would awaken us.