I had a favorite professor in seminary who had a saying, but for the life of me, I just can’t remember it.
In honor of this Wednesday being the Feast of St. Frances of Assisi, I would like to open with a story about beloved Francis, but it is also a story that has much bearing on the Gospel parable for this week.
One winter day, St. Francis was traveling to St. Mary of the Angels Monastery with a fellow monk, and the bitter cold made them suffer keenly.
St. Francis called to the monk, who was walking a bit ahead of him, and he said:
Brother, even if the Friars in every country give a great example of holiness and integrity and good edification, nevertheless write down and note carefully that perfect joy is not in that.
And after they had walked on further, St. Francis called him again, saying:
Brother, even if a Friar gives sight to the blind, heals the
paralyzed, drives out devils, gives hearing back to the deaf, makes the
lame walk, and restores speech to the dumb, and what is still more, brings
back to life a man who has been dead four days, write down and note that perfect joy is not in that.
And going on a bit more, Francis cried out again in a strong voice:
My dear Brother, if a Friar knew all languages and all sciences and
Scripture, if he also knew how to prophesy and to reveal not only the
future but also the secrets of the minds of others, write down and note carefully that perfect joy is not in that.
And going on a bit farther, St. Francis called again strongly:
Brother, even if a Friar could preach so well that he should convert all
to the faith of Christ, write that perfect joy is not there.
Now when he had been talking this way for a distance of two miles,
The young monk finally, in great bewilderment, asked him:
Father, I beg you in God’s name to tell me where perfect joy is.
And Francis replied:
When we come to St. Mary of the Angels, soaked by the rain and frozen by the cold, all soiled with mud and suffering from hunger, and we ring at the gate of the place and the brother porter comes and says angrily: ‘Who are you?’ And we say: ‘We are two of your brothers.’ And he contradicts us, saying: ‘You are not telling the truth.
Rather you are two rascals who go around deceiving people and stealing
what they give to the poor. Go away!’
When he does not open the door for us, but makes us stand outside in the snow and rain, cold and hungry, until night falls–then if we endure all those insults and cruel rebuffs patiently, without being troubled and without complaining, and if we reflect humbly and charitably toward the porter,
oh, my Brother, write that perfect joy is there!
And if we continue to knock, and the porter comes out in anger, and
drives us away with curses and hard blows like bothersome scoundrels,
saying:
‘Get away from here, you shameless ruffians!’ Write that perfect joy is there! For we cannot glory in all those other marvelous gifts, for they do not belong to us.
St. Francis is, I’m afraid, one of those Saints that Christians admire, but God forbid we should ever become like him! And yet what an eloquent tribute to the kind of love that Christ showed to us!
My favorite professor in seminary had a saying he used to use whenever reflecting on some current event that was particularly dreadful, or whenever someone would point out a particularly selfish act by someone. He would sort of half sit on the desk behind him and say,
The Cross of Christ has not begun to penetrate the hearts of Christians.
He said it a lot, unfortunately, but he never seemed to wear it out.
The Cross of Christ has not begun to penetrate the hearts of Christians.
I think one of the reasons I never forgot that saying is it has never stopped ringing true for me. There is, of course, no shortage of crosses. We wear them close to our hearts. We hang them in our churches and illumine them with halogen light. But the real question is, how well have we let the Cross of Christ penetrate the barrier of numbness that often surrounds our hearts?
How often are we like those tenants in the vineyard who think they own everything and owe nothing, not realizing, as St. Francis did, that all we really own is the attitude in our hearts. And yet, the Cross of Christ is the most startling and radical act of love in the universe.
We’ve been reading a lot of parables this summer, but this week’s is different. Thisparable doesn’t begin with the words: The Kingdom of God is like because today’s parable from the Gospel of Matthew is a PASSION PARABLE. Let’s look closely at the parable and see if we, like the traveling companion of St. Francis, can glean just a bit of what true joy might really be like.
Those who beat the servant messengers and finally killed the landowner’s beloved son weren’t even the owners of the vineyard. They were tenants. They weren’t even around when the owner planted the grapes, put up the protective hedge, built the watchtower and dug the wine press.
Likewise, none of us were around when God planted his vineyard and endowed it with all good gifts. God sent many prophets into vineyard and, like the messengers in the parable, they were cast out. Finally God sent his only Son into the vineyard to the world that God owns, the world that God nurtures to remind the people that he still loves them, and he did so knowing that there was imminent danger right there in the front yard.
Jesus tries to show us the ridiculous extent God will go to in order to bring us salvation. By the time the landowner starts to send the second set of messengers, we already know that these tenants aren’t going to be persuaded. You know the saying, Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me?
When the landowner starts pondering the idea of sending his son, those listening to the parable are now saying, You’ve got to be kidding. When is this guy going to wake up and smell the roses? But Jesus is artfully using hyperbole to show us in no uncertain terms that God operates on the concept of grace. God doesn’t use the same calculator to which most of us are accustomed. And we know the rest of the story, do we not? God’s Son met the same fate as the landowner’s son. I have to wonder why hasn’t such a self-sacrifice permeated our lives such that we are a radically different people?
Why isn’t more of the news at eleven GOOD NEWS?
Why, for God’s sake, can’t politicians even this once put people ahead of elections?
Why do we still find satisfaction in retribution and call it justice?
Why aren’t words like injustice and selfishness losing their usefulness?
Well, the short answer, I think, is because underneath all the layers of crosses that we wear, and all the crosses we kneel beneath, there are still too many tenants who are under the delusion of being owners! And the question our parable begs us to ask is: If we think we are owners, is there any room left for the real owner’s Son?
So, how ready are we to give up ownership to God in all matters?
As ready as Francis? Probably not, but are we getting any closer? We are pretty willing, I think, to let Jesus pay a visit to us in the midst of scripture and our Sunday liturgy, but what about out there in the Vineyard, where the Liturgy AFTERthe Liturgy takes place, where we not only receive Communion but are called to actually become Communion for others?
We are all on a journey with Francis to St. Mary of the Angels. My fondest hope and prayer is that one day, perhaps even within my lifetime, I’ll be able to say. I had a favorite professor in seminary who had a saying, but for the life of me, I just can’t remember it.