Readings 

Exodus 16. 2-15

Psalm 105. 37-end 

Philippians 1. 21-end

Matthew 21. 1-16

There’s a strong sense of dissatisfaction running through today’s readings. What on earth is

God playing at?

The Israelites seem to have a bad attack of holiday blues. Their delight at escaping from

slavery in Egypt has been replaced by irritation that they haven’t yet reached the Promised

Land. Really, on the whole the food’s no better, the accommodation is definitely worse, and

the water supply is quite iffy. They’ve reached a real low point and are complaining to the

tour guides – Moses and his brother Aaron, who were instrumental in arranging the trip –

that they need some proper food, and that they need it now. Otherwise that God who is

supposed to be helping them, treating them like the VIPs he says they are, is just a waste of

space.

The God of our gospel reading, the so-called ‘parable of the workers in the vineyard’, is

equally incomprehensible. If this is justice, it doesn’t look like it. The workers who were

hired an hour before closing time are getting paid the same amount as those who were

hired first thing that morning. How can that possibly be right?

We expect God to share our highly-developed sense of fairness; but God has something

quite different in mind.

In the summer a friend’s husband died. Matthew was pretty much the same age as me, a

spectacularly energetic and gifted man. He ran a highly-successful business and was also a

beekeeper, and a black belt in karate. Until quite recently he’d been the much-loved chair of

trustees for the Cambridge branch of a charity called Emmaus. No-one could quite believe it

when he was diagnosed late last autumn with a a particularly aggressive cancer, which

eventually killed him at the end of June. My friend Jane chose to have a private family burial

and then to hold a big ‘celebration party’ for Matthew a couple of weekends ago, where we

ate curry because it was Matthew’s favourite thing, and listened to friends and colleagues

sharing their memories of him.

Jane chose to focus on their last trip together, when they’d gone to Japan for a sort of

karate masterclass. She said that they had been particularly struck by one of the teachers,

who’d introduced them to an expression which had become inspirational for them. ‘Ichygo,

ichye’ can be roughly translated, ‘One moment, one chance’. Treasure the unique nature of

each moment. This saying had sustained them through the difficult months of Matthew’s

diagnosis and treatment, and through his dying, through the painful conversations and the

saying goodbye. Every moment only lasts a moment – and then it’s gone. You can mine its

wonder, its beauty, the opportunities that the moment gives – or you can waste it in regret,

in boredom or in anger.

Essentially it’s the same philosophy as that expressed by Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount,

when he talks about the lilies of the field. One moment they’re there, the next they’re gone;

but their splendour is more breathtaking than King Solomon in all his glory. There is so little

we can control, when it comes down to it, least of all the rhythms of mortality. We can

organize the messy stuff of life to our heart’s content, but we can never organize it out of

existence. We can make plans, but God will laugh at them. One moment, one chance.

In a very banal sort of way I found myself practising this on my recent walking holiday. I love

my brother to bits, and he’s a great walking companion, but his style and approach are very

different to mine. He likes to be absolutely sure that we haven’t misunderstood the walking

notes; and he likes to calculate how far we’ve come, how fast we’re walking, what time we’ll

arrive if we only take 20 minutes for lunch. What the pros and cons are of every decision.

And not just once: we go through it about once every half hour. On a bad day it drives me

round the bend. So I experimented with what is essentially a spot of mindfulness. I’d turn

my attention to the hedgerow or the verge and try to take in every single weed, every dried

leaf, every broken twig in the hedge. And do you know, I saw wonderful things. Fifty shades

of green. Tiny insects scurrying. The small globular perfection of a dandelion seedhead.

Miniature gossamer blankets spread out to dry on the ground. The unexpected blue of a

harebell, the rich reds of rosehips and rowan berries, holly and hawthorn.

I know it’s an easy example, since for me the created world is almost invariably joyous. But

here’s another: a few months ago I had to go for a routine mammogram, and found myself

sitting in a portacabin in the car park of Southam Health Centre. It had been a long way to

drive and I didn’t want to be there; they were running late and I was apprehensive as

always. So I thought I’d pray about it, and what came into my mind included but was not

limited to the following: the blessing of a healthcare system free at the point of need; the

dedication and cheerfulness of the nurses; the many places around the world where no-one

gets mammograms and a portacabin is a luxury. The women I know whose breast cancer

has been diagnosed in time to treat it. The occasional, unintentional hilarity of the

procedure itself.

One moment, one chance. Live it or lose it. As the Israelites pause to draw breath from their

grumbling, God sends manna. Actually on this occasion he sends quails as well, to satisfy the

carnivores; but the manna he sends faithfully, every day except the Sabbath, to nourish and

sustain them. And so that they don’t have to work on the Sabbath, he sends twice as much

on Fridays, and it doesn’t go off overnight. Because that’s the catch about manna: it doesn’t

keep. It goes against all our human instincts, which are to accumulate as much as possible,

to hold on to as much as we can, to build bigger barns to store the surplus. But manna is

daily bread, just enough for the day’s needs but no more. When they do try to keep it a bit

longer, it tastes disgusting.

And what of the workers in the vineyard? As is almost invariably the case with vineyards in

the Bible, this is a way of talking about God’s kingdom. Some get there early, some almost

too late, but everyone who works for the kingdom will reap their reward. It sounds okay put

like that, doesn’t it? But we can be incredibly mean-spirited about salvation. ‘Look at me,

I’ve worked hard all my life, I’ve always done the right thing; but they, they’ve just sailed

through life, and as for them, honestly the things they’ve done! No self-respecting God

could put up with that.’ The Damascus road, the deathbed conversion, the category A

prisoner who repents. We don’t really like forgiveness if it’s not on our terms. And believe

me, I’m as bad as everybody else. I struggle with the unfairness of it all. But I also struggle

with the idea that God can still love me, despite my weaknesses and frailty, all my could-do-

betters and could-try-harders.

Who are we to begrudge those glimpses of the kingdom? Those for whom God’s kingdom is

their natural homeland have had the wonder of it all their lives, and life in the kingdom is its

own reward. For the workers hired at lunchtime, seeing the error of your ways in time to do

things differently brings with it the joy of the second chance. But those who are hired only

at the last minute? Realizing too late what could have been yours always is a painful and

regretful thing. But having time for what is sometimes called ‘amendment of life’ is still a

blessing, a revelation. One moment, one chance.

Late afternoon in the vineyard is the golden hour. The light is soft and warm. The heat of the

day has gone off, and there is just the touch of a breeze. There is a slight fragrance from

foliage and fruit, a hundred shades of green and brown and yellow. The grapes are deep red

and full of the promise of sweetness. The labourers are weary but satisfied with their day,

the sore backs and dodgy knees hurt a little less as the promising odours of the evening

meal waft across on the evening air. There is the camaraderie of a job well done, joshing

and laughter at the prospect of a well-earned rest. The guys who were called in at the last

minute can’t believe their good fortune, and are full of relief and gratitude. To them

everything is new, nothing can be taken for granted, except that this blessing is real, and will

never be taken away.