Much of what I saw was not surprising. Since I’m a little cynical in my old age, since I’ve seen before how justice has worked--or not--in similar situations, I was not surprised that their consensus is that the officer who shot Michael will go free, that justice will not be served here.
Nor was I surprised at the many tears, the rage and the huge fear in the various young people I spoke with. Michael Brown’s death has opened up old wounds they have suffered for years from the police, and after the most recent trauma they had just been through with Michael's killing, the tears and rage and fear seemed like healthy and legitimate reactions. So these things did not surprise me.
But here’s what did surprise me. Today in Ferguson, so many people have been lifted out of their own little worlds into something very big.
As soon as he heard the news, a thirty-something white man they call Woo, who had moved away from Ferguson years ago, quit his construction job in Arkansas to come back home and work as a community organizer. “We’re all brothers and sisters,” he said.
A young African-American man named Mel who has had a bumpy ride on the planet--he’s a former gang-banger, a drug addict with a prison record and one failed relationship after another--is now part of a 24/7 encampment witnessing to what happened to Michael Brown and demanding justice. “In my whole life,” he told me, “this is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
A woman named Francesca whom I passed in a church hall was on her way to a meeting to learn what mothers like her could do to change the Ferguson City Council and get a new police chief. “This political stuff is all new to me,” she said, “But I gotta learn these things for my daughter’s sake.”
Then there was twenty-two year old Marcellus Buckley, a cousin of Michael Brown who was killed. To deal with his own sadness and anger and that of his community, he began writing poetry. He’s now known as “the poet of Ferguson” and has learned to say very powerfully what people in this small town are feeling.
Over and over again I saw people moving out of their own smaller worlds--their day-to-day concerns of earning a paycheck, buying groceries, doing the laundry--into something much larger, a deeper connection with each other and the larger world, an impulse to make things better for the many young African-American and Latino men who are far too often traumatized by the police. They have stepped into a much larger story, one in which they each have an important role to play.
It’s what happens in today’s gospel, which is a controversial one in a capitalist society like ours.
Laborers are hired, some early in the morning, some at noon, others at the end of the day. What sticks in our craw, and what is no doubt the focus of most sermons on this passage, is that they all get paid a full day’s wage, they all get paid the same. It doesn’t seem fair. If this gospel were trying to lay out best business practices for dealing with employees rather than a spiritual truth, there would be lawsuits.
But hold that thought, that controversy, for another time--and another sermon.
Today I’d like to focus on what’s on the landowner’s mind. For him, what matters is not what you get paid—he knows he’s going to give you everything you need, so that’s not a problem. Nor does he care about where you happen to be in the food chain, how high you’ve made it in the corporate ladder or the hierarchy. His concern is simply that you work in the vineyard, that you not waste your life on things that don’t really matter.
When he sees workers standing idle on the corner, he is pained. “Why are you standing here idle all day? You! Go into the vineyard.”This is a parable about the bigger picture, the larger story in which each of us is invited to play a part. Jesus calls it “the kingdom of heaven”. It is the dream of a new world, a new human reality. It is magnificent and wonderful. And like those day laborers eager to find work, like so many of the people of Ferguson in this critical moment, we, in our deepest hearts, are eager to be part of it. In our better moments, none of us wants to fritter away our precious time on this planet on things that don’t matter. It’s in our DNA. We want to live and live fully. And we want to be part of this great dream that God is bringing about all around us.
Ask people what they want in a job, and meaningfulness looms large. For decades, Americans have ranked purpose as their top priority -- above promotions, income, job security, and hours. Studs Turkel once interviewed hundreds of people in a striking array of jobs. He concluded that for us as for all people, work is a search "for daily meaning as well as daily bread." Yet all too often, we feel that our work doesn't matter. "Most of us,” he writes, “have jobs that are too small for our spirit. Jobs are not big enough for people."
This gospel is meant to bring us to a moment of clarity. It’s the kind of clarity people sometimes get when a tragedy like Michael Brown’s death happens.
In such a moment, we have a chance of getting our priorities straight. Suddenly all business-as-usual chatter in our heads doesn’t seem quite so important anymore. How much money do I make, how much weight I need to lose to fit into my jeans, how I compare with someone else. What does matter is that you are part of something vast and wonderful. You are not standing by idle, wasting your life. No, you, in your own way--in the way you do your job, or care for your friends and loved ones, or take part in the many ministries here at St. Johns’--are helping to build the kingdom of God. This, just knowing this, is all the reward you need. It’s what you were born for.
Because you’ve discovered something: That the Lord of the vineyard has said to you as to the laborers in today’s gospel, as to the people of Ferguson in this critical moment, “You, Go and work in my vineyard.”
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