When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, “Call the laborers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first.” When those hired about five o’clock came, each of them received the usual daily wage. Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, saying, “These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat.”
I will always remember that Fourth of July. I was 12 years old. In those days when it was legal to shoot off fireworks in the suburban streets and yards of Houston we played the dangerous and wonderful games of Independence Day. All the kids in the neighborhood would light bottle rockets from our hands and toss firecrackers at each other’s feet. We were, all of us, daredevils in training, especially my older brother. Always rambunctious, my tormentor in childhood, my brother would tempt fate. And as happens when she is tempted, fate got usually had the last word.
I had just lit a firecracker to throw at a tow-headed friend of mine when my brother called out a distracting shout to me. As I looked at him I heard a loud POP and looking quickly to the noisy blast saw my still raised hand smoking in the air. I opened my fist and saw my palm all gray and scorched from powder burns. The explosion set off fiery pains in my hand and in my heart. I ran into the house, to the kitchen sink to let the cold tap water wash away the burn. Tears stung in my eyes. Then my brother, my prankster brother, was standing behind me whispering in my ear, “Don’t tell mom what I did.” There was panic in his voice. The kind of panic that comes when you know a mistake has been made that will result in punishment. Despite my anger and pain I knew what I would do. Even though it was his fault, even though he had meant the distraction that caused the accident, I would not tell my mother what he had done. Sometimes the bonds of brotherhood run deeper than rage.
My second thought was the natural one, “This isn’t fair!” It isn’t fair that my brother shouldn’t get in trouble for this. It isn’t fair that I should take responsibility for my burned hand. It isn’t fair that I should protect my brother from whatever punishment comes his way. It isn’t fair.
Nobody likes unfairness. Whether boys playing with fire, or prophets ready to damn a city with the judgment of God, or work weary folk watching latecomers receive a full day’s wage, nobody likes unfairness. Perhaps it’s just in our nature to want things fairly distributed, to want our fair share. Some inner accountant keeps a careful tally of what another gets compared to me. The thinking goes, “If I don’t watch out for my own interests, who will?” Nobody likes unfairness.
Who deserves the greatest share of the wage? Those who’ve worked all day, or the deadbeats who show up at the end of the shift? It doesn’t take an economist to figure out that the longer you work, the more money you should make. Right? Wrong.
This isn’t a parable about fairness or the principles of the free market. It is a parable about what happens when God enters into human lives. And, what happens is inherently unfair. When God enters the picture something called “grace” happens. And if you haven’t figured it out yet, there is something inherently unfair about grace.
More to come...
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