21 Pentecost (Proper 24A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The 21st Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 24A)
October 18, 2026

Isaiah 45:1-7
Psalm 96:1-9, (10-13)
1 Thessalonians 1:1-10
Matthew 22:15-22

It’s no secret that money matters in this world. We use money to pay our bills, put food on our tables, keep a roof over our heads... money helps us provide for our families.  Money can create opportunities, offer security, and open doors that might otherwise remain closed. And when money is combined with position and influence, it can become a source of power. As the saying goes… and I’m not entirely sure whether it belongs to Voltaire or Spider-Man… “With great power comes great responsibility.” 

But somewhere along the way, money became more than just a means of exchange. It became a measuring stick. We use it to measure success, status, and unfortunately sometimes even a person's worth. We look at the size of someone's house, the car they drive, the vacations they take, and the things they can afford as if they were indicators of their worth as individuals.

Advertisements promise us that the next purchase, the next upgrade, or the next big thing will somehow make our lives just a little bit better. And sometimes it makes us look at what other people have and wonder why we’re falling behind. 

Those who don’t have enough worry about making ends meet. Those who have enough worry about losing it. And those who have plenty can still find themselves wanting more. There’s always another bill to pay, another expense we didn’t anticipate, or another thing we’ve convinced ourselves we need.

Jesus understood something about the human heart when he said, “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” We tend to spend our money on the things we value, the things that matter to us, the things we need… and, of course, the things we think we need! 

I remember helping lead a youth retreat some years ago. One of the activities involved posters with photographs of families from different parts of the world. They were all standing in front of their homes with all their possessions gathered around them. Some families lived in places where resources were pretty scarce. Their possessions were simple: a few cooking pots, some bowls, a bedroll, perhaps a couple of goats. Everything they owned could be seen in the small space in front of their home.

Then there was a photo of an American family. They had so much STUFF spread across the yard that you could hardly see the family! It was quite a contrast. And it left me wondering… How much is enough? Now, there’s nothing wrong with having possessions. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a comfortable home, providing for your family, saving for retirement, or enjoying the fruits of your labor.

The question isn’t whether we have things. The question is whether our things have begun to determine the kind of lives we live. Are we using what we have to serve the life God has given us? Or have we begun to organize our lives around protecting, acquiring, and accumulating more stuff? That’s not just a question about money. It’s a question about what we value, what we trust, and where we place our hearts.

We see the consequences of those questions all around us. Families struggle with the cost of groceries, housing, health care, and education. Communities are wrestling with poverty, homelessness, and food insecurity. Political arguments about taxes, government spending, and public resources can become so heated that we forget there are human beings on the other side of the argument.

Money itself isn’t evil. But our relationship with money can become a spiritual problem when we trust it more than we trust God. It’s an issue when we value possessions more than people, or become so concerned with protecting what we have that we forget to care for our neighbors.

Perhaps that’s one reason Scripture has so much to say about money and possessions and how we use money and possessions... Much more than any other subject that folks like to argue about. Jesus returns to the subject of money again and again because he knows that money has a way of getting into our hearts.

And that brings us to this morning’s Gospel. Jesus is confronted by two groups… the Pharisees and the Herodians. Now, these are two groups who didn’t ordinarily see eye to eye. The Pharisees were deeply committed to the law of Moses and traditions. Many opposed the Roman occupation and the influence of pagan rule. The Herodians, on the other hand, supported the political establishment associated with Herod, who ruled under Roman authority.

The two groups had different religious and political priorities. But on this occasion, they found something they could agree on… they wanted to get Jesus into trouble. So they approached him with a little flattery. They praised his honesty, his faithfulness, and the fact that he didn’t show any partiality. So, they sprang their trap.

“Tell us, then, what you think (they say). Is it lawful to pay taxes to the emperor, or not?” They believed they had Jesus cornered. If Jesus said, “Yes, pay the tax,” he risked alienating people who resented Roman occupation and the financial burden it placed on the people. If he said, “No, don’t pay the tax,” he could be accused of opposing Roman authority. Either answer could be used against him.

It’s a little like some of the questions we encounter in our own public and political conversations. Sometimes a question is asked because someone genuinely wants to understand the other person's perspective. Other times, a question is asked simply to put someone in a corner, where the goal isn’t understanding; it’s winning. But Jesus refuses to play their game.

He asks them to show him the coin used to pay the tax. They bring him a denarius, a silver Roman coin commonly associated with a day's wages. Jesus asks, “Whose head is this, and whose title?” “The emperor’s,” they answer. And Jesus responds with those familiar words, “Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

Over the centuries, people have misunderstood this passage to be just a simple lesson about paying taxes and obeying the government. Civic responsibility certainly matters, but Jesus is doing something more profound here than just offering a lesson in tax policy.

Look again at the coin. Whose image is stamped on it? Caesar’s. And the inscription proclaims the emperor’s authority. In the Roman world, imperial imagery often reflected claims about the emperor’s divine status. In this case, the coin was inscribed with “Tiberius Caesar Divi Augusti Filius Augustus.” Translation… "Tiberius Caesar, Son of the Divine Augustus"

Now, for someone who follows the God of Israel, this is a big problem… Caesar may claim authority over the empire. He may demand taxes. He may stamp his image on coins. But Caesar is not divine… Caesar is not God. So Jesus says, in effect, let Caesar have his coin. But Jesus doesn’t stop there.

He adds… “And give to God the things that are God’s.” And that’s where it gets personal. Because if we’re going to talk about images, we need to remember another image. We need to remember the image we hear about in the very first chapter of Genesis. 

We are created in the image of God. Not just some of us. Not just the people who agree with us politically, or share our opinions, belong to our church, or see the world the way we do. Every human being bears the image of God. The neighbor we love and the neighbor who frustrates us. The person who votes differently from us. The stranger coming into this land looking for safety or opportunity. The person we see sleeping outside as we return to the comfort of our homes. Every one of them bears God’s image.

And so the question Jesus places before us isn’t simply, “What do we owe Caesar?” The question Jesus is asking is, “What do we owe God?” Or perhaps we could clarify it a bit, “What does it mean to belong to God?” 

Because we can spend a lifetime chasing the things that the world tells us are important. We can work hard to build a good life, provide for our families, seek recognition, and find security. And there is nothing wrong with working hard or caring for the people we love. But none of those things can answer the deepest question of who we are.

We belong to God. And God doesn’t trade in Caesar’s currency. 

Now, you may not hear many preachers say this, especially during stewardship season. And I apologize in advance to the treasurer and vestry! But here it is… God doesn’t need your money. God doesn’t need your checkbook or another line item in the parish budget. The Creator of heaven and earth isn’t sitting in heaven worrying about how to make payroll.

But what God does want is you. God wants your heart, your love,  your attention, your gratitude, your worship, and your life. God wants us to live with open hearts and generous spirits, recognizing that everything we have and everything we are... are gifts from God. And yes, that includes our money. 

Our generosity matters. The way we use our resources matters. The ministries we support, the neighbors we care for, and the community we help build... they all matter. But stewardship is about more than writing a check or making a pledge. It is about how we use our time, how we share our gifts, how we care for and make room for one another, and how we live as people who belong to God.

It is about what we do with all that has been entrusted to us. Our time. Our talents. Our possessions. Our influence. Our relationships. It is about living in such a way that the world sees something different in us… Not the relentless pursuit of more stuff, but the generosity of God's abundance.

Because if we truly believe that every human being bears the image of God, then our faith must shape and inform how we treat one another. We cannot claim to give God what belongs to God while withholding compassion from our neighbors. We cannot worship the God of abundance while living as though there will never be enough to share. And we cannot say that we belong to God while allowing money, possessions, political loyalties, or the need to be right to claim our ultimate allegiance.

So perhaps this Gospel lesson invites us to ask ourselves a few questions. What do we value? Where do we place our trust? What has a claim on our hearts? Are we using what we have to build up our neighbors and our community, or are we simply trying to accumulate enough to feel secure?

And when people meet us, in our homes, in our workplaces, in our community, and in our church… do they see the image of Caesar, with its promises of power and status? Or do they catch a glimpse of the image of God?

We live in Caesar’s world. We have bills to pay, we have responsibilities to fulfill, and decisions to make about the resources entrusted to us. But we belong to God. And that means we are called to live by a different measuring tool. Not by how much we accumulate, but by how generously we give. Not by how much influence we possess, but by how faithfully we use it. Not by how successfully we protect our own interests, but by how lovingly we care for one another.

So when Jesus says, “Give to God the things that are God’s,” the invitation isn't simply to give something to God. The invitation is to remember that our lives already belong to God. All that we are. All that we have. All the time. Every breath, every gift, every opportunity to love and serve.

And every day, we have the opportunity to offer those gifts back to God, not out of fear or obligation, but out of gratitude for the life and love we have already received. 

May we have the grace to loosen our grip on the things that can't ultimately save us… the wisdom to recognize the image of God in every person we meet, and the courage to live generously in a world that so often tells us to hold on tightly.

For the truth is, we don’t have to earn our worth. We don’t have to buy our place in God’s heart. We don’t have to accumulate enough to become somebody. We are already beloved. We already bear God’s image. And we already belong to God.

So let us give to God what is God’s; not just our money, not just our Sunday mornings, but our whole selves. All that we are. All that we have. All the time.

20 Pentecost (Proper 23A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

The 20th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 23A)
October 11, 2026

Isaiah 25:1-9
Psalm 23
Philippians 4:1-9
Matthew 22:1-14

Over the past several weeks, we have been hearing some powerful lessons from the Gospel according to Matthew. If you have been paying attention, you may have noticed that Jesus seems to be making the same point over and over again.

We are called to be the Church. We are called to live lives of faith and obedience, to forgive, to love our neighbors, and to be a living witness to what we believe. In other words, Jesus is not simply interested in what we say we believe. He is interested in how we live. And apparently, this is something he thinks we need to hear more than once!

Today, Jesus tells us another parable. This time, it is about a king… a king who throws a wedding banquet for his son. Now, a royal wedding was quite an occasion. There would be fine food, beautiful decorations, important guests, and probably a seating chart complicated enough to require a committee meeting.

But when the invitations go out, the guests refuse to come. The king sends out his servants again. The feast is ready... The table is prepared... Everything is waiting. But the guests have other things to do. Some ignore the invitation. Others return to their farms and businesses. And some even mistreat the messengers.

So the king does something remarkable and something considered quite scandalous in his time. He sends his servants into the streets to invite everyone they can find… everyone... the good and the bad, the respectable and the not-so-respectable. And the banquet hall is filled. The invitation that some reject is received by others. This is scandalous because common riffraff off the streets are not invited and not welcome at wedding banquets. 

Now, let's talk about that wedding garment a bit, because it is important, and it's a rather puzzling part of this Gospel. The king has invited people straight off the streets, and then one guest is confronted for not wearing the proper garment. Jesus doesn't explain exactly what the garment represents. But I think we can hear an important message in this image.

The wedding garment was provided by the King, and all guests were expected to wear it; otherwise, it would be disrespectful to the King. The wedding garment is not about wearing the right clothes to church. So, you don't have to rush home this afternoon and check your closet to make sure you have the proper outfit for the kingdom of heaven. We have enough trouble deciding what to wear on Sunday mornings without adding eternal consequences to the decision!

The garment is NOT something we put on to earn God's love or secure our salvation. The invitation has already been given. The guests are welcomed by grace. The wedding garment represents the new life that grows out of our response to God's grace.

In many baptisms (especially in the early church), the newly baptized wear a white garment as a sign of this new life. A candle reminds us to let the light of Christ shine in the world. And then we are welcomed to the table, where we receive the bread and wine, the body and blood of Christ, to nourish us on our journey of faith. 

God's invitation is not a one-time event. God keeps inviting us. Sunday after Sunday, day after day, through the people we meet, the needs we encounter, and the opportunities we have to share God's love. But there is a difference between receiving an invitation and responding to it.

We live in a world where invitations come in all kinds of forms. Some we eagerly accept. Others we put off. Some we forget about entirely. And some we leave sitting in our inbox until the event has passed because we somehow convinced ourselves we would get around to answering them eventually.

I think that we sometimes do the same thing with God. We intend to pray more... We intend to forgive that person... We intend to reach out to someone who is lonely... We intend to become more involved in the life of the Church... We all mean well. But sometimes our good intentions never quite make it into our calendars… or to our lives.

And Jesus reminds us that the invitation to God's kingdom is not simply an invitation to attend a religious event. It is an invitation to live differently. It is an invitation to put on the garment of our baptism and allow God's grace to shape who we are.

Think about the invitation… Think about our baptismal promises. We promise to seek and serve Christ in all persons, to love our neighbors as ourselves, to strive for justice and peace, and to respect the dignity of every human being. Those are not simply words we recite during a baptism. They describe the life we are called to live.

By following through with these promises, we are learning to wear the garment of Christ... a garment woven out of compassion, humility, mercy, forgiveness, generosity, and love. It shows up when we forgive someone who has hurt us. When we welcome someone who feels like an outsider. It’s there when we stand up for someone whose dignity is being ignored. Or when we choose kindness over cruelty or reconciliation over resentment. 

We won’t always get it right. None of us does. Because we're all works in progress, and thank God that God's grace is patient with us.

There is a difference between stumbling as we try to follow Jesus and deciding that the invitation makes no difference in how we live. Grace welcomes us as we are, but it also calls us toward the people God is creating us to be. And that is where the rubber meets the road.

Because our world has become increasingly divided, angry, and suspicious of anyone who thinks differently… we have become very good at turning our disagreements into personal attacks, our differences into divisions, and our neighbors into enemies. We spend a lot of time deciding who is wrong, 

who is to blame, and who doesn't belong. But the kingdom of God operates by a different set of rules.

At God's banquet, the invitation goes out to people we might not have invited ourselves. People we don't know. People we don't understand. People that we disagree with. People who, if we were arranging the seating chart, might find themselves at the far end of the table. We need to realize, God invites them, too.

The Church is called to bear witness to that kind of hospitality, God's hospitality. We are not the gatekeepers of God's grace. We are the people who have received it. And because we've received it, we are called to share it.

I was reminded of a story I heard some years ago about a young priest right out of seminary who had just been called to serve a small country church. The congregation was delighted. They had a new priest, a fresh face, and someone who had spent several years studying Scripture and theology.

On his first Sunday, the priest preached a wonderful sermon. It was thoughtful, inspiring, and very well received. Everyone was delighted. The following Sunday, he preached exactly the same sermon. People thought, well, perhaps it was a simple mistake, or maybe he was just making sure everyone had heard it the first time. Even the best of us occasionally find ourselves thinking about lunch during a sermon.

But on the third Sunday, he preached the same sermon again. By the fourth Sunday, the congregation began to wonder whether their new priest had run out of material. So the vestry approached him after worship. They told him how happy they were that he had come to serve them, but they had one small concern. He had preached the same sermon four Sundays in a row! The priest smiled and said, "I'll change my sermon when y’all start listening and living the one I preached!"

Now, in my years of helping form new clergy, I wouldn't recommend that approach to every new priest. It might not be the best way to begin a relationship with the vestry. But perhaps I think there is a little truth in that story.

Maybe we have been hearing these lessons from Matthew repeatedly because we NEED to hear them repeatedly. We can hear a message without allowing it to change us. We can listen to a sermon about forgiveness and still carry a grudge. We can hear about loving our neighbors and still treat certain people as though they are beyond the reach of God's love. We can gather at the Lord's Table, receive the bread and wine, and then walk back into the world as though nothing has happened. We can accept the invitation without ever putting on the garment.

So what difference does God's invitation make in the way we live? Does the love we receive at this table make us more loving? Does the forgiveness we receive make us more willing to forgive? Does the grace we experience make us more gracious toward others? Does the hope we proclaim help us become people who bring hope to a world that so desperately needs it?

The world does not need a church that simply repeats the words of Jesus. The world needs to see what those words look like when they take flesh in ordinary human lives. The world needs Christians who listen before judging, forgive rather than retaliate, welcome rather than exclude, and serve rather than demand to be served.

It needs people who can disagree without dehumanizing one another... who can speak the truth without cruelty... and who can stand firm in their convictions without losing sight of the dignity of those with whom they disagree. That is how we bear witness to Christ. 

Not by going around quoting Scripture at people and instilling fear until they surrender. Not by assuming that if we win every argument, we will somehow win the world for Jesus. We bear witness to Christ by living lives shaped by his love. And when we get it right, people notice. They begin to wonder where our hope comes from; they may wonder why we forgive when it would be easier to hold a grudge, or why we keep showing up for people who cannot repay us.

Then we have an opportunity to tell them about Jesus and share the invitation we have received. Of course, we won’t always get it right. We will stumble. We will fall short of our baptismal promises. Sometimes our garment of grace will get tangled up in our pride, our impatience, and our desire to be right. But God's invitation doesn’t depend on our perfection.

God knows who we are. God knows our weaknesses, our failures, our doubts, and our fears. And God invites us anyway. But the same grace that welcomes us also calls us to grow. The same love that embraces us challenges us to become more loving. And when we fail, because we will... we can turn again to the One who has promised never to abandon us. Jesus, who is with us always, even to the end of the ages.

So, my friends, the table is set. The invitation has been extended. The feast is prepared. We have been welcomed into the household of God. The question is not whether we are good enough to receive it. Because God's grace has already made room for us. The question is whether we will allow the love of Christ to shape our lives.

Will we put on the garment of our baptism and live as people raised to new life? Will we carry the hospitality of God's table into our homes, our workplaces, our schools, our community, and the wider world? Will we make room for the people God is inviting, even when they are not the people we expected to find at the banquet? And when someone encounters us, will they catch a glimpse of the Christ who has welcomed us? 

That is our calling. That is our response to the grace we’ve been so freely given. So let us respond to the invitation once again. Let us put on the garment of our baptism. Let us seek and serve Christ in all persons, love our neighbors as ourselves, strive for justice and peace, and respect the dignity of every human being. And let us live in such a way that others will discover that there is plenty good room at God's table.

For the invitation has been given. The feast is waiting. And by the grace of God, there is plenty good room for us all.

19 Pentecost (Proper 22A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

Isaiah 5:1-7
Psalm 80:7-14
Philippians 3:4b-14
Matthew 21:33-46

Today’s Gospel sounds, at first, like a pretty simple story. A landowner plants a vineyard. He puts a fence around it. He digs a winepress. He builds a watchtower. Then he leases the vineyard to some tenants and goes away. Simple enough. It sounds like just another one of those stories Jesus tells one more parable in a long series of stories we’ve been hearing over these past few weeks. But this isn’t really a simple story. And it certainly isn’t an innocent story. 

Because if we pay attention to where we are in Matthew’s Gospel, we realize that Jesus isn’t telling this story from the safety of a mountainside somewhere in Galilee. Jesus is in Jerusalem. He has already entered the city riding on a donkey while the crowds shouted, “Hosanna!” and called him Son of David. He has already gone into the Temple and turned over the tables of the money changers. He has already confronted the religious authorities to their face. And now he is teaching in the Temple precincts, knowing that a cross awaits him.

Jesus is telling this story on his way to his death. And suddenly, the story becomes much more personal. Suddenly, we hear it with different ears. The landowner sends servants to collect the harvest. The tenants beat one servant. They kill another. They stone another. So the landowner sends more servants. And the tenants do the same thing. Finally, the landowner says, “They will respect my son.” The son is sent into the vineyard. And the tenants kill him.

Jesus knows exactly what’s coming… Jesus isn’t simply telling a story about somebody else’s vineyard. He is telling a story about himself. He is telling the religious leaders and in turn us, in advance, what is about to happen. And yet there is something even deeper going on here. Because Jesus is also telling us something about God.

The vineyard belongs to God. The land belongs to God. The harvest belongs to God. The whole creation belongs to God. And we? We are tenants. We are the caretakers… the stewards. We are people entrusted with something that ultimately isn’t ours. And that is where Isaiah’s imagery helps us.

Isaiah describes Israel as God’s vineyard. God carefully plants it. God tends it. God protects it. God gives it everything it needs to flourish. And then God waits for the harvest. God expects fruit. But instead of fruit, God gets wild grapes. Instead of justice, God finds violence. Instead of righteousness, God finds oppression. Instead of love for neighbor, God finds people looking primarily out for themselves.

And that sounds uncomfortably familiar, doesn’t it? Because it is extremely easy for us to imagine that the vineyard belongs to us. Our church. Our community. Our money. Our property. Our time. Our lives. Everything is mine, mine, mine… And when we start thinking that way, we can forget that everything we have is ultimately something entrusted to us.

Even this church. St. James is not ours. It isn’t mine. It isn’t yours. It doesn’t belong to the vestry. It doesn’t even belong to the diocese. It belongs to God. We are merely the caretakers… the stewards of this place for a season.

And, as every vestry eventually discovers, being a steward of a church building, especially one that’s 175 years old… can sometimes feel a lot like being the temporary caretaker of a very large, very complicated house. There is always something. A light bulb. A leaky roof. A mysterious noise somewhere in the building. One of the committees wondering why we don’t have enough storage. And, of course, the eternal Episcopal question: “Who moved the chair?”

You can laugh, but I know there are people here today who could identify the exact chair I’m talking about. And we Episcopalians have a remarkable capacity to believe that a particular chair has been in a particular location since the time of the Apostles. 

But that’s the funny thing about stewardship. We can become very attached to the things we’ve been entrusted with. Sometimes we get so attached that we forget the difference between caring for something and owning it. And that’s true of much more than chairs.

We do the same thing with traditions, with buildings, with the way we worship. We do this with ministries and with money. We can even do this with our ideas about what the Church is supposed to be. We begin to say, “This is ours.” And then Jesus gently reminds us, “No, it’s not. It’s God’s.”

We’re the tenants. We’re the stewards. But our job is not simply to preserve what we have received. Our job is to ask, “What fruit is God asking us to produce? What does God want us to grow here? What kind of people is God calling us to become? Who is God sending through our doors? Who is still waiting outside to be invited in? And what does God want us to do with the vineyard we are responsible for?”

Because here is the interesting part about the story Jesus tells... God doesn’t give up. Again and again, God sends people to remind us who we are. Prophets, Teachers, Saints, Neighbors, Friends... and sometimes even complete strangers. And eventually, God sends the Son. And the tenants kill him. But even that doesn’t bring God’s story to an end.

And that’s the part I think Jesus wants us to understand when he says, “The stone that the builders rejected becomes the cornerstone...” What looks like defeat becomes the beginning of something new. The cross becomes resurrection. And that perspective changes everything.

Because if the cross teaches us anything, it’s that God can take even our worst rejection and make something new out of it. God can take our failures and make them a new beginning. God can take our brokenness and make it a place where grace enters. God can take death and bring new life.

And thank God that means that our stories aren’t finished either. Because I don’t know about you, but there are chapters of my life that I am perfectly happy to leave behind. There are things I have said that I wish I could unsay. Decisions I wish I could make again. Moments when I got it wrong. Relationships that didn’t go the way I hoped. And I’m probably not alone in that feeling...

But the good thing is that our story isn’t over yet. God isn’t finished with us. God isn’t finished with St. James. God isn’t finished with the Church. And God certainly isn’t finished with this world.

We live in a time when it can be tempting to believe that everything around us is falling apart. We see division everywhere... Socially, politically, economically, religiously... People seem increasingly willing to treat one another as enemies rather than love them as neighbors. There is anxiety about the economy, the future, our communities, our businesses, and about the Church. And sometimes it can feel as though the problems are simply just too big and heavy for us to handle.

But the Gospel doesn’t ask us to solve everything. It asks us to be faithful with the vineyard we’ve been given. We’ve been asked to produce good fruit in this place at this time...

And what kind of good fruit are we asked to produce? I think Jesus has been remarkably clear about that. Love God. Love your neighbor. Feed the hungry. Welcome the stranger. Care for the sick. Visit the lonely. Forgive one another. Seek justice. Practice mercy. Tell the truth. And remember that every person you meet is someone whom God loves.

That is what it means to live as people of the kingdom. God isn’t particularly interested in whether we look impressive. God isn’t asking us to prove that we’re better than somebody else. God isn’t asking us to win every argument. God is just asking us to bear good fruit... 

Fruit of the kingdom. The fruit of love. The fruit of mercy. The fruit of justice. The fruit of reconciliation. The fruit of compassion. The fruit of holiness.

And that brings us right back to the vineyard. Because the question isn’t whether the vineyard belongs to God. Because we know it does. The question is, what will we do with what God has entrusted to us? Will we hoard it? Will we protect it only for ourselves? Will we act as though we own it?

Or will we remember that we are stewards? Will we open the gates? Will we share the harvest? Will we make plenty good room? Will we make this place be a little more like the kingdom of God today than it was yesterday? 

That’s the work in front of us. And sometimes it happens in very ordinary ways. A simple phone call to someone lonely. A meal shared with someone who needs one. A hand extended across a disagreement. A word of forgiveness. A little generosity when we could easily keep it for ourselves. A willingness to listen before we judge. A willingness to say, “I was wrong.” A willingness to welcome someone who isn’t quite sure whether they belong.

These things may seem small. But God’s kingdom is built out of small things. One act of mercy at a time. One conversation with one person at a time. One little piece of the vineyard tended faithfully. I think that’s why I find the ending of this Gospel so hopeful. 

The story isn’t over. Not then. Not now. Not ever. The tenants may have rejected the Son. But God did not abandon the vineyard. The cross may have looked like the end. But it wasn’t. The tomb may have looked like the end. But it wasn’t. And whatever chapter we may be living through right now, it isn’t the end either.

There is still time for us to become something more than we have been. There is still time for this church to become more fully the people God is calling us to be. There is still time for grace. There is still time for repentance. There is still time for reconciliation. There is still time for this community to discover that we really do belong to one another. And fortunately, there is still time for the world to become more just, more merciful, and more peaceful.

Because God is still at work. And God has entrusted this vineyard to us. So when the landowner comes looking for the harvest, may we be found a people, diligently at work. Not fighting over who owns the vineyard. Not building higher fences. Not protecting what we think belongs to us. But tending the soil. Planting seeds. Sharing the harvest. Making plenty good room. And loving the people God has placed in our care.

Because the vineyard belongs to God. The harvest belongs to God. And, by the grace of God, the story isn’t over yet. Thanks be to God.

18 Pentecost (Proper 21A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

Ezekiel 18:1-4,25-32
Psalm 25:1-8
Philippians 2:1-13
Matthew 21:23-32

We are pretty good at telling ourselves a story about who we are. We know ourselves pretty well. We know our intentions. We know the things we’ve done right. And we’ve become pretty good at explaining away the things we’ve done wrong. We like to think we know who the good people are and who the difficult people are. We know who belongs and who doesn’t. We know who’s respectable. And we know who needs to straighten up. And then Jesus comes along and messes up all of our neatly arranged categories.

In Matthew’s Gospel, the chief priests and elders come to Jesus and ask, “By what authority are you doing these things?” To me, that sounds like a pretty reasonable question. I was always taught to respect authority… but also to question it. But Jesus knows there is something underneath it. The chief priests and elders aren’t really interested in discovering the truth. They’re more interested in protecting their position.

In his preaching and teaching, Jesus has been challenging the religious and social order. He has been welcoming people they have rejected. He has been touching the untouchable, eating with sinners (tax collectors and prostitutes). He’s been healing people on the margins, and proclaiming that the kingdom of God is closer than they imagined.

And now these religious leaders want to know, so they ask Jesus, “Who gave you permission to do this?” So instead of directly answering them, knowing that any response could be used as a trap, Jesus answers their question with a question and asks them about John the Baptist.

He asked them, “Was John’s baptism from heaven, or was it merely of human origin?” And suddenly these religious leaders are caught in a trap of their own. They know the answer. But they are afraid of how the answer will end up. If they say John’s authority came from heaven, Jesus will ask why they didn’t believe him. If they say it was merely human, they are afraid of the crowd. So they give the safest possible answer... “We don’t know.”

They aren’t confused. They’re protecting themselves (their power, position, and authority). Then Jesus tells them a story about two sons. A father tells the first son to go work in the vineyard. The son says, “I will not.” But later he changes his mind and goes. The father asks the second son to do the same. He says, “Yes, sir.” But he doesn’t go. And Jesus asks, “Which of the two did the will of his father?”

The answer is obvious. The one who actually went. And then Jesus says something that must have sounded outrageous to these religious leaders. “Truly I tell you, the tax collectors and the prostitutes are going into the kingdom of God ahead of you.” 

Jesus isn’t saying that sin doesn’t matter. He’s saying that repentance matters more than appearances. The person who says the right things but refuses to do the right things is not closer to God than the person who has gotten it wrong but turns around and does the right thing.

And that brings us to Ezekiel. The people of Israel had a proverb, “The parents have eaten sour grapes, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.” They were essentially saying, “We are suffering because of what our parents did.” But Ezekiel pushes back and tells them, “You are not simply trapped by the past... You have a choice... You can turn around... You can repent... You can choose new life.”

And Ezekiel makes the important point that what we do has consequences beyond ourselves. The choices we make become part of the world that other people have to live in. Our selfishness can easily become somebody else’s hardship. Our resentment can become somebody else’s hurt. Our failure to act can leave problems for the people who come after us.

But, thank God the opposite is true. Our generosity can bless people we may never meet. Our forgiveness can change a family. Our compassion can change a community. Our faithfulness can leave something better for the generations that come after us. Martin Luther was once asked what he would do if he knew the world was ending tomorrow... He said that he would still plant the apple tree. Meaning, the faith is that we plant things we may never live long enough to see fully grown.

I read a great short story by Flannery O’Connor this past week. If you haven’t read O’Connor’s story “Revelation,” it is definitely worth reading. It’s a bit challenging and uncomfortable. But it’s supposed to be. For those of you who haven’t read it, I’m going to flesh it out a bit.

The central character in the story is a woman named Ruby Turpin. Ruby is a respectable woman. She is religious. She goes to church. She believes in good manners and proper behavior. She has a pretty good understanding of where she belongs in the social pecking order, and where everybody else belongs.

She is sitting in a doctor’s waiting room, people-watching, quietly sorting the people around her into categories. There are the respectable people, the poor people, the educated people, and the uneducated people. And some people have their lives together. And there are people who, in Ruby’s mind, clearly do not. And Ruby is not presented in the story as some notorious evil protagonist. 

That’s what makes the story so powerful. She genuinely believes she is a good person. She is grateful for what she has. She thinks she is decent and fair. She believes she has a proper place in the world. In other words, Ruby’s problem isn’t that she thinks she’s evil. Her problem is that she is so certain she is good that she doesn’t see what’s wrong with her.

To me, that sounds a lot like the chief priests and elders in Matthew. They are religious leaders. They have the credentials. They know the Torah (the law) and the traditions. They know how things are supposed to work. But, even though Jesus is standing right in front of them, they cannot seem to recognize what God is doing. They are so concerned with protecting their understanding of God that they cannot receive the incarnation of God who is right there before them.

O’Connor’s story takes an even more dramatic turn. Ruby encounters a young woman who has been watching her. The encounter is disturbing and violent. The young woman confronts Ruby with words that break through the carefully constructed world that Ruby created for herself. And later, when Ruby is alone, something happens to Ruby that O’Connor calls Ruby’s Revelation.

Ruby looks up and sees what appears to be a procession moving across the sky up toward heaven. And this is where O’Connor turns everything upside down. Ruby sees people who look like the people she has spent her life looking down upon. The poor, the broken, the outsiders... Those who don’t fit neatly into the categories Ruby has constructed. And they’re all moving toward God.

Ruby’s carefully ordered world then begins to unravel. She begins to see that perhaps she has misunderstood not only other people, but herself. The revelation isn’t simply that other people are better than she thought. The revelation is that she needs grace, too. She needs the same mercy she’s failed to extend to others.

And I think that is exactly where O’Connor parallels Jesus in our Matthew reading. To me, the question isn’t simply, “Are those people good enough for the kingdom of God?” Instead, Jesus turns the question back toward us, and says, “What about you?” Are you willing to change? Are you willing to repent? Are you willing to discover that God may be at work in someone you’ve already dismissed? Are you willing to admit that your first answer may not have been the final answer?

The first son in Jesus’ parable said no. But then he changed his mind. That is repentance. That’s metanoia... He turned around. And Jesus seems to be saying there is something holy in admitting, “I was wrong. Let me try again.” That may be one of the hardest sentences for any of us to say. Especially when we have spent a lifetime building up those respectable stories about ourselves.

But the Gospel is not about maintaining a respectable story. The Gospel is about being transformed. That’s what our baptism is about. We sometimes think of baptism as something that happened once. But our baptism is really a way of life.

Every time we renew our baptismal promises, we say: “I am willing to turn toward Christ again.” I am willing to be changed. I am willing to seek and serve Christ in all people. I am willing to respect the dignity of every human being. I am willing to persevere in resisting evil, and whenever I fall into sin, to repent and return to the Lord.

“Whenever I fall into sin, to repent and return to the Lord.” That’s probably the most important phrase... We don’t say if I fall. We say, whenever I fall. Our faith doesn’t guarantee that we will always get everything right just because we believe. But it does promise that God’s grace will keep calling us back, even when we fall short or miss the mark.

And so the question for us is not simply. “What do I believe?” It is also, “What am I willing to do with what I believe?” Because our faith will, hopefully, become visible. As it shows up in the way we treat people. And in the way we speak about people who are different from us. It shows up where we make room for the stranger... It shows up when we listen before we judge. It shows up in whether we can admit that we were wrong. It shows up whenever we recognize the image of God in someone we may already have put into a category. And it shows up in what we leave behind.

Remember Ezekiel’s sour grapes. That proverb insinuates that someone else may taste what we plant. The question for us is, What are we planting? What are we planting in our daily lives?... Are we planting fear and resentment? Are we planting division and judgment? Or are we planting mercy? Generosity? Reconciliation? And Love? Because somebody is going to live in the world we are creating.

Our children will. Our grandchildren will. Our neighbors will. And people that we will never meet will. The Christian life is not about getting all the answers right. It is about remaining open to the possibility that God still has something to teach us. It is about being willing to repent and turn around. It is about entering the vineyard. It is about trusting that God’s grace is bigger than any categories we create.

And perhaps, like Ruby Turpin, sometimes we need a revelation. Not necessarily a dramatic vision. But a simple revelation... Sometimes the revelation for us is that simple moment when we finally see another person differently. Sometimes it’s the moment when we realize that the person we thought needed God’s grace is not the only one who needs it. We need it, too.

That’s good news. Because God is not finished with us. So, the invitation remains. To come into the vineyard. Jesus invites us into the vineyard of his life... to come with our certainty, our questions, and our mistakes. We come with our imperfect faith. And we come with the parts of our heart that still need changing.

And we go and let God do what only God can do. Turn us around. Open our eyes. Soften our hearts. And make us new. Then, when those who come after us taste the fruit of our lives... they will NOT taste the sourness of fear, selfishness, and judgment. But taste the sweetness of God’s grace, mercy, reconciliation, and love.

17 Pentecost (Proper 20A) 2026

The Rev. Dr. Kenneth H. Saunders III
Greeneville, TN

Jonah 3:10-4:11
Psalm 145:1-8
Philippians 1:21-30
Matthew 20:1-16

People have been complaining as long as there have been people, and apparently, we’ve gotten pretty good at it. We complain about the weather. We complain about traffic. We complain about the price of groceries. We complain about our neighbors. And, yes… sometimes we complain about the church. Sometimes we even complain about the complaining. “Why is everybody always complaining?”

We seem to have this remarkable ability to look at what we have and immediately notice what somebody else has. And then we complain about that. “They got more than I did...” “They got something I wanted...” “They got their way... And I didn’t.”

It starts when we’re children. “He got the bigger piece!” “She got to stay up later!” “He got the toy I wanted!” “It’s not fair!” And somehow, when we grow up… we don’t necessarily outgrow it. We just get better vocabulary. 

Have you ever had a job where you thought you were being paid pretty well, until you found out what somebody else was making? Suddenly, your paycheck doesn’t look quite as good. Or maybe you discovered somebody was making less than you. And then you thought, “Why am I even working beside that person?”

We have a remarkable ability to turn almost anything into a comparison. I know something about this personally. When I was a technician, I got overtime. I worked extra hours, punched the clock, and got paid extra for those hours. It was a beautiful system. Every minute was accounted for.

Then I moved into management. Suddenly, there was no clock to punch. And I found myself working all the time. There were plenty of weeks when I realized I was working more hours than I felt I was being paid for. And I thought, “Well… this doesn’t seem fair.” Then I started to complain… 

That word “FAIR” is important today. Because fairness matters. Justice matters. People should be treated fairly. People should be compensated fairly. But there is a problem when we assume that God’s grace operates according to our definition of fairness. Because grace is not a transaction. Grace isn’t a paycheck. Grace isn’t something we earn. God’s grace is a gift from God.

And that brings us to Jonah. Jonah is sent to Nineveh. And Jonah does not want to go. He doesn’t like the Ninevites. He doesn’t trust them. And he certainly doesn’t think they deserve God’s mercy. But after being carried to Nineveh by a big fish, Jonah reluctantly goes. When he gets there, he preaches. And the people repent.

And because the people repented, God changes God’s mind about the disaster that had been threatened against them. And because of this, Jonah is furious. Why? Because Jonah knows God. Jonah knows that God is gracious and merciful… slow to anger… and abounding in steadfast love.

And Jonah doesn’t like it. Because Jonah thinks Nineveh should get what he thinks Nineveh deserves. Jonah wants God to operate according to a simple equation: You do this… you get that. You work twelve hours… you get twelve hours’ pay. You work one hour… you get one hour’s pay. That makes sense to us. That’s how transactions work.

And then Jesus tells us about a vineyard. He tells us that the Kingdom of heaven is like… Then he goes on to tell us a parable of a landowner who hires workers at six in the morning, then at nine, then at noon, then at three... And finally, at five o’clock, he finds people still standing around. “Why are you standing here idle all day?” “Because nobody has hired us.” So he sends them into the vineyard.

At the end of the day, he pays everyone. And here’s where the story gets interesting. He pays the people who worked one hour the same as those who worked all day. And the people who worked all day start grumbling. “Wait a minute!” they say. “We worked all day in the scorching heat! They were only here for an hour! How come they got the same thing we did?”

And honestly… I get it… I understand them. I might have been standing right there with them. Because something in us immediately says, “That’s not fair!” But notice something important. The workers who came first weren’t cheated. They received exactly what they had agreed to receive. The problem wasn’t that they received too little. The problem was that somebody else received something they considered generous. And that is different.

Sometimes we don’t mind God’s generosity… until it is extended to somebody we don’t think deserves it. That’s Jonah. That’s the workers in the vineyard. And, if we’re honest… sometimes that’s us.

We don’t mind being forgiven. We just wonder whether somebody else has earned forgiveness. We don’t mind receiving grace. We just wonder whether somebody else deserves it. We don’t mind God welcoming us. We just get nervous when God starts making room for people we aren’t sure belong. We want grace for ourselves… but we want fairness for everybody else.

But Jesus keeps reminding us that the Kingdom of God is not a transaction. It’s a relationship. It is not about keeping score. It is about love. And that’s got to be one of the greatest challenges of being in Christian community. Because we can easily turn church into a transaction. “I came to church... I gave my money. I served on the committee... I taught Sunday school. I worked the rummage sale. I’ve been here for thirty years!” Therefore… “I deserve something.”

And once we start thinking that way, we start keeping score. Who did more? Who gave more? Who sacrificed more? Who deserves more? And eventually, we become Jonah… sitting outside the city… angry that God has been too generous. 

But God asks Jonah, “Is it right for you to be angry?” And Jonah doesn’t answer very well. He sits under a bush. God gives him shade. Jonah likes the bush. Then the bush dies. And Jonah starts complaining again. God sends a worm. God sends a scorching wind. And Jonah says, “I’d rather die than live.” And God says, in effect, “Jonah, you care more about that bush than you care about all those people in Nineveh.”

There it is. Jonah is keeping score. God is keeping relationship. Jonah is worried about what he thinks he deserves. God is worried about the people. That is the difference between a transactional life and a life shaped by grace.

A transactional life asks: What do I get? What do I owe? What do they owe me? Did I get my fair share? Did they earn it? Or, do they deserve it? Grace asks a different question: What has God already given me?” and how can I share it?

That is the economy of the Kingdom of God. And it is radically different from the world’s economy. There is a common idiom that refers to comparing oneself to one’s neighbor, with the neighbor serving as a benchmark for social or economic class…

It’s called keeping up with the Joneses… Have you ever heard that? Well… The world tells us to keep up with the Joneses. It started with a comic strip in the early 20th century… But I’ve never actually figured out who the Joneses are… or why I would want to keep up with them. But apparently, they have a really nice house. A nice car. Nice clothes. And they take really nice vacations.

And somehow we convince ourselves that if we can just catch up with them or keep up with them… then we’ll finally be happy. But somewhere in the mix, we lose the realization that the Joneses are probably trying to keep up with somebody else. And somewhere along the way, everyone gets exhausted.

We complain about what we don’t have. Then we finally get it… and discover that it has to be maintained. Then we complain about that… What part of “you shall not covet” do we not understand? And as somebody once said, “He who dies with the most toys is still dead.”

Jesus invites us to live by a different economy. An economy of grace and generosity. God’s love is not a pie. God doesn’t give someone else a bigger slice and leave less for us. God’s love grows as it is shared. It creates room. It opens doors. It changes communities. And it changes us.

Over these past several Sundays, we’ve heard Jesus talk about how we live together. How we resolve Conflict, reconciliation, and forgiveness in relationships. And today, Jesus takes us one step further. He asks us to stop keeping score. Because we cannot build Christian community while we are constantly calculating who has earned what. 

The Christian life is not a transaction. We don’t come to church so God will owe us something. We don’t pray so God will give us what we want. We don’t serve so God will put another gold star next to our name. We don’t give because we are trying to buy God’s favor. We give because God has already given us everything. We don’t forgive because someone has earned forgiveness from us. We forgive because we have been forgiven. We don’t welcome people because they have proven they deserve a place. We welcome them because God has already made room for us.

And that brings us to this table. We come to this table carrying everything in our lives... We carry our successes and our failures. Our faith and our doubts. Our gratitude, yes, and even our complaining. And God says, “Come.” Not because we earned it. Not because we deserve it. But because God is God and God is good.

There is room. There is grace. There is enough. There is always enough. When we come forward to receive the bread and wine, we are reminded that grace is not something we earn. It is something we receive. And then we are sent back into the world empowered to give it away.

So perhaps instead of complaining today, and asking, “Did I get what I deserve?” We could ask, “What am I going to do with the grace I’ve already received?” What will we do with our time? Our talents? Our resources? Our relationships? Our lives? Because we are blessed. We are all deeply blessed.

Blessed through the sacraments. Blessed through worship. Blessed through this loving and welcoming community. Blessed through our friends and family. And, yes, sometimes we are even blessed through the difficult people in our lives… Blessed because they give us plenty of opportunities to learn something and practice grace.

So when you find yourself complaining this week, and you probably will, stop. Take a breath. And remember Jonah. Remember the workers in the vineyard. Remember that God’s grace has never been a transaction. It has always been a gift. And remember that we don’t earn God’s grace. We receive it. And because we receive it freely, we are called to give it away freely.

So let’s stop keeping score, start giving thanks, and make a little more room in the world for God’s abundant grace.