Sunday: 20th Sunday after Pentecost A
Reading: Matthew 21:23-32
Preacher: S. James Steen

Growing up, I watched, and to some extent participated in, a dynamic that was repeated over and over in my family. Whenever my mother would want something new, maybe a dress or a piece of furniture, she would approach my father with the idea, and, as if automatically, he would immediately say, "No, we can't afford it." Later on, I would say to my mother, "Gee, I'm sorry Dad won't let you get that new dress." "He will," she would respond. "He just hasn't yet." And sure enough, no matter what the object of my mother's desire, it wouldn't be a week before my father relented and my mother bought the item. It never failed to happen.

Now in one sense, what I'm describing isn't very appealing. My mother had learned exactly how to get what she wanted, and she played my father like a violin. Maybe he really never had a chance. But there's more to it. For reasons probably related to his upbringing, the first time he was asked to provide something my father just couldn't say "yes." But, with practice, it became increasingly easy for him to change his mind and over time he became a very generous person.

On what would have been Katherine Hepburn's 100th birthday, last year The Los Angeles Times published a reflection on her greatness. It told several stories of interactions between her and her directors. Anthony Harvey, who directed her to her third Oscar for "Lion in Winter," as well as a few other movies, recalled that he and Hepburn had a terrible first meeting. "I took her a bunch of roses and she threw them on the floor." She said, "They're ghastly..."

Then things only got worse. In filming one scene of the movie, they had a difference of opinion about how she should act when looking in the mirror. Harvey wanted Hepburn's character to show vulnerability, just this one time in the movie. She insisted that the embittered Eleanor of Aquitaine would never have let down her guard. But then she reconsidered, and the result was a brilliant scene. After the scene, she pushed a piece of Kleenex under Harvey's door, on which she had written an invitation for him to join her for dinner. That was the beginning of a great relationship.

Think of a time you were asked to do something you didn't want to do and you said "No," but later you changed your mind and agreed to do it or you just did it. I could use an example from this past week, but for the sake of establishing a little distance, I'll go all the way back to a time when I was in college. I was involved in an organization that brought speakers to the campus for an annual weekend symposium. Armed with a list of possible names, I went to a revered professor, to ask his advice. He was more than a little put off by the document I handed him, because it was sloppy. There were misspelled names. He sternly told me to take it back, make corrections, and to return with a new document.

In my youthful arrogance, I thought he was being ridiculous and I left not intending to come back. I did, however, change my mind. I made the corrections and he greeted me warmly upon my return. In retrospect, I was embarrassed by having shown the professor and myself so little respect; and over time, that seemingly simple exchange has had a serious effect on what I expect of myself and of others with whom I work.

"What do you think?" asks Jesus in today's Gospel parable. "A man had two sons; he went to the first and said, "Son, go and work in the vineyard today." He answered, "I will not;" but later he changed his mind and went. The father went to the second and said the same; and he answered, "I go, sir"; but he did not go." Which of the two did the will of his father?" [The hearers] said, "The first.""

The parable of the two sons, which was aimed at the religious authorities whose minds were so made up that they couldn't see holiness when it slapped them in the face, has some obvious messages for us: It's your actions that finally matter. It's how you live, not just what you say. "Talk is cheap," and "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." That last one was Kierkegaard's take on the parable.

These are all decent aphorisms. But Jesus' parables aren't just clever sayings. They're mostly designed to draw us into the Kingdom of God, the place where Jesus invites us to live on a whole new plane, in the fullness of grace, a place where we can learn the true meaning of love and justice. And, with all due respect, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions" doesn't quite get us there.

The more I reflect on the son who said no but did yes, and the more I think about contemporary people - some of them right here in this community - who every day unleash grace by daring to change their minds or do a new thing, the greater becomes my sense that this deceptively simple story offers us something sacred. The practice of moving from I won't do it to I will is transforming because it creates a space for the Spirit to enter and work on us.

All around us there are people living out this parable, moving from I won't trust to maybe I'll consider it, from I won't forgive to maybe I need to, from I won't take a risk to what have I really got to lose, from I won't seek help to maybe it's time I did, from I won't believe in God to what if. So, how about you?

Amen.