Saying "Yes" the second time around
a sermon based on Matthew 21:23-32
by Rev. Thomas Hall

 Remember Soren Kierkegaard’s parable about the geese?  A flock of geese would gather every Sunday morning in the barnyard.  The gander would preach to them about the glorious destiny of geese.  He would tell them of how their Creator wanted them to use their wings to fly away to distant lakes and streams.  And when he mentioned the Creator, the geese curtsied and bowed their heads.  He would preach the same thing every Sunday and then the meeting would break up and they would all waddle home.  But that was as far as they ever got.  They throve and grew fat, plump, and delicious and at Christmas they were eaten and that was as far as they ever got.

            Behind the webbed feet and tubular necks is Kierkegaard’s caricature of the Church.  Understandably, Kierkegaard grew up in a country in which just about everyone was “Christian.”  He noticed how he and most everyone else treated their life of faith.  Their faith was carefully tucked away from the grist and grit of life. Somehow, what happened on Sunday morning—despite the liturgical richness and worshipful order—never impacted life in the 9 to 5, 24/7 of daily life. 

             I recently returned from a denominational gathering.  As I sat among my five hundred colleagues, I recalled Kierkegaard's parable.  We did seem at time more a flock of geese cackling in the barnyard than clergy struggling to hear from God.   The cackling was especially high-pitched and excited when we discussed guaranteed placement of ordained ministers.  According to the law of supply and demand, barnyards are shrinking while leaders are increasing. 

            I’ve been in Kierkegaard’s parable more times than I want to admit.  I grew up with this disconnect between the glorious words about the Creator on Sunday and then getting all mucked up in the creation during the week. 

            Jesus put it like this:  There were two sons.  The father asks the first son to go to work for him, let’s say in the soybean patch.  “No way am I going out there.  You kidding?  It’s supposed to reach the high ‘80s today.  No way.”  But the son decides to actually go to work for his father and turns his no into a yes.

            In the meantime, the father goes to the second son.  Same request.  “This one will help me—takes after me,” the father thinks.  “Hey, son, will you go and work in the field for me today?”  “Why sure thing, dad; I always enjoy helping you out.  I’m just about done watching this video and then I’ll be out there plucking weeds.”

            “Hey, thanks, son.  I knew I could depend on you.”  However, the son has only finished the first of the new Star Wars triology.  So he pops another video in that won’t end until five o’clock—finishing time. 

“Which one did the right thing?” Jesus asks.  Or to borrow from Kierkegaard’s parable, which son had webbed feet in the story?  Did the disrespectful son who changed his mind and went into the field do the right thing?  Or did couch potato son do the right thing—forming the right liturgical rubric for “yes” do the right thing?  Which son do you identify with when asked to help your community of faith out?  When you are called upon to put muscle to your faith?

            I want to add a total of four sons to the story.  The two who are already there plus a son who says “no” and means it and another son who says, “yes” and means it.  Why this yes-no / no-yes twist? 

            Did you pick the first son?  Me too.  Because we know from first hand experience how easy it is to recite the Apostle’s Creed or the Lord’s Prayer, or to assent to the lessons of the day.  We also know how difficult it is to get out of bed Monday morning and to do what we affirmed on Sunday.  But we are here this morning.  We’ve gotten out of bed when other folks are still snoozing.  We can answer correctly, “the first son,” that’s me.  We are the firstborn sons and daughters, the regular attenders, the generous ones, people who not only hear the word but also—at least sometimes—are doers.  That’s us!

            But step back from the story for just a moment.  Did you notice that neither son was anything to write home about?  What choice do we really have?  An insolent son, who eventually gets around to obeying and a “yes” kid, but never intends to follow through.  Neither one pops the buttons off the father’s chest.  And neither do we.

            Maybe you’re the second son.  You’re good on your feet.  You’re good with the words of discipleship.  You can pray in public with ease.  You know the Scriptures quite well and can rehearse the finer points of the gospel.  Others of us are maybe more like one of my speech students who came up after class crying because she felt she was so dumb.  She just didn’t have anything in her life that she felt she could be proud of.  Maybe you have a nagging sense of doubt when you recite The Apostle’s Creed.  And perhaps your understanding of the Gospel is halting and unsteady.  Maybe you have to look in the table of contents to find where the Gospel of Matthew or Philippians is.  You may feel that you have little to contribute.  So, though you’ve said yes to God, maybe you’ve felt like your life has been a big no on God’s ledger.

            To both groups God invites us to say “yes” again.  To allow God’s Holy Spirit to release deep within us new vision and desire to let faith and action come together.  Hear the Good News of the Gospel—God’s family is large enough to include both sons.  To help all of us in our daily struggle to say “yes” to God’s call.  God is big enough to take our feeble “yes’” and to forge them into a glorious heavenly yes and amen. 

            But God does need our permission and willingness. 

            So Kierkegaard’s cackling barnyard geese does not have to be the end of the story.  Here’s my story’s end.  I see a flock of Canadian geese beginning to fly.  They are pulled up into the migratory flyways forming hundreds of “V’s” across the autumn sunset.  They’re soaring together, flying with grace and precision; and they have this uncanny sense of direction that defies explanation. 

            Lift up your heads.  See them in flight.  Lift up your worship.  Lift up your faith and see this congregation airborne by the breath of God’s Spirit, upheld by God’s grace.  Amen.