Matthew 20:1-16, Wednesday of Week 20 in Ordinary Time

Something in today’s Gospel of the Parable of the Laborers in the Vineyard bothers me and it has always disturbed me. Perhaps, this is true for many of you as well. The laborers who came early worked the whole day. They endured the heat. They did everything that was asked of them. And when evening came, those who had worked for only one hour received exactly the
same wage. Something inside us immediately complains: “That’s not fair.”

Perhaps that protest is exactly where Jesus wants us to begin to comprehend the parable, because this parable forces us to ask a very basic question: What does justice mean?

Ordinarily, when we speak of justice, we think of fairness. If I work more, I should receive more. If I contribute more, I should be rewarded more. If I do something wrong, I should answer for it. Justice means giving each person what is due. And there is nothing wrong with that. The laborers who had been there since morning were thinking precisely in this way: We worked longer, we deserve more.

But the landowner says to one of them, “Friend, I am not cheating you. Did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage?” In other words: I have been just to you. I have given you exactly what I promised.

That thought is important because Divine justice does not abolish human justice. God does not cheat anyone. God is not arbitrary. The first workers receive what is due to them. God is not “unjust” in order to be generous and kind.

But Jesus takes us further.

Later in the day, the landowner finds other laborers still standing in the marketplace. He asks them, “Why have you been standing here idle all day?” And their answer is simple: “Because no one has hired us.”

That single sentence changes the complexion of the entire parable.

We sometimes imagine these laborers as people who arrived late, perhaps because they were idling around. Patambay-tambay lamang. But the Gospel does not say that. They have been standing there waiting. For what reason, the parable does not say. We do not know. We know only this: no one had chosen them. And the landowner sees them. Imagine yourself being one of those laborers. You have stood there all day while others were chosen. Morning becomes noon, turns into afternoon. You know you have a family waiting foryou at home. You have a family to feed, children who need to eat. You have not refused to work; no one has hired you. And now the working day is almost over. You begin to realize that you may be going home with nothing.

And then someone comes looking for you. “You also go into my vineyard.” And at the end of the day, he gives you enough to bring home.

Seen from the perspective of the laborers hired at dawn, this looks unfair. Seen from the perspective of the laborer whose family is waiting at home, it looks like mercy. And seen from the perspective of Jesus, perhaps this is what Divine justice looks like.

As Pope Francis observed in his Angelus reflection on this Gospel (September 24, 2017), the landowner does not go out only once. He keeps going out to the marketplace early in the morning, then again at nine, at noon, at three, and finally at five in the afternoon. Pope Francis saw in this something essential about God: God continually goes out in search of people and calls them. Perhaps, then, the most striking thing about the landowner is not the way he pays. It is how often he goes out looking.

Even at five o’clock, when there is almost no working day left, he goes out again. Why? Because someone is still standing there. Someone has still not been chosen. Someone thinks the day has passed him by. And the landowner refuses to abandon him.

This gives us a very different picture of divine justice. We often imagine justice as a scale. We measure. We calculate. We compare. This person has done more and therefore deserves more. That person has done less and therefore deserves less.

But the God Jesus reveals does not stand with a scale. He walks through the marketplace. God looks for the person nobody has chosen. Sees the person everyone else has passed by. Sees the one who thinks there is no longer enough time. And even near the work-day’s end, God says, “You too, come into my vineyard.”

Perhaps this is how divine justice differs from our ordinary human justice. Human justice asks, “What do you deserve?” Divine justice also asks, “What do you need?” Human justice calculates the number of hours worked. God fathoms the person who has been standing there all day. Human justice measures achievement. God sees the hunger, the vulnerability, the loneliness,
the disappointment—the person behind the calculation. Cura Personalis, St. Ignatius of Loyola, calls this.

This does not mean that justice dissolves into mercy. It means something more profound: in God, justice is animated by goodness and love. God sees more than we see, and because God sees more, God’s justice reaches much further than ours.

But there is another part of the parable that disturbs me. The first workers were not cheated. They received exactly what had been promised to them. Their discontent began only when they saw what somebody else received.

In his homily one Chrism Mass, Pope Francis remarked (April 1, 2021), the generosity of the landowner produces very different reactions. For those called at the last hour, it becomes a source of gratitude. For the one who had been there from the beginning, that same generosity becomes a source of bitterness. Pope Francis compares this to the elder brother in the parable of the Prodigal Son, who cannot rejoice because the father has been merciful to someone else, the younger brother.

Now that is very human. We can be perfectly grateful for what God has given us—until we discover what God has given somebody else. Then we begin comparing. Why does he have that? Why was she given that opportunity? Why was that person forgiven? Why has someone else received what we have struggled so long to gain?

And slowly gratitude becomes comparison, and comparison becomes resentment. Then envy. That is why the landowner’s final question is so sharp: “Are you envious because I am generous?” That question is no longer really about wages. It is about our relationship with God.

Can we accept the goodness of God when that goodness is shown not only to us but also to others? Can we delight when God is merciful to someone whom we think do not deserve mercy? Can we accept that the God who has been generous to us may also be generous to those who came late, those who failed, those who we believe wasted opportunities, perhaps even the people we find difficult to forgive? We love mercy when we are the ones who need it. We find mercy much harder to accept when God gives it to somebody else.

I hesitate to summarize this parable by saying simply, “God is not fair; God is generous.” That makes it sound as though justice and mercy are incompatible, as though God must set justice aside in order to be merciful.

The Gospel suggests something deeper.

God is just precisely because God is good. Perhaps that is divine justice. God’s justice gives what is due; God’s mercy sees what the person needs; and in God, justice and mercy are not adversaries. They meet in the same goodness and love of God.

And there is something deeply consoling here for all of us, because sooner or later every one of us discovers that we are not always the laborers who arrived at dawn. There are times when we are the ones left standing there at the end of the workday.

We arrive late. We fail. We make mistakes. We waste time. We take wrong turns. Perhaps we look back on our lives and realize how much time has passed and how many things we wish we could do differently. And then the thought enters our minds: Perhaps it is too late. Too late to begin again. Too late to change. Too late to repair what has been broken. Too late to come home to God.

Nothing can be farther from the truth in God. Pope Francis’ reflection on the parable reminds us that the landowner keeps going out. And so, the Gospel gives us an extraordinary image of hope: At five o’clock, God is still looking. The day may be almost over, but God has not stopped calling. God is still searching. God is still saying, “You too, come into my vineyard.”

And so let our prayer today be very simple: Lord, teach us to be grateful for what you have given us without resenting what you give to others. Teach us to see as you see—not merely what people deserve, but who they are in their need, their suffering, and their hope. And when we ourselves discover that we have arrived late, remind us that you have not stopped looking for us. We do not simply exist; we are always becoming, trusting that you remain with us through all that we are and all that we are yet to become.

Because your justice is not less than ours.

It is more. Amen.