Sermon:
August 20, 2000
Morning Services

Scripture:
Mark 12:1-12

Preliminary Notes:

This sermon was introduced in my Steeple Notes letter with the following paragraph:

When I lived in the bungalow on Wisconsin Avenue, a large apple tree covered most of the backyard. Alas, it was not our tree. It belonged to Jack and Rose Dempsey, our next door neighbors. It just leaned in our direction. Which meant that we got most of its blossoms and fruit. Given that we never sprayed, the apples were often wormy. But my mother performed miracles with a paring knife. I can still taste the applesauce and the pies. What was strange was how "territorial" we became about a tree that wasn't ours. We didn't want people messing with "our tree." Which came to mind when I reread Mark's wonderful Parable of the Wicked Tenants (Mark 12:1-12). I've preached it before. But I now have enough age and experience to preach it better. At any rate, it's a good "harvest sermon." Listen to it under the title "When the Inmates Take Over the Asylum."

The Parable of the Wicked Tenants is dangerous to preach, but for reasons other than one might commonly think. That's because this parable is also an allegory. Few are. But this one is. And whenever one confronts an allegory, the temptation is to treat it as a puzzle to be solved. So it becomes easy to look for "inner meanings," wherein the vineyard owner is God ... the vineyard is Israel ... the tenants are the Jews ... the watch tower is the parapet of the temple ... the messengers are prophets ... and the owner's son is none other than our Lord Jesus Christ. All of which is probably true. But it allows us to treat the narrative as a crossword puzzle to be solved at an intellectual distance. Whereupon we can step back, savor our accomplishment, and wait for the puzzle the preacher is going to give us next week.

This "fresh look" is prompted by the very gifted prose of Barbara Brown Taylor who not only introduced me to the concept of the "sharecropper," but suggested the parable be turned upside down to view it from the tenants' perspective.

The Sermon:

Once in a while, when I take my memory bank and give it a vigorous shake, the names of Vinco Pogachar and Matko Farkas come floating to the surface. Not that many people ever called them Vinco and Matko. At least not in North America. On this side of the pond, people called them Vince and Matt. But in the old country ... one of my old countries ... the country presently called Slovenia (but once called Yugoslavia) ... they were Vinco and Matko.

I came to know them because my grandfather sponsored Vince when he came to this country. My grandfather was Slovenian, too. Eventually Matt and Vince (who were married to sisters) went to Canada and settled north of Niagara Falls ... by Lake Ontario ... near the little town of Grimsby ... in the Ontario fruit belt. Where they grew fruit. Lots of fruit. On lots of trees. On lots of land. Meaning they were good at it. And, most likely, got rich from it (although I have yet to meet a farmer who has ever admitted to having any money).

In my childhood, I spent a little time on those farms and even picked a little fruit on those farms. I hated picking cherries because of the size and peaches because of the fuzz. But I thought that apples and pears were okay ... especially pears, because the size seemed to fit my hand better than any other growing thing that God (in his infinite wisdom) decided to hang from trees.

As of this telling, I haven't picked a pear in decades. And the last time Kris and I went through Canada, we got off the QEW at Grimsby and tried to find Vince's farm. But I couldn't be sure ... what with all the condos, I mean.

Times change. People, too. Today, I get my pears from the Royal Oak Farmer's Market. And I buy my cherries from the little roadside fruit stand near Elk Rapids. That way I can eat them in the car and spit the pits out the window ... or through the roof (when I drive with the top down). And I told you about the apple tree of my childhood ... which wasn't on our lot ... but grew mostly over our lot ... giving us lots of apples ... which, although universally wormy, rewarded anyone with a high tolerance for worms or a nimble excellence with a paring knife.

It's harvest time, isn't it? And don't you just love it? I mean, the Michigan crops are in. Abundant and sweet. Taken alone, the corn and tomatoes are to die for. For someone who loves to eat, it doesn't get any better than this. Take that, Tuscon!

Did you ever stop to think how many stories in the Bible talk about harvests? Grape harvests. Grain harvests. Earthly harvests. Heavenly harvests.

Even so, Lord, quickly come,
Bring the final harvest home.
All is safely gathered in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin.

This little story of the wicked tenants is all about a harvest. Which, as one of you will surely point out, I preached earlier in my tenure under the title "God and Banana Pudding." But when I preached it before, I did so as Jesus preached it originally ... and as every other preacher has preached it repeatedly ... from the perspective of the landowner, who is God. And you can never go wrong preaching about God. Well, you can. And I have. But that's another story. So let's not get into that here. Instead, let's try to come at this story fresh. And how shall we do that? By choosing a different place to start. Instead of starting with the owner of the land, why don't we start with the tenants on the land. Indulge me as I do a little rewrite job for you.

* * * * *

Once upon a time, there was a wealthy land baron from Chicago who, while vacationing in northern Michigan, bought a derelict apple orchard and added it to his vast holdings. Not wanting to leave any of his acquisitions in the shape that he found them, he pruned the trees, cultivated the weeds, fixed up the sales shed and put a brand new sign out on M-72, just a couple miles east of Williamsburg. Then he leased the place to a down-on-their-luck family from Kalkaska, writing the lease at less than market price. But not before extracting an understanding that the new tenants would give him ten percent of the apples when the crop came in. Then he got in his Lincoln Town Car, drove back to Winnetka, and nobody in Williamsburg ever laid eyes on him again.

Now these were inexperienced tenants. But they were good tenants. They worked hard. And they worked long. They used organic pesticides. They hauled water by hand when their first clumsy attempt at an irrigation system failed and a mini-drought was in progress. And when an early frost threatened the crop (mere days before it was due), they built small fires and set out smudge pots so the fruit would not freeze under a blanket of smoke.

Come harvest time, the air smelled of applesauce. The trees were so heavy with fruit that they looked like painted ladies bound for a ball, wearing more jewelry than their bodies or gowns could comfortably carry. And when the harvest hit, it hit quickly. Which meant that the tenants had to summon every available cousin (first, second, kissin' and otherwise) and they had to work in shifts. Some picked while others slept. Then the sleepers picked while the pickers slept. They kept at it until they were all in ... and until it was all in (the harvest, I mean).

Proud of their accomplishment, you can imagine how surprised the tenants were ... day next ... when, lo and behold, they saw a 16-wheeler with Illinois plates backing down the driveway and heading toward the barn. Whereupon two guys with pencils nestling in their ears and muscles bulging in their t-shirts, got out ... .surveyed the crop ... did some quick figuring ... and then started loading apples onto the 16-wheeler without even introducing themselves.

When the tenants stepped forward to protest, it became apparent that the guys in the t-shirts weren't about to be dissuaded. So the rest of the tenants ... along with a few neighbors who just happened by to check out the action ... decided to introduce these big boys from Chicago to a Kalkaska County version of People's Court. One of them cranked up the Bobcat, while the rest of them got pitchforks, pruning hooks, the fire hose, along with several water balloons. And, before long, they had persuaded the muscle guys to return to Chicago, empty handed. "Get lost," was a cleaned-up version of what they said. And the muscle boys did just that.

Which was wrong, of course. The tenants shouldn't have done that. You know it. I know it. Who knows ... maybe even the tenants knew it. They'd made a deal (including the ten percent cut). They should have honored it. Still, there is something about their situation that makes us at least momentarily sympathetic.

After all, they are the "little guy." And some of us have been the "little guy" ... and may still be the "little guy." And little guys don't always like big guys. Or respect big guys. Especially when the big guys are landlords. Absentee landlords. Let me ask you a question. Have you ever been a renter? Then you know what I mean.

Or maybe it's because most of us have relatives ... parents, or likely grandparents ... who once farmed somebody else's land ... bringing in somebody else's crop ... making somebody else's profit. So we know how hard that life can be.

It's not the American Dream, you know ... to live the existence of a sharecropper. The American Dream is to own a small slice of paradise, or maybe even a big slice of paradise ... your own home ... on your own land ... growing your own vegetables ... for your own table. As Barbara Brown Taylor says: "None of this always-looking-over-your-shoulder-handing-your-profit-over-to-somebody-else stuff." Most of us in this country (including more preachers than you would think) really do believe in ownership, autonomy and self-reliance. Some of us may have occasional quarrels with capitalism. But, by and large, they are lover's quarrels.

In short, popular sympathy rides with the tenants. "Give `em a break," we find ourselves saying. "Cut `em some slack. Knock ten percent down to five. And give `em additional grace periods ... if not additional years. After all, Winnetka's economy is booming. Kalkaska's is struggling. Why, two years ago, they had to close the schools in Kalkaska 12 weeks early. They didn't have the money to run `em."

Two weeks ago, my brother-in-law took us out for a ride in his brand new boat on Higgins Lake. His brand new "performance" boat. It was a great day and a great ride. His boat is called "The Eliminator" and it can go over 70 miles an hour. Did you ever go 70 miles an hour in a boat? You have to scrape the flies from your teeth, I'll tell you.

When we were going much slower (in order to look at the shoreline), we came upon several places where the shoreline held not one dock per lot, but several ... with each built onto the one before it ... six or seven docking spaces strung together ... jutting out into the lake like mini-marinas. Up there, they call them "road ends." It's where a road coming down toward the lake, dead-ends at the lake. And people who couldn't afford to own property on the lake started putting their boats in there. And eventually built docks there. One dock on another there. Without ever asking anybody there. And without ever paying taxes there. Some of them, now standing thirty or forty years there. Which means that it is not uncommon (especially on a Saturday or Sunday) to have tons of cars parked there. As well as tons of boats tied up there. With half million dollar cottages having been built adjacent to there.

Nobody knows quite what to do about the dock squatters. And those who think they know what to do ... legally or otherwise ... aren't about to do it. Because, whether you know it or not, there's a sympathy in northern Michigan that looks with favor upon people who can't afford houses on the water and with disfavor upon people who can. And that sympathy is more widespread than you might think.

No, the tenants are clearly wrong. But a case can be made for them. And sympathy can be felt for them. And why do I want you to see that ... and feel that? Because of where you and I fit into the story, don't you see. Because we are not the landowner ... even though we own a fair amount of land (and love Chicago). Neither are we the big muscle boys in the t-shirts ... even though we have our share of worldly clout and love (just love) our trucks. And we are certainly not the owner's son ... even though we use his name a lot in popular conversation and remember his brutal death both fondly and yearly.

No, in spite of the fact that we have worked long and hard for everything we have ... and in spite of the fact that we have deeds, titles, fence lines, mortgage payments and tax bills to prove it ... we are deluding ourselves when we attempt to deny our tenancy. For, in the economy of the Kingdom, we are not the fat cats. And, since this is Dream Cruise weekend, neither are we the fast cats. Who are we? We are the slow and skinny cats. And whether our holdings would suggest words like "bigfoot" or "smallfoot," we (who hold them) are people of clay feet. Meaning that we have got it all over our shoes ... and, most of us, clear on up to our hearts.

Since the deal made with the landowner was forged so long ago, most of us have forgotten it. We have conveniently misplaced the tenant's agreement, so that we could write up a deed instead. Which was easy, given that the landowner seemed to spend so much of his time away. And when he sent messengers, it was easy to turn them back with "no" for an answer ... or simply avoid them, because they tended to come on Sundays, and we have found more and more things to do with our Sundays (like making cobbler, shopping for antiques or playing golf).

The owner could have summoned the police or called out the dogs, I suppose. He could have even sent an army of angels. Warrior angels. But he never did. Which is, if you want the truth, one of the reasons I doubt he ever will (send the warrior angels, I mean).

He just kept sending messengers. And we kept roughing them up (in ways often silent, but equally deadly). Until he sent his son, unaccompanied and unarmed, to remind us that we were guests upon the earth. And his son said that while there were privileges to being guests ... wonderful privileges ... one of them was not the privilege of pretending that the guests had no Host.

You see, when the takeover came ... when our takeover came ... we gained the gift, but lost the Giver. And when we lost the Giver, we lost whatever perspective the Giver could offer on the proper way to manage and care for the gift. You'd think we would have known better. But history hasn't proven it to be so.

All he wanted was to have us take care of it ... and return a portion of its fruit to him. Not because he needed it, mind you. I doubt that the owner needs one more apple ... .one more bushel of apples....one more butter-crusted cobbler made of apples ... or one more cinnamon-sprinkled bowl of applesauce, for that matter. After all, once the owner gets his share of our apples, all he's gonna do is give `em away. No, the reason he claims his rightful portion is for us ... for our benefit. He does it to keep the tie binding ... the relationship alive. So that we will never forget that whatever we have or whatever we own, we are the guests of a gracious God ... who seemingly can forgive any sin but forgetfulness, because it begets a whole lot of sins that are worse (like ingratitude, haughtiness, arrogance and pride).

By the way, the tenants killed the son, too. But he would not stay dead. And, to this day, he haunts the orchard, reminding us that we are God's guests upon the earth, so long as we remember whose earth is and how it is to be used. We can love it as our own. We can water it by hand. We can build fires against the frost. We can even take deep pleasure in the harvest.

All we may not do is spurn the owner and persecute his messengers. After all, we are sharecroppers. Which is a reminder I need to give myself more and more often, now that I live in nicer and nicer places ... have more and more of the world's resources ... and own more and more personal stuff.

To pretend otherwise is screwy thinking. Backward thinking. Out-of-whack thinking. Me ... mine ... and damn-everybody-else thinking. In short, crazy thinking. Hence, my title: "When the Inmates Take Over the Asylum." Haven't you noticed that crazy people tend to turn the world into a crazy place?

We get so territorial about things. But even territory is temporary. Need I remind you that we are just passing through? Not that it isn't sweet while it lasts. But, as the old refrain goes, "We ain't got long to stay here."

So plant it. Prune it. Pick it. Process it. Bake it into a pie. Share it with a neighbor. Put a little in the freezer for a rainy day. But set some aside for the owner. Who, I am told, has a harvest plan that's to die for. Or, as Vinco Pogachar used to say: "Billy, how `bout them apples?"