“Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence.” [1]

A mother was making pancakes for her two sons one morning. Ryan, age five, and Kevin, age three, were fighting over who would get the first one. The mother seized the opportunity to teach them a moral lesson. She asked, “What if you were Jesus? What would you say?” Without giving them much time to think about it, she answered her own question: “Wouldn’t he say, ‘Give it to my brother first’?”
After a moment of silence, Ryan looked at his little brother and said, “You be Jesus.”

Who has been given authority to give and to take?
There are many examples in our society of people who have been given authority. We have police officers, politicians, lawyers, doctors, soldiers, priests, teachers, judges, and others. But what makes them authoritative? Is it simply their credential, their office, their title? Or is there something else that lies within them, something revealed by the way they conduct themselves and by the way they use the authority they have been given? For many people today, authority itself has become a difficult thing to trust.

In my office there are three framed certificates on the wall. One authorizes my ordination to the diaconate, another to the priesthood, and the third is a letter from the bishop that gives me authority to shepherd our church. A deacon is authorized to serve the Church in particular ways: to proclaim the Gospel, assist at the altar, carry the Blessed Sacrament to those who cannot be present, and serve the people of God. A priest is authorized to administer Word and Sacrament and to speak and minister on behalf of the Church. A bishop is entrusted with the oversight of the Church, with examining candidates for Holy Orders and with securing leaders for the congregations entrusted to his care. These offices matter. Their authority is not self-appointed though. It is received through the Church and, ultimately, through the laying on of hands. Each holds account of the other with encouraging words: “You be [like] Jesus”. God did not give the three-fold office, the ordained, authority to defend nor seize. God gave them authority to proclaim Jesus Christ through thought, word and deed.

Authority in the Christian life is not about having the right certificate on the wall. It is about being willing to speak the truth of Christ, to live the truth of Christ, and perhaps most importantly to submit ourselves to the authority of Christ. That is where we come to today's Gospel.[2] A group of religious leaders approach Jesus and asks a perfectly reasonable question: “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?” They were not simply curious. Jesus had entered Jerusalem. He had overturned the tables of the money changers. He had challenged the religious establishment. He was teaching with an authority that did not come from the usual institutions.

They wanted to know: Who authorized you? Jesus could have answered very simply: “I am the Son of God. I am the Messiah. I am the Savior of the world.” But if he had said that plainly in that moment, the conversation would have been over. The accusation of blasphemy would have followed. Instead, he answers their question with a question. “Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?” And suddenly the men who had come to question Jesus have to huddle together. “If we say, ‘From heaven,’ he will say, ‘Why then did you not believe him?’ But if we say, ‘Of human origin,’ we are afraid of the crowd, for all regard John as a prophet.” Finally, they answer: “We do not know.” And Jesus says, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things.”

Then, comes the silence. It is a remarkable silence. Jesus does not force them. He does not demand that they acknowledge him. He simply leaves the question hanging in the air. By whose authority? Perhaps that is part of the genius of Jesus. Sometimes the most powerful thing God can do is leave us with a question we cannot quite escape. We may walk away from the conversation. We may resist. We may argue. We may say, “I don't know.” We may even say, “No.” But the question remains.

That brings us to the parable. A father has two sons, and he tells the first, “Go and work in the vineyard today.” The son says, “I will not.” That is his answer. No. Not today. I don't want to. Perhaps he is angry. Perhaps he is tired. Perhaps he thinks his father is asking too much or does not want to be told what to do. Whatever the reason, his first response is refusal. Then something happens. Jesus says that he changed his mind. He went. There is something deeply hopeful in that little sentence. Because Jesus does not tell us that the first son was always obedient. He does not tell us that he immediately understood. He does not tell us that he gave the correct answer the first time. He said no, and then he came around.

That is a word of hope for anyone who has ever said no to God. Perhaps you have said no because you were angry. Perhaps you have said no because you were afraid. Perhaps you have said no because you were hurt. Perhaps you have said no because you thought you knew better. Perhaps you have simply said, “Not yet.” The remarkable thing about God is that our first answer does not necessarily have to be our final answer.
The Father continues to call. “Go into the vineyard.” Maybe, tomorrow the answer is still no, but the Father continues to call. “Go into the vineyard.” Perhaps years later, something changes. The heart softens. The argument becomes less important. The resistance begins to fade. Suddenly the person who once said, “I will not,” finds himself walking toward the vineyard. That is grace.

The authority of Christ is not merely the authority to command us. It is the authority to keep calling us.
Jesus does not give up on the reluctant heart. He does not abandon the person who has not yet figured it all out. He does not say, “You said no, so you are finished.” He leaves room for repentance. He leaves room for reconsideration. He leaves room for us to come around.

This is one of the great differences between the authority of Christ and the authority we so often encounter in the world. Human authority can demand compliance. Christ's authority invites transformation. Human authority may ask, “Will you obey me?” Jesus asks something deeper: “Will you come with me?” The second son says, “Yes, sir,” but he does not go. His words are right, but his life does not follow them. The first son says the wrong thing, but eventually his life catches up with the call. Jesus asks the religious leaders, and he asks us, to consider which matters more: What we say, or what we eventually do? The religious leaders had credentials. They had positions. They had authority. They knew the Scriptures and the traditions. They knew what they were supposed to say but Jesus was asking them to do something much more difficult. He was asking them to come around. To reconsider. To look again. To recognize that the authority of God might be standing right in front of them. That is where I think this Gospel speaks particularly tenderly to us.

His authority is not diminished by our hesitation. His authority is demonstrated by his patience. He can wait. He can ask again. He can allow us to wrestle. He can allow us to question. He can allow us even to say no. Because Christ knows that love cannot be manufactured by force. Eventually, the question becomes our own: What will I do with the authority of Jesus? Will I bend the knee? Will I confess with my tongue that Jesus Christ is Lord? Will I go into the vineyard? Perhaps not immediately. Perhaps reluctantly. Perhaps after a great deal of resistance. But the invitation remains.

And this is where Paul's words to the Philippians become so powerful: “Every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”[3] Notice that Paul does not say that every knee bends because Christ has forced it down. There is something far deeper happening. There comes a moment when the truth of who Jesus is becomes impossible to ignore. Perhaps that is what happened to the first son. He began with “No.”

But somewhere between the command and the vineyard, something changed. He came around. And perhaps that is the invitation Jesus gives us today. Not that we have perfectly understood everything. Not that we have always obeyed. Not that our first answer was the right one. But that we remain open to the possibility that our answer can change. Because the kingdom of heaven is not closed to the person who once said no. The Father is still calling. The vineyard is still there. And Jesus is still asking: “Will you come?”
There is an angry and fearful world out there that desperately seeks the truth. And we do not need to answer every argument with another argument. Sometimes we can simply live the truth. Sometimes we can serve. Sometimes we can forgive and we can love the person who opposes us. And sometimes, when we have no words left, we can simply be silent. The power to be like Jesus is in the quietness of the person who has finally stopped arguing with God, and who has bent the knee. Who knows deep down, “It is not my will, but yours” to enter the vineyard. Because nothing strengthens authority, to help us come around, so much as silence.

[1] Leonardo da Vinci
[2] Matthew 21:23-32
[3] Philippians 2:1-13