We had endured weeks of stay-at-home restrictions. Our elected officials consulted medical experts while appraising their political fortunes, before imposing numerous regulations and stipulations on our daily lives. We were admonished to isolate ourselves to the greatest extent possible, for our own health, but also for the good of everyone else, not least the doctors and nurses who would be caring for us in dangerous conditions if we contracted COVID-19. Most of us complied because we understood what was at stake. Millions of people lost their jobs. Weddings, in the detailed planning stages for months, were postponed. The elderly died alone, and funerals, if held at all, were live-streamed on Zoom. Family reunions—booked after numerous compromises amongst multiple schedules—were cancelled. School was more or less eliminated, because e-learning was a farce for most students. No proms. No graduations. No basketball, track, or baseball seasons. But we did it. For the good of all. For weeks.
And then George Floyd was killed by a police officer in Minneapolis. George Floyd’s death was horrific, in its particulars and in its generalities. He died mere weeks after Breonna Taylor was gunned down by police in Kentucky, and Ahmaud Arbery was murdered by a former police officer and his son in Georgia. All hell broke loose. The country erupted in understandable, deserved, and justifiable righteous outrage.
Our elected officials appraised their political fortunes and decided they didn’t need to consult the medical experts. Although, serendipitously, the medical experts appraised their scientific principles, found them to be less rigid than they had been the week before, and declared that mass gatherings of potentially infected people could now gather in close quarters for hours stretching into days.
I’ve been sickened by these killings long before May 25, 2020. I closely followed the Eric Garner case (2014), the Freddie Gray case (2015), and the Philando Castile case (2016). I am horrified that some police evidently consider black men to be less than human—unworthy of respect, let alone life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
And yet, I am irritated by and resentful of the unhindered in-person protesting. The more noble part of me is supposed to not only accept, but embrace, this ground swell of cheek-to-jowl humanity as the long overdue force that will finally bring needed change to America. The ignoble part of me resists. While wrestling with my feelings, two of Jesus’ parables came to mind—two parables in which make me uncomfortable because even though I know better, I sympathize with the whiners. Not the winners. The whiners.
In Matthew 20: 1-15, Jesus tells a story about a vineyard manager who went early in the morning to the temp agency to hire day workers. After agreeing upon a wage, the laborers headed to the vineyard and began to toil in the hot sun. Around noon the manager returned to the agency and hired some additional workers—people who had not been hired by anyone else that morning. These joined the first group and worked all afternoon. Near quitting time, the manager returned once again to the agency, and hired a few more willing workers. These joined the others in the vineyard for the final hour of labor. As dusk fell, the manager rang the bell for quitting time. The laborers lined up for their paychecks. The group that had worked only the final hour was delighted to receive a check for a full day’s work! Word spread down the line. The manager was generous to the late comers; surely those who had worked all day would be paid more than the amount initially agreed upon. But, no. Those who had worked the full day were paid the agreed-upon full day’s wage—but no more. It seemed so unfair! They complained saying, “These guys only worked an hour, but you made them equal to those of us who worked all day.” The manager replied, “But you and I agreed upon a wage, and I have paid you that wage. Why should you begrudge me my generosity to these others?”
I’ve heard enough sermons to know that the manager represents God. And God’s kingdom (the wages) is available to anyone who answers the call, who accepts the job, no matter how late in the day (in life) they do so. The noble part of my character is grateful, and relieved, that God is generous to all, because I have certainly worked less than the metaphorical full day for the Kingdom of God on more than one occasion. But the less noble part of me always sides with the people who worked all day but didn’t get a bonus. I know, I know… The Kingdom of God is so abundant that a bonus would be superfluous. How can one receive more than everything? But still…those workers who labored the full day remind me of the millions of Americans who spent ten weeks isolating themselves, often at great personal cost, from others. Sure, their sacrifice is not negated by the current mass gatherings. But it just doesn’t feel right.
The second parable that makes me uncomfortable is the story of the prodigal and his brother, found in Luke 15: 11-32. The younger brother asked Dad for his inheritance early, then traveled far away from home where he squandered it irresponsibly. It took him several years, but he burned through the whole sum on wine, women and song. A recession hit. His funds were gone. He managed to get a job feeding pigs at a big pork operation, but the wages were low and he was barely scraping by. One day it dawned on him: his father’s many businesses were presumably thriving. He’d return to Dad and beg for a job. And so, he did. As it turned out, the father was so excited to see his wayward son that he didn’t scold him, let alone make him grovel for a menial job. Instead, he contacted the event planner and told her to send out the evites. Open bar! DJ! Sit down dinner! Celebration!! Tweets were tweeted. Posts were posted. Snaps were chatted. Meanwhile, the older brother, who had worked diligently in his father’s businesses for years doing whatever was asked of him, saw the news on Instagram. What?!? Dad was throwing a party for his irresponsible, low-life younger brother? In a fury he stormed into his father’s executive suite and complained loudly. “Why,” he asked his dad, “have you never so much as offered to host a small luncheon for me and my friends?” And the father answered, “Son, all that is mine is yours! I’m just happy your brother is alive, and not dead.”
I must admit that I am sympathetic to the older brother. I can imagine the pang of jealousy he felt when he realized his father still adored the younger, feckless brother. Of course, as a matter of theology, I am incredibly relieved that God does adore all his children—feckless or otherwise—since I undoubtedly fall into the feckless camp on more occasions than I probably realize. But still…it just seems like the older brother’s hard work, obedience, and personal sacrifice should be recognized, if not rewarded.
Although I’m probably being petty, I wish our leaders and medical experts would acknowledge the huge sacrifices made by so many—the funerals that weren’t held, the celebrations that weren’t allowed, the jobs that were lost, the education that was forgone. Instead, they preen and virtue-signal. In so doing, they diminish the efforts and sacrifices of those who “worked all day” and “did as they were asked”—the huge percentage of Americans who never make the news.
