It is one thing to profess our faith with our lips, but what happens when our lives don't follow what our mouth proclaimed?
Proper 21, Year A
©2026 The Rev. Seth Olson
This sermon was delivered on the 18th Sunday after Pentecost at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found here.
Holy God, may my words be your words, and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.
There are few things more satisfying than a Gospel passage that lets us identify exactly who Jesus is talking about. You know the kind. Jesus tells a story about hypocrisy, and immediately a face appears in one’s mind. Maybe it is a politician whose speeches bear very little resemblance to the way that person actually behaves. Maybe it is an athlete or celebrity who built a public image around certain values and then lived very differently when the cameras were turned off. Maybe it is a pastor, priest, bishop, or television preacher whose public proclamation and private life seem to belong to two different people.
And if we are particularly spiritually gifted, we can identify several of them before Jesus even finishes the parable. That second son? Oh, we know that guy. “I go, sir.” Absolutely. Yes, Father. Whatever you need. And then he never goes. His mouth says one thing. His feet say another. And surely Jesus is warning us about people like that.
Which is probably about the moment when this parable becomes dangerous. Because Jesus does not tell it so that we can become better judges of everybody else’s spiritual integrity. He tells it to religious people—people who know the right answers, know the Scriptures, have spent their lives around holy things, can recognize faithful language when they hear it, and probably know how to use plenty of it themselves. People, in other words, a lot like me. And perhaps a lot like us.
The chief priests and elders come to Jesus in the Temple and ask him, “By what authority are you doing these things?” It is a reasonable question. Jesus has entered their religious space and behaved as though he has the authority to rearrange it. He has overturned tables. He has challenged assumptions. He has disrupted a system that had been operating long before he arrived. “Who gave you permission to do this?”
Jesus answers their question with another question, this one about John the Baptist. Was John's authority from heaven or merely human? And Matthew lets us overhear the leaders calculating their response. If we say this, Jesus will trap us. If we say that, the crowd may turn against us. Notice what they do not seem to ask: What is true? What is God doing? What if John actually was speaking for God?
Their concern has shifted from truth to self-protection. And I wish I could tell you that only corrupt politicians and hypocritical religious leaders ever do that. But I know better. Because I do it too. I suspect most of us do.
We say we value truth, until the truth costs us something. We say we believe in forgiveness, until someone hurts us in a way we do not want to forgive. We say every human being bears the image of God, and then discover there are certain human beings whom we find remarkably easy to dismiss. We say we trust God, while quietly arranging our lives so that as little as possible is actually beyond our control.
We promise in our Baptismal Covenant to seek and serve Christ in all persons, to love our neighbors as ourselves, to strive for justice and peace, and to respect the dignity of every human being. Beautiful words. Words I mean every time I say them. And then I go live another week. And sometimes my feet do not follow my mouth. Sometimes my actions do not quite catch up with my theology.
Jesus tells them a story. A father has two sons. He asks the first to work in the vineyard. “No.” At least the kid is honest. But later he changes his mind and goes. The father asks the second. “Yes, sir.” Perfect answer. Respectful. Polite. Maybe even sincere. And then he doesn't go.
“Which of the two,” Jesus asks, “did the will of his father?” Well, that’s easy. The first. And in answering, the religious leaders convict themselves. Because this is not ultimately a parable about saying the right thing. It is about becoming the kind of person whose life begins to align with what we say we believe.
Integrity. That word comes from the same idea as integer: wholeness. Our words, our beliefs, our actions becoming less fragmented, less divided, less like one person on Sunday morning and another person by Tuesday afternoon.
And here is where this story becomes more hopeful than condemning. The first son says no. He gets it wrong. He resists. He goes the wrong direction. And then he changes his mind. That little movement may be the Gospel inside the Gospel. His first response does not have to become his final response. He can turn around. He can reconsider. He can walk another way.
Jesus then says something meant to shock his respectable religious audience: tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the Kingdom of God ahead of them. Not because tax collectors and prostitutes are somehow morally superior human beings. Not because religious leaders are somehow uniquely terrible human beings. But because the people who knew they needed to change were changing. And the people who were most certain they already had it right could not see their need to move.
That means this parable will not allow us to divide the world neatly into the good first son and the bad second son. We are capable of being both. Sometimes we resist God and then, by grace, find ourselves walking toward the vineyard. Sometimes we say all the right things about Jesus and then discover that our lives are walking somewhere else entirely.
We are the religious leaders asking questions about authority. And we are spiritually kin to the people whose lives need turning around. We are not standing safely outside this story. We are inside it.
Which means the spiritual task is not figuring out which political party is the second son, or which church, generation, or celebrities really need to hear this sermon. Which friend on social media we might tag to subtly tell them, this guy’s talking about you. The mature spiritual life slowly takes that pointing finger and turns it around. Where are my words and my life out of step? Where do I say yes to Christ while my feet quietly say no? Where might God be inviting me to change my mind?
Because the only repentance I can actually practice is my own. I cannot repent for you. You cannot repent for me. I cannot make another person become merciful or courageous or truthful or generous. But I can offer this life—my life—to the transforming grace of God. And you can offer yours.
It is never the wrong time to do the right thing. It is never too late for our feet to begin catching up with our words. It is never too late to say, “I was wrong.” “I have been walking in the wrong direction.” “I need to try another way.” The first son is proof of this.
And Christians have developed many practices over the centuries to help us notice where our lives are moving toward Christ and where they are drifting away. Let me give you one today. It is an old spiritual practice called the examen. And you do not need a book. You do not need an app. You do not need an hour.
Find a few quiet minutes once a day. Maybe before bed. Maybe first thing in the morning. Maybe sitting in your car before you walk into the house. Become still. Let the last day pass through your mind. And ask yourself two questions. First ask: Where was God’s presence unmistakably near?
Maybe it was joyful. Maybe someone made you laugh, you noticed beauty, or experienced kindness. But it might also have been a difficult moment: sitting beside somebody who was hurting, admitting something painful, making it through something you did not think you could endure. Looking back, where was Christ the closest? Give thanks for that.
And then ask the harder question second: Where was I out of step with the way of Christ? Where was I less loving than I want to be? Where did fear control me? Where was I dishonest? Where did I diminish somebody else’s dignity? Where did I protect myself rather than pursue what was true?
Not so that you can beat yourself up. Not so that God can catch you being bad. But so that you may notice where your mouth has said yes and your feet have wandered somewhere else.
And then pray. Thank God for where grace was visible. Ask forgiveness where it is needed. And ask God for strength over the next twenty-four hours to bring your life a little more fully into alignment with the life of Jesus.
Because the good news of this parable is not that some people are hypocrites and we have finally figured out who they are. The good news is that human beings can change. We can change our minds. We can change direction. We can discover that the road we are walking is not leading toward life and turn around. God’'s grace is not limited by the answer we gave yesterday.
So today the question is not whether you have always said yes to God. And it is not whether your life has always perfectly matched what you believe. Mine certainly has not. The question is simpler: Where are your feet headed now? Are they walking the Way of Christ?
Because Christ is still calling. The vineyard is still there. And whatever we may have said yesterday, today we can get up to go and work alongside Jesus, who is the good vineyard owner who tends to our souls. Amen?
