Labor & Rest

Sermon for the Eight Sunday after Pentecost

St. Stephen & the Incarnation | Washington, DC Pentecost +8, Proper 11, Track 1

Genesis 28:10-19a; Romans 8:12-25; Matthew 13:24-30,36-43

“Creation waits with eager longing...”

These words from Romans ring a familiar tune. Our lives are filled with anticipation for things to come: maybe it is a dream job or a relationship, perhaps a graduation, or an ongoing search for stable housing. Sometimes our “eager longing” may even take the shape of social and political change. Sometimes.

We know a thing or two about longing—about dreaming of new things to come.

Now, this particular passage from the Apostle Paul’s letter is exceptionally dense. Bear with me though: the subtext of this theological reflection is timeless; it is yet another reminder that God is doing something new.

This is a refrain repeated again and again throughout our scripture. Because just as all things came into being through the God of Creation, this essential aspect of God’s nature is continually at work: lives are set free, redeemed, made new.

Something new is on the horizon—and we are experiencing it even now in the present. Or, as Paul tells it, the whole of creation is “groaning with labor pains.”

Earlier this week I visited friends and their newborn baby just 6-hours after the birth. So, albeit secondhand, I have a renewed appreciation for the metaphor. Labor isn’t exactly fun.

How then might we hold onto hope-filled dreams for the future, even while still waiting for God to work in our lives—and in the world? Our readings this morning share something critical to the process.

“Surely the Lord is in this place,” Jacob says in Genesis, “and I did not know it!”

Isn’t it remarkable that Jacob is asleep during the most consequential moment of his life!? When God promises great blessing and protection over him, Jacob isn’t even fully conscious. This is, of course, quite appropriate: as throughout his life Jacob has been especially unaware and completely self-interested. He is a cheat. He is a liar. And on this particular evening in his story, he is terrified that his cowardice will now finally catch up to him.

After conning his father on his very deathbed and stealing his brother’s birthright, Jacob is now fleeing for his life. He runs in pure desperation. Eventually though, his body can go no further. So, utterly exhausted, Jacob lies down and—surely delusional in this less-than-hydrated state—he finds a rock for a pillow.

But Jacob does not deserve rest. None of his actions have earned the right to rest a weary body, right? His relationships are a mess. His life is in disarray. He is—at least according to standards we are likely to consider—a failure. I mean, let’s be clear about this: by the measure of meritocracy, there is really little to nothing Jacob brings to the table—aside from his pilfered financial planning, at least.

And yet... it is the end of a long day, his body is wearied, so he rests. And God blesses him. In spite of failing to prove himself as a “worthy person,” God blesses him anyhow.

In the very midst of the profound mess that is his life, Jacob receives these words: “Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go... I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”

God enters into the desperation, the anxiety, the sin, the fear—and it is precisely in this place that something new begins to take shape. Jacob’s dream is like a womb that cradles a new revelation. Even while much remains incomplete and uncertain, God is doing something new.

Now, I wonder, just what might this mean for this morning’s gospel lesson?

Jesus tells a parable: a homeowner sows wheat seeds in a field, then someone scatters weeds in the same field. Don’t concern yourself with evil though, the story suggests, let it be and focus instead on the good.

From the outset of this parable, the homeowner has already done some considerable work: selecting choice seeds, tilling the soil, and then—after all has been carefully prepared—the wheat is planted in the ground.

And following the completion of this labor, the homeowner goes to sleep and rests. It is this moment though, in the middle of the night, that an enemy capitalizes on the opportunity to scatter weeds across the field. Seemingly, all of this careful labor has now been spoiled.

Now, what I can’t help but notice lacking in Jesus’ explanation of the parable is any recognition of the homeowner’s critical negligence. I mean, come on, ill-intentioned threats are always lurking out there, so why would he ever go to sleep in the first place!? Maybe if the master had just stayed a little more vigilant the field never would have been damaged in the first place.

But especially now, with devastation sown throughout the field, wouldn’t it be appropriate to work tirelessly to uproot the damage? Perhaps, like Jacob, the homeowner hasn’t done enough to deserve rest, either...

This, of course, is not how Jesus sees it. Thanks be to God!

Throughout his life, Jesus models for the disciples a faithful rhythm of labor and of rest. He labors: teaching, feeding, healing, disrupting. And he rests: gathering with friends, feasting on good meals, retreating to the desert.

Even more consequential though, Jesus’ life demonstrates what has always been the case: God is doing something new. And this informs how we understand this harvest coming at the “end of the age.”

None of us fit into neat categories of good or evil, sinful or righteous. We are all made up of a little wheat and some weeds. But each one of us gathered here this morning, alongside every single person beyond these walls, bears the image of God and is called beloved. And with time, the eternal work of God’s Spirit, like a refining fire, will shape our lives more into God’s desire for human life.

All who are made in the Creator’s likeness, which is everyone, are called to participate themselves in this ongoing work. As the body of Christ in this world, there is indeed great labor before us. But even as we midwife creation’s groaning toward the kingdom of heaven, the are reminded: the new thing God is doing is ultimately the new thing God is doing.

The coming kingdom of heaven doesn’t rely on wearied bodies and land worked beyond the point of breaking. Transformation will come. But it leads us into a way of being far beyond any of our preconceived notions. And actively embracing this this new thing has implications now: for our social structures, for our climate, for all living creatures.

So, may we be faithful then—in both our laboring, and in our resting.

Amen.