One otherwise fine day before “the wedding” in October, Julie said (right out of the blue): “Come to think of it, I never saw the two of you argue.” Which astounded Kris and myself, since we did….and do….although less than we did. Argue, I mean. After a while, what’s the point? You know each other’s lines. And most of the lines are stale.
But there were years when the lines were fresh and had a greater capacity to surprise….even wound. So how did Julie miss that? I doubt that she was deaf. Blind, either. So it must have been that our arguments were sufficiently understated so as to pass under the radar of her consciousness. Either that, or we never disagreed (or were disagreeable) with each other when she was in the room.
It’s one thing to say (as some of you do): “I never saw my parents argue.” Which could be true. It’s entirely another thing to say: “My parents never argued.” Which couldn’t be true.
I don’t think parents should have verbal knock-down, drag-outs with each other in front of their children. For that would scare them….even as they once scared me. But neither do I believe parents ought to pretend pleasantness and marital hunky-doriness in the presence of their children. For that would delude them. So Kris and I actually apologized to Julie for having been too nice or too guarded when she was within earshot….to the point of actually offering to pick a fresh fight or unscab an old wound in her presence (all in the name of honest disclosure).
Sometimes, when talking to couples about to be married, I walk them through a little exercise entitled “How did your parents argue? What was their conflict management style?” Every couple has conflict. Every couple handles conflict. But not all couples handle conflict similarly….or constructively. So I ask their children a series of questions. Which I do not expect them to answer in my company….but in each other’s company, later. Questions like:
What did your parents argue about?
Most couples can solve most things. But most couples have one or two things they can’t solve. Or won’t solve. Those are the things that keep coming up over and over again….simmering for a while on life’s back burner until they boil. Which they will. Sometimes over 25 years or more.
If you equate an argument with a storm, what were the storm warnings that told you your parents were about to enter a period of disagreement?
Was there an eerie calm before the storm when everything, and everybody, got strangely quiet? Or was there a lot of blow and bluster before the storm? Doors slamming, dishes rattling, that sort of thing.
And when the storm finally broke, how did they act in the storm?
Did they shout or pout? Did they attack or retreat? Did they go for the jugular or go for cover? Did anybody scream? Did anybody cry? Could they focus on the issue at hand? Or did they gunnysack….storing up issues from six months ago, only to dump them on today’s fire….not because they belonged in this discussion, but because they were proven winners from past discussions?
In the middle of an argument, were there any flight patterns?
Did anybody say: “If that’s the way you’re going to be, I’m outta here. I’m going to bed. I’m going to run around the block. I’m going to work on the car. I’m going to mother’s….to the bar….to see if my old boyfriend is still in town. Or I’m going to hide behind the newspaper.”
In the middle of an argument, were there any fight patterns?
Did anybody hit anybody? Did anybody hit anything? Did anybody throw stuff…. overturn stuff….kick stuff….smash or trash stuff?
But then I reverse things a little bit by asking a couple of reconciliation questions.
How long did arguments last in your parents' marriage before reconciliation happened?
Did they mend things before bedtime? Or did things clear up in the morning? Or by 5:00 the next day? Or three days? Or three weeks?
Followed by the zinger.
Who, in your parents' marriage, was the primary reconciler?
True, both partners eventually had to work at it. But who initiated it? Who thawed the cold war with a look….a touch….a gesture….a phrase (“I’m sorry”….“This is really rather silly”….“Wouldn’t you like to go for a walk with me, out to dinner with me, upstairs with me?”) that tilted things toward healing?
In short, who made the first move? Someone once said: “In most marriages, the same person makes the first move eighty percent of the time.” I don’t know if that’s true. All I know is that when I asked that question of fifty women in my Tuesday group, eighty percent of those present claimed that it was them. Actually, it was more like ninety-five percent. Although a couple came to me later and said: “I didn’t want to admit it to the others, but (in my marriage) it’s him. I can hold out longer than he can. He always makes the first move.”
I don’t know if holding out longer is a virtue. I suppose there are times when it could be. Just as there are times when holding your breath longer might serve you well. But where holding your breath is concerned, one miscalculation….even one time….can serve you ill (as in killing you). I have observed that in a marriage, stubborn people sleep alone….a lot.
So who makes the first move? While you’re pondering that, ponder this. Christmas begins with a lover’s quarrel. Christmas begins with a love that has gone south and with lovers who have gone sour. In this domestic squabble, God is the party of the first part and we are the party of the second part. So where does scripture come in? Scripture is the ongoing saga of how both parties skate up to the brink of divorce, but one of the parties (the party of the first part) keeps trying to find ways to avoid it. I mean, what is holy scripture if not the story of God’s ongoing attempt to save a bad marriage?
This little story I read this morning would seem to reflect that plot line in miniature. A man plants a vineyard….puts in everything necessary so as to ensure security, fertility and prosperity….trusts people to run it without looking over their shoulders micro-managerially…. and asks nothing more than some acknowledgement (economically and relationally) that he still has a part in it (the vineyard) and a part in them (the tenants). And when it looks like he’ll have to wait till the cows come home for them to remember (a) the deal and (b) the dealer, he says: “I guess I’ll have to make the first move.” So he does. Multiple times. With the story giving special attention to two servants and one son.
Each of which is treated worse than the last. The first is beaten and dismissed. The second is beaten upside the head and disgraced. And after several unnamed others are treated similarly (and brutally), the third is killed and tossed. The third one being the owner’s son. All of which tells you what many of you have found out the hard way….that there are times in making the first move when you can get your clock cleaned or your lunch handed back to you….and not on a silver platter, either.
Now, there are a slew of ways to view (and preach) this story. Most common is during a stewardship campaign (in a sermon about pledges).
Point one – God is very generous.
Point two – God is very trusting.
Point three – God expects a “fair share” in return.
That’ll preach. I should know. I’ve preached it.
But the story is sometimes preached….not in a sermon about pledges….but in a sermon about prophecy. Again, with three points.
Servant one – Moses
Servant two (the one wounded in the head) – John the Baptist
Other servants – A series of unnamed Jewish prophets
Servant three – Jesus (who was “struck down” on the way to being “lifted up”…. “exalted”…..“name above every name”….“cornerstone”….that sort of thing)
And that’ll preach, too. Although biblical scholars divide right down the middle over whether the portion about the third son (verses 6-11) was actually a prediction by Jesus or a later addition by the author. Either way, that’s how it turned out.
But what interests me this morning is neither pledges nor prophecy, but persistence. I’m talking about the owner’s persistence….who cannot bring himself to believe that something that began so beautifully is turning out so badly. So the owner makes the first move….second move….third move….multiple moves….personal, painful , even costly moves. The owner (in this story) keeps coming at us. Repetitively. Relentlessly. Redemptively. Not because the owner is the Secretary of Agriculture who needs the grapes, but because he is the “party of the first part”….the lover (who can’t abide the thought of being the loser)….who needs the growers. This story has much less to do with the grapes he planted (“I need those grapes”) than with the tenants he trusted (“I love those tenants”).
* * * * *
Pardon me if I’ve told you this before, but it fits so perfectly here. Which is why I’ll close with it now.
You are a teenager….long on emotions….longer still on hormones….but short (much, much too short) on sense, self-control and all those other things your parents prayed you might acquire while they were still alive to see them.
It’s been a bad day….a very bad day….leaving you itching for a fight. Which you pick with your mother. And before she can start tracking, you are screaming. At her. At life. At the whole screwed-up world. And before you figure out how totally out of control you are, you break something. Or upset something. Or make a mess of something.
And whether she sends you to your room or you go there just to get away from her, you’re there. Door slammed. Radio on. Video games going. You stewing. Which is what you do for several hours. And which is where you stay for several hours. Until several things begin happening simultaneously. The sun begins setting. The family begins reassembling. And while you begin chilling, the smells of supper begin ascending….magnificent aromas….temptingly-magnificent aromas (“She’s cooking this just to mock me”).
Stories of the day are bubbling from people’s mouths. Treasures from the oven are soon to be entering people’s mouths. But not your mouth. Because you’re up here and they’re down there. Damn them. Or damn you….which is how you are beginning to feel about your life. Damned, I mean (“I am a damned fool”).
But you won’t go down there. Because you’ve got your pride. And by now, they’ve got the scoop. About you. On you. Everything you said. Everything you did. No way in hell will you go down there. Except that hell’s not down there, but up here. With you.
So what will it take? Somebody ascending into hell….that’s what it will take. Which is when you hear the steps on the stairs. Followed by a voice from the landing. His voice. Your father’s voice. Curling the rest of the way up the stairs….down the hall….under your door. Your locked door.
“Bill, it’s time to wash up for supper.”
Which does not mean you are completely off the hook. But it does mean you are expected at the table.
* * * * *
Advent begins with a lover’s quarrel, coupled with a God who makes the first move.
Note: Having preached this parable multiple times, I am aware of the scholarly debate that swirls concerning it. First, it is the only parable that is not so much a parable but an allegory. In an allegory, each of the characters represents someone whose identity will probably be obvious to the hearer or reader (i.e. the owner of the vineyard is God, etc.).
As concerns the historical context for the narrative, J.C.B. Mohr puts the question when he writes: “The parable looks more like those in some of the later writers….say Hermas, also a Roman….and is probably best explained as derived largely from an early Christian, anti-Jewish polemic, though authentic words of Jesus may survive in it.” Clearly, the story was cherished and used in the early church. As to whether its original form was a detailed prophecy of the future or not, it was “actual history” as the church looked back upon it. The argument ran: “Those to whom the religious inheritance was given (the Jewish leaders and many of the people) rejected the Owner’s Son, and the inheritance was given to others.”
All of this is interesting but academic, given that I have chosen to focus on the owner’s relentless and repetitive attempts to “reconnect” with the tenants in spite of their violent indication that no such relationship exists or is desirable. Robert Capon would go so far as to call this a parable of grace rather than one of judgment, given a similar interpretation.
