When it comes to the seven deadly sins, only envy is no

fun at all. The others may be destructive, but they are also

seductive. We have to give them their due, bringing short-

term pleasure or a momentary sense of satisfaction. We’ll

dive into that reality the next two Sundays, but you already

know what it feels like. Envy, on the other hand, is the thief

of joy—an involuntary and utterly unpleasant reaction

to someone else’s life. It is the precise inverse of Paul’s

instruction to the Romans to “rejoice with those who are

rejoicing.” Instead, it resents the joy of another, especially

when that joy seems, to us, undeserved. Envy is in the eye

of the beholder. The word itself comes from Invidia. To look

upon with resentment. To give the evil eye. Envy’s poison

leads us to resent the good fortune of others.

It is a nearly universal human condition. The evil eye

inflicts us all. We look at the success, the fulfillment, the

happiness, the accomplishment of another and feel,

unprovoked, the rush of resentment. Why him? How could

that happen to her? We scan the photos of a neighbor or

see the new purchase of a friend and wonder why they

have all that. In my experience, even those who seem to

have it all themselves find reason to envy. And always,

always, lurking behind and beneath those exasperated

questions, there is a deeper wondering. Not “why him?”

But “what about me? Why not me?”

My teacher Will Willimon has written that, “to be a

Christian is…to be reminded, on a weekly basis, that we

are meant to look at the world with different standards of

judgment than those that operate in the world.” In other

words, we gather weekly for worship to be given a new

perspective, a different set of lenses with which to see

the world and our lives. This is difficult work, especially

in our time. It is challenging to look at life through a

different lens than the one that we are accustomed to

and acquainted with. To see through eyes of grace, not

judgment. Mercy rather than resentment. We need that

weekly reminder because so much of our life pushes us

toward comparison, justifying our envy and resenting

others’ success.

Jesus used stories, parables, to unsettle his followers.

These stories rearrange our mental furniture. They reset

our clouded vision. And each one of them has a punch

line, a moment of revelation, a surprise twist in the story

that shocks or even offends listeners.

The turning point in this morning’s parable is impossible to

miss. You can picture it in your mind. The laborers all lined

up at the end of the day, ready to receive their pay. Some

are exhausted from a full day of work under the hot sun.

Others are just finishing their single hour of labor. They

haven’t even broken a sweat. The landowner begins with

those who arrived on the scene last, and he gives them,

surprisingly, a whole denarius. That was the fair wage for a

full day of work.

At this point, you can imagine the excitement building

at the back of the line as news travels from worker to

worker of this lavish pay, this generous owner. Those who

started early are now eager to receive their reward. And

that’s when the punch line of the parable comes. “Each

of them received the usual daily wage.” Uh oh. What

would have been an acceptable sum only moments ago

is now an outrage. Those who worked all day receive the

same amount as those who worked only one hour. Then,

Jesus—being Jesus—raises the stakes. He says this, this

story, this parable, this picture, this is what the kingdom of

God looks like.

He can’t be serious. This is the kingdom of God? There has

to be a better metaphor.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The hot summer

afternoon. I was eleven years old, and my brother was

five. We had shared a room and bunk beds since he

was a toddler. And that morning, that Saturday morning,

our parents had given us our orders for the day, our

assignment, our chore. They said, “Your grandparents are

on their way for a visit. Clean your room.”

Now, our room was a disaster. A total mess. And so,

justifiably, we both resisted. After all, our grandparents

wouldn’t even come into our room if we just kept the door

closed. They would be no worse off. But the expectation

was clear and made clear again. And I, I the dutiful brother,

I the elder brother, I the responsible party, I got to work. My

brother—at least the way I remember it—did not. He lay in

bed. He played our Sega Genesis. He met friends outside,

the friends I was supposed to meet outside. And so, I

protested. I complained. I cried. I pleaded with my parents

for as long as I could. And then, out of options, I rage-

cleaned, and eventually the task was complete. The room

looked magnificent. When Grammie and Poppa arrived,

first I showed them into our room. And then, we all went

out for ice cream. My parents told me that I, I the dutiful

son, I the responsible brother, I could order whatever I

wanted. Surely my fair wage for all my hard work. And

so, yes, I went big. 3 scoops, banana split. The first bites

were delicious. Until… you guessed it. Little brother was

also invited to make his order. Grammie and Poppa were

paying, and he could order anything he wanted. For what?

How could they? No fair! I remember the burning in my

ears, and then filled with blinding anger, I took action.

I grabbed that banana split, and in dramatic fashion, I

dumped my tray into the trash can right in front of my

parents. Meanwhile, Josh sat at the table enjoying every

last bite of that Oreo Blizzard.

The early morning laborers, tired from a full day’s work,

are indignant at the injustice of their equal pay. It is no

longer enough that they received what they earned,

what they had agreed upon. Comparison has stolen their

satisfaction. They are ready to trash their just reward.

The landowner answers. He responds to their outrage

with a rhetorical question. “Are you envious because

I am generous?” I find this an interesting choice, to

describe the offended workers as envious. Is it envy that

they are feeling? It might help to know that the original

Greek is even more pointed. The landowner’s question

literally reads, “Is your eye so evil because I am so

good?” What a question! Reminds me of old Jonah who

rails against God because of the divine decision to bless

the repenting Ninevites. Them? Those people? Reminds

me of every time I find myself resenting the good

fortune of another and asking, “Why not me?” I think

the insidious force of envy begins with the assumption

of scarcity. Envy whispers that there is not enough to go

around, and so we must be skeptical of those who get

what we want—or what we think they don’t deserve.

Envy steals our joy by insisting on scarcity. There

isn’t enough. You better get yours. Friends become

competitors. Neighbors are turned to enemies. Strangers

are a threat. We cease to see the humanity of others.

Even our brother can be a threat to our happiness.

Comparison crowds out compassion. Those people, they

got something for nothing. They were taking advantage of

the system, happily receiving a full day’s wage for only one

hour of work. Why them? But especially why not me? You

can hear the grumbling across the centuries…maybe you

even hear it in your own voice.

How is it that everyone on my social media feed has a

perfect life, while I’m struggling to find joy?

Why do my hard-earned wages go to help those who don’t

deserve it…especially those who don’t even belong here?

If they wanted to make more money, they could. They just

need to work harder. Not my job to help them get ahead.

Oh, the durability of these stories that Jesus tells. They

still sting, don’t they? They force us to confront our own

grumbling hearts.

This is the parable’s key moment. The landowner does not

defend his actions on the grounds of fairness. He pleads

generosity. Are you envious because I am generous? Here

we find the meaning of the parable and its clear picture

of the kingdom of God. Jesus tells a story. Jesus—whose

self-stated mission includes preaching good news to the

poor—tells a story not about a group of works, but about

a landowner who chooses to be generous, who wants

everyone to have a place in the vineyard, who cannot

abide the thought of anyone left behind. I had missed this

detail in the parable until this year. The landowner returns

time and time again to find those in need of work and

invites them—yes, them—to the vineyard.

And so those who had been waiting all day are given work

to do. And not only that. They are given a fair wage. Not a

lavish wage. Enough to get by for one more day. It seems

this boss’s concern is not his bottom line or a carefully

tiered system of merit, but the workers themselves. Jesus

says, this is what the kingdom of God looks like.

A justice that sees people and not only profits. An open

invitation to join the joyful work of the gospel. Radical

hospitality for all who show up, no matter when they

arrive. Justice redefined by compassion. Abundance in the

place of scarcity. Grace. Grace. Grace.

Yes, envy is the thief of joy. It begins by assuming scarcity.

It insists on comparison. But, the gospel invites us to

see through a different lens. Listen. The wellbeing of

somebody else need not diminish your own. In fact, in the

kingdom of God, your wellbeing is utterly dependent on

the wellbeing of others. God starts at the end, with those

who are most forgotten and at greatest risk.

We know who they are. They are your neighbors. They

are the children who go to bed with empty stomachs.

They are the mothers who skip meals to keep their family

housed. They are the workers whose wages won’t pay the

rent. And they belong to you. To us.

Friends, what if a life worth living is defined not by

comparison but by compassion? Take it from a kid who

missed the joy of a banana split — our obsession with

comparison will spoil our fun, and over time it will corrode

our hearts.

Columnist David Brooks wrote this week about a global

Gallup survey on well-being. The headline is that more

people around the world say they are thriving than ever

before. Hope is rising in countries as diverse as Kosovo,

Vietnam, Kazakhstan, and Paraguay.

But here’s the shadow side: in nations with the highest

standards of living, like ours, well-being is falling, and fast.

Why? Brooks points to the gap between economic health

and social-spiritual health. People flourish when economic

well-being is matched by strong social connections

and a clear sense of purpose. It turns out that societies

that emphasize economic success without tending to

community attachment or spiritual depth tend to see

declines in overall well-being. Or perhaps more simply

put: culture built on envy is drained of compassion and,

ultimately, of meaning.

Jesus casts a different vision—a vision of abundance

in which no one is left out, and the measure of God’s

goodness is not our standard of fairness but God’s grace

freely given.

So let me suggest the question for you today is not, “Did

I get what I deserve?” But rather, “Can I rejoice in the

generosity that allows another to thrive?” That could be

the shift that moves us—even our nation—from a culture of

comparison toward a culture of compassion.

The last will be first, and the first will be last. It is the

ultimate parable punch line.

And, if we allow it to be, it is good news…for all of us. Amen.