Take a moment to remember a “yes” that let you down. They said, “Yes, I will be there.” So, you fixed your gaze on the door, even after everyone else had arrived. They never showed up. They said, “I will call you this evening.” So you kept your phone close through dinner, hardly paying attention to the person at table with you. Your phone stayed silent through the evening, and through the long silence before sleep. Perhaps they meant it when they said it. The hardest part may not have been that they failed to come or call. It was that their yes had given you permission to hope.
In today’s Gospel passage, Jesus asks his audience of their opinion about a father who asked two of his sons to go work in the vineyard. The first said, “No, I will not,” but changed his mind, and went. The other said, “Yes, Sir,” but did not go. The answer seems obvious, until we realize Jesus is asking about us.
Jesus tells this story in Jerusalem, after the chief priests and elders challenge his authority. They know the right religious words. They know how to appear faithful. But when John the Baptist calls them to change their lives, they refuse. Meanwhile, people they have written off as sinners listen, repent, and begin again. Jesus is not saying that their past does not matter. He is saying that their past does not have to be their future. That is Ezekiel’s message in the first reading. A person who turns from wrongdoing and does what is right will live. God does not lock anyone inside yesterday’s answer. The son who said no could still go to the vineyard. So can we.
But today’s Gospel passage leaves us with a troubling choice. Must we be the son who says no and later goes, or the son who says yes and stays home? There is another Son. He is Jesus the Christ. He does not merely give the right answer to his Father. He lives it. At the Last Supper, he gives himself to his disciples in the bread and wine. In the garden, knowing what lies ahead, he prays, “Not my will but yours be done.” Then, on Good Friday, he goes where he promised to go. Holy Thursday was not a beautiful speech that Good Friday failed to keep.
Saint Paul tells us in the second reading to have the mind of Christ. Though he was in the form of God, Jesus did not cling to privilege. He emptied himself, took the place of a servant, and became obedient even to death on a cross. His yes had hands. It washed feet. His yes had feet. They walked toward Calvary.
On the 14th of February, 2012, I gave a talk to priests of my home diocese with the title, “From the Pulpit to the Altar: My Challenge.” There I reflected on a short journey I make at every Mass: the journey from the pulpit to the altar. At the pulpit, I can speak eloquently about love, forgiveness, and sacrifice. At the altar, I am called like Christ to put into action the eloquent words I spoke at the pulpit. That short walk between the pulpit and the altar asks me an uncomfortable question everyday: will I carry these words into my life?
But this is not a question only for priests. All of us make that journey. We hear the Word here, profess our faith in God, receive Christ at this altar, and then walk toward the people waiting for us outside the church to see how our “yes” at Mass translates to our actions outside. A husband says, “I love you,” but his wife has been trying for weeks to tell him how lonely she feels. A parent promises to listen, then reaches for the phone as a child begins to speak. A friend says, “I’ll pray for you,” and could also bring a meal or make a call. We say at Mass, “Thanks be to God.” What happens when the day brings us someone difficult for whom to thank God? These are not reasons to stop making promises. They are invitations to let our promises grow legs.
Perhaps you already know the vineyard where God is asking you to work. There is an apology you keep rehearsing but have not offered. Someone needs your attention more than your advice. You know the fair thing to do at work, though it may cost you. Or perhaps the person you need to stop condemning is yourself: you said no to God long ago, and you have assumed he will never ask you again. Listen to the father in the parable. He says, “Go out and work in the vineyard today.” Not when you have a perfect history. Today.
And notice that Jesus does not tell the repentant son to stand in the doorway explaining why he once refused. The son changes his mind, and he goes. Repentance is more than feeling ashamed. It is turning toward the Father and taking the next step. Sometimes that step is a confession. Sometimes it is a difficult conversation. Sometimes it is simply doing the good we promised to do.
In a few moments, we will come to the altar. We will meet the Third Son, the Ideal Son whose love carried him all the way to the cross and who gives himself to us still. We need his grace because our own yes is often weaker than we wish. We can ask him to strengthen it today. Then, when Mass is over, each of us will leave through the church door. Somewhere beyond that door is our vineyard. The Father has heard our yes. May he also hear our footsteps. Amen.
Homily for 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A 2026
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