“There was a landowner who planted a vineyard, put a fence around it, dug a wine press in it, and built a watch-tower. Then he leased it to tenants and went on a journey.” (Mt 21:33)
Why did the landowner go on a journey? What does this mean?
The parable of the talents also mentions this:
“For it is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them; to one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability. Then he went away.” (Mt 25:14-15)
Luke’s version of these parables amplifies the theme of departure in time and space:
“A man planted a vineyard, and leased it to tenants, and went to another country for a long time.” (Lk 20:9)
“A nobleman went to a distant country to get royal power for himself and then return.” (Lk 19:12)
Since landowners and kings, when occurring in parables, usually stand for God, the necessary question is: why does God choose to go away, to be absent? Or, if he is everywhere present, as we are so often told, then why is his presence not felt? Why does he not make himself known so as to bring an end to evil and suffering and death? Would the tenants have behaved so barbarously if the owner was present? Would we humans behave so badly if our God were near to us, if we could reach out or hands and touch him?
In the book of Kings, Elijah stands as God’s prophet against the prophets of Baal. He challenges them to sacrifice to their god and have him set alight to the altar as a sign of his presence. All day long they hope around their altar and slash themselves, waiting for an answer. Elijah mocks them, saying:
“‘Cry aloud! Surely he is a god; either he is meditating, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened.’” (1 K 18:27)
Elijah’s sacrifice, though thrice doused with water, bursts into flame at the first invocation of the true God. Do we not sometimes feel more like these prophets of Baal than like Elijah, hopping and slashing ourselves in useless contortions under an empty sky? Would that God would reply to us as he did to Elijah, and vindicate us with fire from heaven!
It was not so in the beginning. Adam and Eve knew God as their familiar, and strolled with him in the garden. But, when temptation raised its head, they chose to separate themselves from the source of life and happiness. Thus God became terrible to them and they hid themselves:
“They heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze, and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden.” (Gn 3:8)
They hid themselves from God because they were afraid. God had become a stranger to them. Genesis says that God expelled Adam and Eve from the garden. We might also say that, since his presence so terrified them, God withdrew and went into voluntary exile. But he sent emissaries to speak to them a word of peace and draw them back to himself. Our Scriptures are like a litany of pleading words spoken by God to his errant people, through the mouths of his prophets.
The question: Why is God on a journey? is closely connected with that other perennial question: Why did God allow evil to enter his creation? Though impossible to answer satisfactorily, the latter question is usually addressed by means of the notion of free will. God desired to be in relationship with a person like himself, who would return his love consciously and freely. Freedom to choose involves the inherent risk than a person may choose not to return love for love. This is the risk God chose to take. And this is echoed in today’s parable by the landowner who, with startling innocence and (we might think) poor judgment, sent his son to those who had beaten and killed his slaves, saying: “They will respect my son” (Mt 21:37).
Jesus tells this parable to the religious leaders, who stand within reach of their God, without being able to recognize and accept him. God took an unimaginable step in his quest to draw near to us when he sent his Son in our flesh. The Incarnation might be called his return from exile. Ironically, though sadly not unexpectedly, this exile is not recognized or received. Indeed, he will be beaten, thrown out of the vineyard and killed.
If this were pantomime, one could imagine the religious leaders hopping and slashing themselves while crying out “Where is God?” as the audience knowingly shouts: “He’s behind you!” Could this not be us? We cry to him, and he’s behind us. We spin around to catch him, only to find ourselves in a dizzy heap on the floor. The children are laughing. Elijah is laughing, too. Couldn’t we laugh along with them, and with our innocent child-God who longs to draw near, but never in quite the way we expect? Let us laugh with the God who would not stay in exile and would not even stay dead, but whose irrepressible love beams forth from an empty tomb.