What Do You Think? | The Rev. Heidi Thorsen | October 1, 2023

May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be pleasing to you, O Lord, our rock and our redeemer. Amen.

Have you ever been in a situation where you were so afraid of saying something wrong—or doing something wrong— that you did nothing?

I can certainly think of situations like that. And while I was searching my mind for the perfect story for the perfect sermon illustration, I found that most of the instances I could think of were small things; or (even harder to describe) a whole period of my life marked by silence or timidity. However, there are some similarities, when I think back on these situations. Each of these moments or periods of silence was marked by a sense that I didn’t have the authority to speak. In some cases I was young, and wasn’t sure that my voice would matter. In other cases I was a newcomer to a group. And in some cases I was silent because the subject matter felt particularly charged– for example, in conversations about racism, when I have so much to learn and so much potential, as a white person with a good deal of privilege, to misunderstand or hurt others. These are just three descriptions of circumstances where I have been so afraid of saying or doing something wrong, that I did nothing.

And yet we know that inaction is itself a kind of action. The things we don’t do reflect on our faith and values just as much as the things we do do. This is why, in the confession we say before God and our neighbors every Sunday, we confess not only those things we have done, but also those things we have left undone. We, as human beings and as people of faith, are accountable to both our action and our lack of action.

Our Gospel passage for this week has something to say about this paralysis of inaction. This temptation to stay silent. This week, I’ve been resonating with the chief priests and the elders, who come to Jesus with a question. “By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?” this band of elders asks Jesus. Jesus responds, “I will also ask you one question; if you tell me the answer, then I will also tell you by what authority I do these things. Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?” The elders are completely thrown off by this question. They argue with each other about what they should say, and how Jesus might respond to their answer. “If we say, ‘from heaven,’ he will say to us, ‘why then did you not believe him?’ The elders muse. “But if we say, ‘Of human origin,’ we are afraid of the crowd; for all regard John as a prophet.” At a loss for what to say, they settle on these words: “We do not know.” And Jesus, returning to their original question, replies, “Neither will I tell you by what authority I am doing these things.”

The chief priests and elders of the people find themselves in a situation similar to the one I described at the beginning of this sermon. They are so afraid of saying something wrong, that they decide to say nothing at all. “We do not know.” Rather than venturing an answer, they tuck their tails between their legs, metaphorically speaking, and walk away.

Now before I go on, I want to make one important point of clarification: It’s okay to not know everything. I don’t know everything. You don’t know everything. Part of being human is not knowing everything– and there is a lot of wisdom in simply acknowledging this limitation to ourselves and to each other. However, in this particular Gospel passage, it seems clear that the chief priests and the elders actually have a lot of ideas about the question Jesus asks them. In fact they have too many ideas about the role of John the Baptist. But rather than being vulnerable and sharing these thoughts with Jesus, they decide to save face and retreat from the conversation. I think it is telling that Jesus’ next words, to those gathered, are: “What do you think?” as he starts to relate another parable. Jesus wants to know what the people think. But for fear of saying something wrong–or doing something wrong–the elders and the chief priests are silent.

These elders approached Jesus because they had a question about his authority. Ironically, the actions that follow have more to say about what authority looks like than any answer given in words. The elders and the chief priests demonstrate exactly what authority does not look like. They vacillate. They worry too much about what other people might think. And in the end, they choose silence and inaction— not as an intentional path, but simply as the path of least resistance. By contrast, Jesus demonstrates what authority does look like; and it’s worth noting that the kind of authority Jesus demonstrates is different from the ham-handed power of the Roman Empire of Jesus’ day. Jesus demonstrates a relational kind of authority. He demonstrates a desire to learn about and connect with others. And he shows confidence in his purpose and mission. Jesus trusts that his actions— healing the sick, caring for those on the margins— will speak for themselves. Jesus’ own life is the authority on which his ministry is based.

Now we, everyday people can’t aspire to the exact kind of authority that Jesus models– because we aren’t Jesus. We aren’t Christ. We aren’t the son of God. And yet we are, in our own way, children of God. In his ministry Jesus continually encourages his disciples to find their own voice; to find their own authority. Again, look at those words that Jesus asks the disciples, at the turning point in our Gospel passage Jesus: What do you think? Jesus asks. What do you think? Every parable that Jesus offers throughout the Gospel– and there are a few of them– is a reminder that Jesus wants us to claim our own unique authority. Jesus wants us to put ourselves into the conversation: to not just ask questions, but to also venture answers. Jesus wants us to be active participants in our faith. This is why Paul says, in his letter to the Philippians which we also read today, “work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.” This is what authority looks like, for followers of Jesus Christ. We will fail and we will make mistakes, and yet still Jesus invites us to take up our cross and put something on the line and follow him.

The parable that follows, in our Gospel passage today, is another reminder of what authority can look like. In particular, the parable shows that authority is less about what you say and more about what you do. In the parable, a man asks two of his sons to go and work in a vineyard. The first son initially says no, but later changes his mind and goes to work in the vineyard. The second son says he will go, but then he never shows up to do the work. In this story actions speak louder than words. And also, in this story, it is okay for the first son to change his mind. In fact, it is a good thing. This is different from the vacillating of the chief priests and elders, who go back and forth about what they will say to Jesus. In this case, the son made an initial statement but then he checked in with himself, he centered himself in his own authority, and he made a different decision. This reminds us that authority isn’t rigid. Authority, in this relational sense, isn’t about expertise or getting everything right all the time. Instead, authority involves recognizing that we are works in progress. It involves learning. Authority entails knowing who we are, and living into the best version of ourselves that we can be.

I believe we are each born with a unique kind of authority– an authority that doesn’t come from degrees or promotions, from age or experience. An authority that doesn’t involve power over another person, but is powerful in its own right. Each of us is born with a unique authority because there is no one else in the world like you. You contain a spark of the divine that can’t be found in any other person. And because of that, we have so much to learn from every person we meet.

Jesus longs for us to share that authority, that wisdom, with one another. What do you think? Jesus asks, inviting those gathered to reflect on the parable together. What do you think? The chief priests and the elders choose silence, for fear that they will get the answer wrong. And sometimes we choose silence too. Sometimes we get stuck in a place of silence and inaction, because we worry we will say or do something wrong. Sometimes we choose inaction because we worry that our efforts won’t make a difference anyways. But Jesus invites us, again and again, to come out of that place of stuckness. Jesus invites us to be strong and courageous, even though we will inevitably fail and make mistakes. Jesus invites us to walk on water, trusting that we will regain our footing. And Jesus invites us to take up our cross– to take up our own authority– and follow him.

I invite you to take a moment again to think about a situation where you were so afraid of saying something wrong—or doing something wrong— that you did nothing. Could you imagine doing something different this week? Could you imagine putting yourself out there to be a little more authentic, a little more openhearted, a little more present to the people around you? Could you imagine being more real with yourself, with others, and with God?

I’d like to close with the words of the 19th century American Unitarian minister Edward Everett Hale, which I have found particularly moving this week. Hale writes: “I am only one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. And what I can do, I ought to do. And what I ought to do, by the grace of God, I shall do.” Amen.