“By what authority are you doing these things, and who gave you this authority?” That is the question the chief priests and elders ask Jesus. And it is a good question.
Authority matters. We entrust people with authority over enormous parts of our lives. Parents have authority. Teachers have authority. Doctors have authority. Judges have authority. Bishops and priests have authority. Governments have authority. Employers have authority. And increasingly, enormous authority is exercised by people who control extraordinary amounts of wealth, technology, information, and economic power. So, the question matters: By what authority are you doing these things? And perhaps an even more important question follows: What makes authority legitimate?
The setting of this encounter matters. Jesus has arrived in Jerusalem, entered the temple, overturned the tables of the money changers, and declared that God’s house is to be a house of prayer. And then, right there in the temple, he heals people. So, when the chief priests and elders confront Jesus, “these things” are not abstract theological ideas.
Jesus has disrupted an institution. Jesus has challenged an economic system. Jesus has healed people whom society pushed toward the edges. And now he is teaching in the temple as though he belongs there. The people who have traditionally exercised authority want to know who gave him permission. And Jesus, characteristically, refuses to play by their rules.
He asks them about John the Baptist. “Did the baptism of John come from heaven, or was it of human origin?” Suddenly they are trapped. Not because they do not know the possible answers, but because they are calculating the political consequences of each answer. If they say John’s authority came from God, Jesus will ask why they ignored him. If they say John had no authority from God, they are afraid of the crowd, because the crowd regarded John as a prophet. And so, they give perhaps the safest answer available to people whose primary concern is protecting their position: “We do not know.”
And maybe that tells us something about authority already. Because the authority of the chief priests and elders has become preoccupied with protecting itself. Jesus’ authority behaves differently. Throughout Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus’ authority produces particular kinds of things. People are healed. Sins are forgiven. Those who have been excluded are welcomed. Hungry people are fed. Those regarded as unclean are touched. People who have been told that they do not belong find themselves sitting at the table.
And perhaps this is one answer Matthew gives us to the question of legitimate authority. Look at its fruit. Authority is not legitimate simply because someone possesses it. It is not legitimate simply because someone has inherited it. It is not legitimate because someone has a title, an office, a collar, a degree, a fortune, or a billion-dollar company. The question is: What does your authority produce? Does it produce healing or suffering? Freedom or fear? Community or isolation? Human flourishing or human diminishment? Does it protect the vulnerable, or does it protect itself?
Jesus then tells a remarkably simple story. A father asks one son to work in the vineyard. The son says, “No.” But later changes his mind and goes. The father asks the other son. That son says all the right things. “Yes, sir.” But never goes. “Which of the two did the will of the father?” Jesus asks.
The answer is obvious. The first. The one who actually went into the vineyard. And suddenly the conversation about authority becomes a conversation about action. Because the kingdom of God apparently cares rather little about how impressive our claims to authority sound. God asks what we actually do with the power we possess. And that may be particularly important for us to hear because we live in a culture fascinated by wealth and power.
We no longer believe much in the divine right of kings. Few people would seriously argue that someone should rule simply because God placed them on a throne. We would recognize the danger immediately. And yet versions of that old argument remain surprisingly alive. Only now God may have disappeared from the explanation. Instead, wealth itself becomes the evidence. Someone accumulates an unimaginable fortune, builds an enormously successful company, controls technologies used by millions of people, and gradually a story can emerge: I have succeeded on a scale most people cannot imagine; therefore I understand things other people do not. Because I understand things other people do not, I should have greater influence. Because I have greater influence, perhaps ordinary democratic restraints, regulations, taxes, labor protections, or other obligations to the common good should not constrain me as they constrain everyone else.
The language has changed. But the temptation is ancient. Power begins to interpret itself as proof of worthiness. Wealth becomes evidence of wisdom. Success becomes evidence of virtue. And privilege begins imagining itself as authority. Jesus offers another standard entirely. “Which of these did the will of the father?” Not: Which one was richest? Which one had the most followers? Which one could move markets? Which one attended the right schools? Which one controlled the institution? Which one said the proper words? Which one appeared respectable? Which one was called “sir”? Which one had the authority to tell everybody else what to do? Which one actually went into the vineyard? That is the question. And Jesus makes the story even more scandalous by telling the respectable religious leaders that tax collectors and prostitutes are entering the kingdom of God ahead of them.
We should be careful here. This passage is not Christianity condemning Judaism. Jesus is a Jew arguing with fellow Jews about faithfulness to the God of Israel. Christians have caused terrible harm when we have forgotten that. And Jesus’ words certainly do not give the church permission to congratulate ourselves for being better than those religious leaders. Quite the opposite. Jesus is warning religious people about what happens when we confuse religious status with faithfulness. That warning belongs to us. Because bishops can do it. Priests can do it. Vestries can do it. Churches can do it. Nations can do it. Corporations can do it. Billionaires can do it. And ordinary people can do it.
We can all begin imagining that whatever authority we possess exists primarily for ourselves. But in the kingdom Jesus proclaims, authority is never merely possession. It is stewardship. It is entrusted to us for the sake of something larger than ourselves. And Jesus shows us what that something is. Healing. Reconciliation. Mercy. Justice. Forgiveness. Liberation. The restoration of people to community. The lifting up of those whom the world has pushed down. That is what divine authority looks like when Jesus embodies it.
And there is one more piece of this Gospel that I find deeply hopeful. The first son changes his mind. Jesus repeats that language when talking about the religious leaders. “You saw,” he tells them, “and you did not change your minds.” They could have. That possibility was still there. The tragedy is not that they once got something wrong. We all get things wrong. The tragedy is that when new life appeared before them, they had become too invested in being right to change. And perhaps that is another test of authority. Can it repent? Can the person with power listen? Can the institution acknowledge that it has caused harm? Can the wealthy admit that the system from which they have benefited may be unjust? Can the church admit that traditions we once defended sometimes wounded people? Can a nation reconsider what it has long taken for granted? Can I discover that something I have believed for years is wrong—and change?
Because changing our minds is not always weakness. Sometimes changing our minds is faithfulness. Sometimes repentance is precisely what makes authority trustworthy. God does not seem especially impressed by people who never admit that they are wrong. God seems much more interested in people willing to enter the vineyard. And there is a vineyard waiting for us. It is wherever people are hungry. Wherever people are lonely. Wherever children are frightened. Wherever workers are exploited. Wherever wealth buys access that ordinary people cannot obtain. Wherever somebody has been told that their life matters less. Wherever creation groans beneath human consumption. Wherever someone needs mercy. That is the vineyard. And every one of us has some authority there. Perhaps not billions of dollars. Perhaps not political office. Perhaps not institutional power. But every one of us possesses some ability to influence what happens to another human being. And the Gospel asks us what we will do with it. Because in God’s dream for this world, authority is not permission to stand above others. Authority is the capacity to serve them.
Power is not proven by our ability to make others bend to our will. Power becomes holy when it helps others stand. And perhaps that is why Jesus’ authority frightens the powerful. He exposes the possibility that everything we have been taught to admire about power may be backwards. The kingdom belongs not to those who can accumulate the most, control the most, or command the most. It belongs to those willing to enter the vineyard. To heal. To forgive. To feed. To welcome. To repair. To change their minds. And to do the will of the One whose authority is revealed not through domination, but through love. Amen.
