The Vineyard Was Never Yours to Own

 

Sunday Edition

There is something unsettling—and liberating—about the vineyard in today’s Gospel.

Isaiah sings of a vineyard lovingly planted, tended, protected, and given every opportunity to bear good fruit. Jesus takes that image and places people inside it: tenants entrusted with something that does not ultimately belong to them. The tragedy comes when the tenants forget the difference between being entrusted with something and owning it. (Catholic Diocese of Cleveland)

That distinction reaches much further than property.

It touches the way we think about our work, our reputation, our income, our abilities, our time—and even the years we sometimes speak of as though they were possessions.

We say, my career.
My position.
My team.
My accomplishments.
My time.

And, of course, there is nothing wrong with those words. But there is a subtle danger when possession becomes identity. We begin to believe that the vineyard exists for us rather than that we have been given a place within it for a season.

That can happen at work without our noticing.

A person spends fifteen years becoming indispensable. They accumulate authority, compensation, influence, institutional knowledge, and a reputation for being the one who can always be counted upon. Gradually, the work stops feeling like something they are doing and starts feeling like something they are.

Then an organizational change arrives.

A new leader.
A restructuring.
A technology shift.
A younger successor.
A different strategy.

And suddenly the person feels as though something has been taken from them.

Sometimes it has.

But sometimes what hurts most is the discovery that something we thought we owned was only ever entrusted to us.

That is not an argument for detachment or diminished ambition. Quite the opposite. A steward should care deeply for the vineyard.

The question is how we care for it.

Paul gives us another piece of the answer today: instead of being consumed by anxiety, he directs the Philippians toward what is true, honorable, just, pure, lovely, and worthy of praise—and toward practicing what they have learned. (Lectionary.com)

There is a quiet wisdom here for professional life.

We cannot control every change in an organization. We cannot guarantee that our role will remain secure. We cannot make an employer keep every promise forever. We cannot preserve every season of our career simply because we worked faithfully during it.

But we can tend the vineyard entrusted to us.

We can become people who work with integrity when no one is watching.

We can develop our abilities without worshiping our accomplishments.

We can earn money without allowing money to become the measure of our worth.

We can build professional relationships without treating people merely as contacts.

We can lead without needing to possess the people we lead.

We can accept responsibility without confusing responsibility with ownership.

And perhaps most importantly, we can remember that our finite career lifespan is itself a gift.

That changes the question.

Instead of asking only, “What can I get from this job?” we might sometimes ask, “What fruit is being produced by the years I am giving here?”

Is this work making me more patient? More courageous? More capable? More generous? More truthful?

Is it allowing me to provide faithfully for people who depend upon me?

Am I using my abilities in ways that serve something beyond my own advancement?

Are the relationships I am cultivating becoming more humane because I am part of them?

And if the answer is increasingly no, the stewardship question is not necessarily “How quickly can I escape?”

It may first be:

“What has this season been entrusted to me to learn, to give, and to become—and what would faithfulness require of me now?”

That question leaves room for staying.

It also leaves room for leaving.

Neither is automatically virtuous.

The virtue lies in recognizing that neither your job nor your career is the final owner of your life.

The vineyard is temporary.

So are we.

That can sound sobering. But it can also be deeply peaceful.

We do not have to make our careers immortal. We only have to tend faithfully what has been placed in our hands for this season.

And then, when the season changes, we can open our hands again.

A Sunday point of reflection

Before tomorrow begins, sit quietly for a few minutes and consider:

What in my professional life have I begun treating as something I own rather than something I have been entrusted to steward?

Perhaps there is something you need to hold more lightly.

Perhaps there is something you need to tend more faithfully.

Perhaps there is someone you need to serve rather than impress.

Or perhaps there is simply a need to remember that your worth was never contained in your job description.

The Church's readings today remind us that we are stewards, not owners, of the vineyard. (Catholic Diocese of Cleveland)

Tomorrow will bring its meetings, deadlines, decisions, and demands.

Tonight, let them wait.

Prayer

Lord, teach me to receive my work, my abilities, my relationships, my resources, and my time as gifts entrusted to me.

Keep me from grasping what was never mine to possess.

Give me wisdom to know what deserves my attention, courage to change what I can, humility to release what I cannot, and gratitude for the season I have been given.

May the work of my hands bear good fruit—not only for my advancement, but for the people and purposes placed in my care.

Let me rest tonight.

Let me be renewed.

And let me begin tomorrow with a clearer sense of what—and whom—I am here to serve.

Image by francescobovolin from Pixabay