When we act as if God owes us

THE parable of the wicked tenants (Mt. 21:33-43) is one of Christ’s most uncomfortable stories because it exposes a temptation that never grows old: the desire to enjoy God’s gifts while getting rid of God himself.

The tenants did not plant the vineyard. They did not buy the land. They did not dig the winepress or build the watchtower. Everything had already been prepared for them. Yet when the owner sent his servants to collect what rightly belonged to him, they beat some, killed others, and finally murdered the owner’s own son.

Outrageous? Certainly. But before condemning those tenants too quickly, we should ask whether modern society has simply become better at doing the same thing more politely.

Our age enthusiastically celebrates human rights while becoming increasingly embarrassed by human responsibilities toward the One from whom those rights ultimately come. We applaud freedom but reject any suggestion that freedom has a purpose beyond satisfying personal desires. We praise human dignity while quietly forgetting the God in whose image that dignity is rooted.

We have become remarkably skilled at claiming ownership over what has only been entrusted to us. Our intelligence, talents, wealth, influence, health, and even life itself are treated as private property rather than gifts carrying corresponding obligations.

We speak endlessly about “my body,” “my career,” “my money,” “my truth,” and “my life,” as if the repeated use of the possessive pronoun could erase the unmistakable fact that none of these originated with us.

The parable shatters this illusion. The vineyard belongs to the owner. Always has. Always will. That truth should profoundly change how we approach our work, our family life, our profession, and our ambitions. We are not owners but stewards. The distinction is everything. Owners answer to no one. Stewards eventually render an account.

This is precisely the idea our culture resists. Accountability has become an unwelcome word. We prefer autonomy without limits, authority without responsibility, success without gratitude, and rights without duties. We want the harvest but resent the Landowner.

Even religion can fall into this trap. It is possible to fill churches, organize ministries, preach eloquent sermons, and perform charitable works while subtly replacing God’s will with our own plans.

The vineyard becomes “our project.” The apostolate becomes “our achievement.” We begin defending institutions more passionately than we defend truth itself. Whenever ego occupies the place reserved for God, we are no longer faithful tenants but ambitious squatters.

The Gospel leaves no room for such self-deception. Christ, the rejected Son, remains the cornerstone. Human opinion cannot remove him. Political power cannot silence him. Intellectual fashions cannot replace him.

Every generation eventually discovers that building a civilization while excluding its true foundation is an exercise in slow-motion collapse.

The remedy begins with recovering humility. Everything we possess is received before it is achieved. Gratitude, therefore, is not good manners but simple honesty. The more we recognize ourselves as beneficiaries rather than proprietors, the more responsibly we use what has been entrusted to us.

This humility naturally flowers into love. If creation belongs to God, then every person we encounter deserves reverence, every honest task deserves excellence, and every opportunity becomes a chance to return fruit to the true Owner. Stewardship is not passive preservation but active cooperation with divine providence.

The question posed by the parable is therefore deeply personal. When the Lord comes seeking the fruits of justice, charity, fidelity, and holiness, will he find grateful stewards or possessive tenants?

The vineyard has never ceased belonging to God. The only issue still awaiting an answer is whether we are willing to remember whose vineyard it is.

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