Chapter 41 | The Vineyard Parable
I did not wake whole, but I woke. And this time, I rose.
Malka’s stall was already busy when I reached it.
Dried figs stacked in neat rows. Clay jars lined along the back. Two men arguing over price while Malka ignored them both and kept counting coins.
She looked up once—and saw me.
“Well now,” she said, not missing a beat. “Look who remembers how to walk among the living.”
A few nearby turned.
Heat creeped up my neck, but I stepped closer anyway.
“I never forgot,” I said.
“Mm.” She eyed me. “You looked like you did for a while.”
She reached out, not gently, and turned my face slightly toward the light.
“Better,” she said. “Still dreadful. But better.”
I huffed a breath. “You have a strange way of encouraging people.”
“I don’t encourage,” she said. “I tell the truth.”
But her hand squeezed my arm once before she let go.
“Go on,” she added. “They’ll be needing you.”
The market thinned as I moved away from Malka’s stall, the noise softening into something more scattered—voices drifting instead of pressing.
I had meant to go straight to Mira’s.
But...
A small crowd had gathered just beyond the outer road, not large enough to draw attention, but fixed enough to hold it. Men stood with arms crossed, women with baskets resting at their feet, a few children weaving through the edges.
At the center stood Matthew—looking older than the last time I’d seen him—weathered.
I slowed as I approached, not stepping fully into the crowd, but near enough to hear.
He was already speaking, his voice even and unhurried.
“The kingdom of heaven,” he said, “is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard.”
The word caught me.
Vineyard.
Of all the things he could have said.
I found myself lingering where I stood, listening more closely now.
“He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard. About the third hour, he went out and saw others standing in the marketplace doing nothing. He told them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went.”
“Then he went out again about the sixth hour and the ninth hour and did the same thing. And about the eleventh hour, he went out and found still others standing there. He asked them, ‘Why have you been standing here all day long doing nothing?’”
Matthew’s tone softened slightly as he continued.
“‘Because no one has hired us,’ they answered. And he said to them, ‘You also go and work in my vineyard.’”
The space around us grew quieter—not because the crowd had stilled entirely, but because something in the telling drew attention inward instead of outward.
“When evening came,” Matthew went on, “the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman, ‘Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first.’ The workers who were hired about the eleventh hour came and each received a denarius.”
A few exchanged glances at that.
“So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more. But each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. ‘These who were hired last worked only one hour,’ they said, ‘and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day.’”
My brow furrowed slightly.
It didn’t seem right—at least not on the surface. But I had learned enough by now, listening to James recount Jesus’ words, to know that what seemed simple rarely was. There was always something beneath it. Something that asked more than a first answer.
Matthew continued.
“But he answered one of them, ‘I am not being unfair to you. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don’t I have the right to do what I want with what is mine? Or are you envious because I am generous?’”
There was a pause that followed, the kind that did not demand immediate understanding, only consideration.
“So the last will be first,” Matthew said, “and the first will be last.”
He let the words rest a moment before adding, “That is enough for today. Go in peace.”
The crowd began to disperse slowly, people stepping away in small groups or alone, some speaking quietly to one another, others carrying the story with them in silence.
I did not leave.
Matthew turned as the last of them moved off, and his eyes found me without effort.
“Talia,” he said, something like surprise in his expression. “I didn’t realize you were here.”
“I wasn’t,” I said. “Not really. I caught the end… about the vineyard.” I paused, then added, “Did Jesus tell you that one?”
Matthew’s expression softened. “He did.”
I nodded once, then hesitated.
“I don’t think I understand it. Not fully.”
He studied me for a moment. “Which part?” he asked.
I let out a small breath. “The ones who came last… they didn’t earn the same. Not in the way we would count it.”
“No,” he said.
“And yet they were given it anyway.”
“Yes.”
I shook my head slightly. “That doesn’t seem right.”
A faint smile touched his face. “It didn’t to us either. The first time we heard it.”
I looked down at my hands, tracing the edge of my thumb against my palm.
“I came late,” I said quietly, more honestly than I had expected to. “I fought Him. Questioned Him. He stood in front of me—and I did not see Him.” I swallowed. “Not at first. Not when it mattered.”
“And others didn’t,” he said gently. “Not at first.”
I let out a breath that felt thinner than I intended. “But some did. Some followed immediately. Some believed without all the… resistance.”
I shook my head once.
“I wasted time.”
Matthew’s gaze held.
“And yet—you are here,” he said.
Something in that steadiness made it difficult to look away.
I glanced toward the road, then back again. “I am. But it still feels…” I hesitated, searching for something that didn’t feel overly dramatic. “Like I missed something along the way.”
Matthew nodded slightly. “That is what the workers thought too,” he said. “The ones who had been there from the beginning. They believed time made them more deserving.”
I looked back at him.
“But the master was not measuring time,” he continued. “He was honoring the fact that they came when they were called.”
I let that sit for a moment.
“He wasn’t saying the early work didn’t matter,” Matthew added. “He was saying it was never about earning more. It was about belonging to the work at all. Sometimes the work is more important than earnings ever could be.”
I exhaled slowly, my thoughts turning over more carefully now.
“I think…” I began, then stopped. “I think James tried to tell me this.”
Matthew’s mouth curved slightly.
“And?”
“I wasn’t ready to hear it,” I said. “It takes me time, I suppose. With more than one thing, it seems.” A faint, almost embarrassed smile touched my mouth.
“It took me time to see the Messiah. Time to understand what was in front of me. Time to realize James was more than a thundercloud…” I hesitated, then went on.
“To let go of things I thought mattered.”
Matthew’s expression softened, something familiar in it now.
“Some things have taken me a long time too,” he said.
Before I could answer, his wife Hannah approached from the side, her presence warm and unhurried.
“Shalom, my brilliant husband,” she said lightly.
Matthew smiled as he turned toward her. “Shalom.”
She glanced at me with an easy warmth. “Talia.”
“Hannah,” I returned.
She looked between us. “What were you teaching today?”
“The parable of the vineyard workers,” Matthew said.
Her face lit. “Oh, I love that one.”
Something eased in me slightly. “Me too,” I said. “It might be my new favorite.”
She smiled knowingly at that.
“Which one is your favorite?” I asked Matthew.
He gave a small shake of his head. “I could never choose. Every word He spoke was important. That’s why I tried to write it all down.”
I let out a soft breath, something like a quiet laugh. “You are a gift, Matthew.”
Hannah smiled. “Yes, he is! And very meticulous too.”
Matthew gave her a look that was both patient and resigned. “That is not a fault.”
“No,” she said warmly. “It is a blessing.”
I found myself smiling without trying.
“Thank you,” I said, meaning more than the moment itself.
Matthew nodded once, his expression thoughtful but unhurried.
“I did not tell you anything new,” he said. “Only what was already true.”
The words settled slowly, like something working through soil packed too tightly for too long.
I had heard things like this before—from James, from the others. I had listened, but I had never let them stay.
My gaze drifted past him, toward the road leading back to the vineyard—and beyond it. Then toward Mira and the others.
The work had gone on without me. It always had. I had contributed financially, but never truly believed I belonged in it.
Not because I didn’t believe.
But because I thought I had missed my place in it.
My eyes dropped briefly to my hands, then lifted again.
“I should go,” I said, though it wasn’t really to him.
Matthew inclined his head, quiet understanding passing between us.
“Shalom, Talia,” he said.
“Shalom.”