USA: But the Sparrow Still Falls

On crossing the finish line much earlier than expected, the infuriating ridiculousness of grace, birdwatching, THE PROBLEM, and acknowledging the Tuesdays of great loss

The Gulf coast of Florida in April is lovely, but I truly wish I weren’t here to experience it firsthand. I didn’t come for the warm sunshine on my bare shoulders and the white sand sticking to my salty feet. Although I clearly love to travel and I’m a sucker for floating in turquoise swells under a cerulean sky, I hadn’t anticipated this visit. Not here. Not now.

I’m only here in Florida right now because my cousin’s 28-year-old son crossed the finish line much faster than expected.

Me, standing in the Gulf of Mexico on Friday

One minute he was at a hockey game in Chicago with two of his best friends. They had flown up from his hometown in Florida to hang out for a weekend of fun and brotherhood, just like old times.

The next minute, driving home from the game and hungry for some deep-dish pizza, the three guys hit a bad pothole and punctured a tire. They pulled onto the shoulder and proceeded to change the flat, now even hungrier for that pizza.

Then the next minute after that, a drunk driver veered across several lanes of traffic and struck their parked vehicle at 80 miles per hour. The crumpled wreckage of the car was unrecognizable.

And the next minute, my cousin’s son was dead.¹

He finished the race² early—much faster than we had expected. Most people don’t expect to bury their children, their grandchildren, their nieces and nephews. That’s just not the way it’s supposed to work, right? But here we are.

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The Five O’Clock People

In 1999, a low-budget local band called the Five O’Clock People caught my attention. Their folksy sound was fresh and clean with unique instrumentation, honest and poetic lyrics, lovely harmonies, and intriguing rhythms. They sang of frail humanity doing their best, with themes of love and loss—and occasionally worship. Here is one of my favorites of theirs:

But what really caught my attention about the band was their name. In the same tradition as Nobody Special³, Jars of Clay⁴, and PlankEye⁵; Five O’Clock People had taken a scriptural reference and given it a clever, modern edge. I do love a good play on words.

It took me a minute, but I figured out where they came up with their name. It’s a humble, self-effacing moniker, based on a story Jesus told that was recorded by Matthew, one of the original twelve disciples.

Before Jesus said ‘follow me,’ and he said yes, Matthew had been a tax collector in the service of the occupying Roman government—a profession known for its self-serving corruption. Matthew would have been seen by his community as a turncoat, a traitor, the worst of the worst. Following Jesus was risky, both socially and financially. He would have to leave behind a life of wealth and might face further well-deserved rejection from the others. But Matthew leaned into the hope of redemption. Ultimately, he was a man transformed by grace.

The story of the five o’clock people was recorded by Matthew in his account of Jesus’ life.⁶ It basically goes like this:

A man who owned a vineyard went into the city very early one morning to hire some day laborers to pick grapes. He sought out the go-getters, the early birds willing to get up at o’dark-thirty to be first in line for any available jobs. Dawn to dusk was a long workday and the midday sun would be hot, but they were promised a standard day’s wages, and they needed the work.

It was a big job. When the vineyard owner passed through the marketplace a few hours later, nine o’clock-ish, he noticed some more laborers had shown up. They had perhaps rolled out of bed at a more reasonable time, had a good breakfast, and perhaps even scrolled online a bit.⁷ The boss man offered them jobs, too, with a promise to pay a fair wage, and they happily accepted.

At noon, he hired a few more. These guys had perhaps been out a little late and were still bleary-eyed, but they (and likely their frustrated wives) were grateful to get even a half day’s work.

At three o’clock in the afternoon, a few more people were hanging out on the corner where the laborers wait. Is it possible they were so lazy that they showed up that late, hoping to find work? Or had they perhaps been hired by someone else, and it didn’t work out, or maybe their job had finished early? The text doesn’t say, but three is awfully late to start a day shift. At least they could earn a little bit, though, so they headed to the vineyard and got to work.

Then, wonder of wonders, the landowner made one final sweep through town at five o’clock, only one hour before quitting time. “Why aren’t you working today?” he asked a few stragglers he noticed wandering around town with their hands in their pockets.⁸ They shrugged and said nobody had hired them. Is it any wonder? Where were they at 6, 9, 12, or even 3? Is it possible they weren’t exactly able-bodied? Or maybe they were social outcasts others had overlooked? Regardless of the circumstances, he sent them to work. They knew better than to expect much, but hey, something’s better than nothing, right?

At the end of the workday, the big boss told the foreman to call the laborers in and hand out their wages, starting with the ones who had arrived last. But instead of pro-rating the daily rate to match the number of hours worked, he instructed that everyone be paid exactly the same, the typical wage for a full day of work.

Can you see the foreman’s startled expression?

Can you see the jaws dropping open when the five o’clock people collected their wages, after barely an hour of picking grapes?

Can you see the furrowed brows of the early risers, when they realized they were being paid the same as those ne’er-do-wells? Sure enough, that final group, the first ones hired, marched straight past the foreman to the big boss and demanded an explanation. It wasn’t fair!

Can you see the owner’s bemused smile when he addressed these low-class laborers as “friends” and explained that he hadn’t cheated them out of what they’d been promised at all? He just felt like paying the late hires extra. It’s his money, he explained, and if he feels like being ridiculously generous toward people who don’t really deserve it, that’s totally his prerogative.

And that’s the whole story. No explanation of why this is logical. Nothing to placate the ones who feel they deserve more. Nothing to justify why those who worked so few hours should be paid so much.

Matthew points out to us that Jesus prefaced this story with the introduction, “The Kingdom of Heaven is like this.”

Like this? Totally illogical? Totally unfair to people who were so responsible and who worked so hard?

No, not unfair at all, friend, just full of grace for those who don’t deserve it.

Why would unmerited kindness make any sense at all?

It doesn’t. That’s the point. And that kind of grace makes some people a little crazy—like the crack o’dawn, hard-working, I-deserve-this crowd in this story, as well as the responsible first-born son in this other story⁹. God can choose to lavish grace on the undeserving if He wants to. He’s God. He makes the rules. And the rules don’t have to make sense to us, or even be communicated up front. Can you see the bemused smile?

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Although he was a good son and brother and friend and soldier (USMC), my cousin’s son, dead at 28, hadn’t yet put in many hours. Others who worked for the “vineyard owner” started earlier and died much later in life—with a solid work ethic from early childhood all the way through to the golden years, knees knobby from prayer and a whole wing of the church facility named in their honor.

And I’ve known some over the years who put in even fewer hours than my cousin’s son, some only minutes. Doesn’t matter. If the vineyard owner wants to pay them all the same because it brings Him happiness to do so, He has every right to do so.

Apparently, He loves us and wants all of us to respond to that love. And to that, I say cool beans.

ATTN: Amateur Botanists and Ornithologists

We are valuable in God’s sight, it seems. The Bible is full of references to that fact. Another passage in Matthew’s account¹⁰ tells of a time Jesus encouraged people to study flowers and birds (both of which seem to be popular hobbies for people in my age group, for some reason).

Check out the fields, He suggested, and see how the wildflowers grow. Do the hillsides have to worry about what they are going to wear? Oh, hill no. God adorns them beautifully. In fact, even King Solomon, who could afford the freshest styles from premiere international designers, didn’t dress as well as a meadow or hillside in its prime growing season.

The hillsides rising from the floor of Montana’s Bitterroot Valley, come Spring, are strikingly adorned with generous carpets of prolific blue lupine and the sunflowery Arrowleaf balsamroot. Then summer comes and lays out a vast visual feast, with striking red Indian paintbrush, delicate columbine, fragile Prairie crocus, towering beargrass, and dainty bluebells in every direction. And don’t even get me started on the Glacier lilies.

The hillside behind the house that used to be ours, with Arrowleaf balsamroot in yellow and lupine in blue

Prairie crocus in the yard

Beargrass, as seen from the top looking down, on a local trail

Indian paintbrush also from the top looking down, spotted on the same local trail

The most fashionable Instagram influencer is effortlessly eclipsed by a simple wildflower. Am I right? Which photo are you going to set as your screen saver or your wallpaper image? And yet, Jesus says, we are so much more important that wildflowers.

Likewise, this same passage encourages us to do a little birdwatching. Look for the birds who are starving. Oh? Can’t find any? That’s because God takes care of them. They don’t have opposable thumbs or iPhones or Costco warehouse memberships. And yet, God provides their needs. Matthew quotes Jesus as saying humans are far more important than birds, so we don’t have any reason to worry.

Proceed with caution: This next passage is for the birds

In another Biblical bird bit, though, Jesus says something a little worrisome—tucked discreetly between more morsels of encouragement. Check out what Matthew—the social reject transformed by God’s unmerited grace—heard Jesus say:

What is the price of two sparrows—one copper coin? But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows. Matthew 10:29-31 (NLT)

It sounds good at first reading, right? More of the “but you are even more important” stuff. But look again.

But not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it.

The sparrow still falls. God the compassionate and gracious Father knows about it, but doesn’t prevent it from happening.

Shoot. I wish it didn’t say that. For me, I will admit, this is a problem.

My cousin’s son died in the prime of his life, a strong and healthy, sharp-witted and servant-hearted U.S. Marine who had been deployed four times and had a commendable service record. He was the oldest of six siblings in a close-knit Christian family, in love and about to be married, scheduled to graduate with a master’s degree next month. Without exception, everyone I have met here in Florida loved him. Even though he had a separate (and well-attended) funeral last weekend in Chicago, a large contingency of Chicagoans came down for the Florida funeral, too, and stayed for the burial three days later. Everyone loved him. His father (my cousin) reported that no fewer than twenty different people came to him between the three services and introduced themselves as his son’s best friend. He was just like that, a great guy, clearly more important than a sparrow.

But the sparrow still falls.

If God can’t prevent tragedy from happening, then the presumption could be that He’s not so divine and all-powerful after all. On the other hand, if God does indeed have the power to stop a tragedy like this but doesn’t, then some would conclude that God is not good.

When I was in high school, I read Archibald MacLeish’s 1959 classic, entitled JB. It’s a modern-day poetic retelling of the Biblical account of Job, but with a decidedly dark and bitter conclusion. The recurring chorus goes like this:

I heard upon his dry dung-heap
That man cry out who cannot sleep:
"If God is God, He is not good,
If God is good, He is not God;
Take the even, take the odd,
I would not sleep here if I could
Except for the little green leaves in the wood
And the wind on the water."

I remember reading this as a teen and struggling with the despair, the hopelessness, the matter-of-fact indifference it implies. MacLeish concludes that God is either not good or not powerful—simple as that. The book JB ends with no acknowledgement of the validity of mystery, no possibility that there might be more to it than we, in our humanity, have the capability to understand. MacLeish exalts human comprehension to the apex of all conceivable truth.

But that’s not what the Biblical book of Job concludes. If the ancient story of Job teaches us anything, it’s this:

We don’t understand everything. The human experience doesn’t always match up with the extent of the theology we think we know. God’s ways are higher than our ways. We’re not entitled to neat and tidy answers to our hard questions. There is more than we know.

• Did our family deserve to lose one so young, so full of promise, so beloved? Did the family’s actions somehow lead to this tragic loss?

• Did we even deserve to have him in the first place? Had we somehow earned such a wonderful person by our own merit?

• Did the five o’clock vineyard worker deserve a full day’s pay?

• Did the crack of dawn worker deserve more than a day’s pay?

• Does the vineyard owner have the right to make his own decisions about how he runs his operations and finances?

• Are we entitled to answers and explanations when life doesn’t make sense?

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My cousin’s son was a soldier. He’d been stationed directly in harm’s way multiple times. Because of this, my cousin had already, wisely, begun to process the grief of potentially losing him. He’d already made sure he was keeping short accounts—not holding grudges or hidden resentments, staying current on showing and expressing love. He knew time might be short and he wanted to be ready—not forever plagued with the regret of unfinished business, unsaid words.

But it wasn’t until his son had left the danger of the Marine Corps that he died doing something that seemed safe—changing a tire while driving from a hockey game to a pizza place with his buddies. Fortunately, the habit of staying ready, of holding loosely, was already in place and had not changed.

Is it tragic?

Absolutely.

Is it a terrible loss for so many?

Yes, it truly is.

Will the grieving process be excruciating and unpredictable?

Most likely. Even if we don’t grieve like those without hope, we still grieve. The sparrow still falls.

But there is more to the story than we can know. And we have a father who cares about us and delights in giving us more than we deserve. Unmerited grace. It’s ridiculous, but I’m a big fan. The wins exceed the losses by far.

Today, though, I rode in a long procession of cars, all with flashers blinking, headed for Florida National Cemetery. Once there, I walked through a lengthy gauntlet of active-duty service members and veterans, all saluting in frozen silence. I sat on a bench, surrounded by family and friends who loved my cousin’s son. I listened first to the formal words of comfort offered by a Navy chaplain in a crisp white uniform, then to the sharp reports of rifles—three volleys. Finally, I listened to the mournful playing of Taps. I wept with those who weep.

Day is done

Gone the sun

From the lakes

From the hills

From the sky

All is well

Safely rest

God is nigh

Congratulations on finishing your race, Nik. I’ll see you later.

Friday was a family luncheon, followed by a big church funeral. Saturday and Sunday were family gatherings. Monday was the long drive to the graveside service a couple hours away, followed by another luncheon and another long drive home.

But Tuesday is a big day, too.

On Tuesday, the supportive loved ones head home. Tuesday the reality of the loss stands naked in the foreground for my cousin’s family. Tuesday the leftovers from the luncheons run low and the flowers start to droop. Tuesday reveals the chaos the family has been living in for a week—the boxes and bags of photos and decor from the services, the piles of cards and gifts, the stacks and mounds of things they don’t even remember stashing in the corners and on every available surface. On Tuesday, the utter exhaustion can finally be acknowledged. Tuesday they face the task of restarting their lives, but without their firstborn, without the oldest brother, without the best friend.

May we remember the Tuesdays for those who have suffered unimaginable loss. We don’t grieve like those who have no hope, but the sparrow still falls.

Until next week,

Sherry

1. The other two young men, the ones visiting from out of town, suffered minor injuries. The driver also suffered minor injuries and has been charged with several DUI-related crimes, awaiting trial. Here is a link to a local Chicago news story covering the tragic event.

2. On finishing the race: 2 Timothy 4:6-7 (NLT)

3. I’m nobody special: Philippians 2:3-4 (NLT)

4. Fragile jars of clay: 2 Corinthians 4:7 (NLT)

5. You’ve got a little something in your eye: Matthew 7:4-5 (NLT)

6. The one about the day laborers standing on the corner, looking for work: Matthew 20:1-16 (NLT)

7. Ok, ok, you’re right. The text doesn’t say what the nine o’clock people did earlier that morning, and it probably wasn’t internet-related, since this story took place even further back than dial-up.

8. I have no idea if they had pockets back then, but I do like to think that someone, somewhere, somewhen in ancient times realized how handy it was to have pockets, so I’m not ruling it out. My late grandfather, who frequently needed day laborers for his masonry business, always refused to hire people who walked toward him with their hands in their pockets. He said, in his experience, ‘hands in pockets’ was a good indicator that the person wasn’t actually ready and willing to work.

9. Typical first-born stuff: Luke 15:11-32 (NLT)

10. Consider the birds (and the lilies): Matthew 6:26-30 (NLT)