I look at the day through the eyes of the least among us—those sitting in the square with their tools of the trade laid aside, useless, who feel they have failed in their mission to provide for their families: those who feel unable to care for their children are suffering, suffering greatly. The call that comes unexpectedly, illogically—one that might be enough to provide just a single bite—is accepted immediately, without making excuses or asking for details; you go and do it.
The owner who goes out at dawn in search of laborers, back and forth from the field to the square, five times until it’s light out. Is the master merely a comforting image of our spiritual life, or can he say something about justice and solidarity? And so, the last workers—whom no one sees, whom no one calls. We are God’s vineyard: toil and passion, the most beloved field.
The master’s words are revealing: “Why are you standing here all day doing nothing?” Those inert men create a void, cause a lack of meaning; the day around them grows sick.
Maturity is realized through three main aspects: the ability to love, to work, and to find joy. Though few consider the least among us, he does so for their sake and their children, as olive shoots around a table without bread.
I am the last laborer, and I know you will seek me out again, even as the light fades.