Is your gaze evil because I am good? (Mt 20:1-16)

Gospel of Jesus Christ according to Saint Matthew

Matthew 20:1–16

¹«For the kingdom of heaven is like a family owner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. ²Having agreed with the workers on a denarius a day, he sent them to his vineyard. ³He went out around the third hour and saw others standing in the square doing nothing. ⁴He said to them, “Go also to my vineyard, and I will give you what is right.” ⁵And they went there. He went out again around the sixth and ninth hour, and did the same thing. ⁶Finally, going out around the eleventh hour, he found others standing idle, and he said to them, "Why do you stand here all day doing nothing?"" ⁷They answered him, "Because no one has hired us." He said to them, "You also go into my vineyard.". ⁸When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman: Call the workers and pay their wages, starting with the last and going on to the first. ⁹Those who came at the eleventh hour received a denarius each. ¹⁰Those who came first thought they would receive more, but they each received a denarius. ¹¹Upon receiving him, they murmured against the father of the family., ¹²saying: These last ones have worked only one hour, and you are giving them as much as we have, who have borne the burden of the day and the heat. ¹³But the Master, addressing one of them, replied: My friend, I am not doing you an injustice: did you not agree with me for a denarius? ¹⁴Take what belongs to you, and go. As for me, I want to give him as much as I give you. ¹⁵Am I not allowed to do with my own property as I please? And will your eye be evil because I am good? ¹⁶Thus the last will be first, and the first, last, for many are called, but few are chosen.»

Imagine a boss who hires people all day long—at dawn, at noon, at five in the evening—and who, when evening comes, pays everyone the same. No pay scale, no pro-rata. The same wage for one hour of work as for twelve. The first ones hired, furious, do the math: they sweated under the sun, the others barely lifted a stone. But the boss doesn't argue about accounting fairness. He turns the question around: "Are you jealous because I'm generous?" It's not about the wages. It's about how you look at things.

«"Is your gaze evil because I am good?" — the parable that dislodges our calculations

This text is disturbing because it touches on the precise point where we want God to be just as we are — and he is not.

This message is for anyone who has ever compared their own suffering to that of another and felt a silent bitterness as a result. It speaks to the lifelong believer who looks askance at the recent convert. It speaks to the parent, the spouse, the colleague who counts the efforts. What this page offers: the possibility of finally disarming this reflex of comparison that poisons even our joys.

We will begin by placing this parable in its immediate context before delving into its heart: the paradox of a justice that is not a matter of arithmetic. We will then explore three dimensions of existence where this text resonates powerfully—work, comparison, and undeserved grace—and then consider what the Church Fathers, the liturgy, and some modern voices have taken from it. A lectio divina, some practical suggestions, and a prayer will conclude this reflection.

Where does this story come from and why does Jesus tell it?

This parable doesn't appear out of thin air without preamble. Matthew places it right after a pivotal episode: the rich young man has just left, saddened, unable to sell his possessions to follow Jesus, while Peter exclaims, with a touch of legitimate pride: «We have left everything to follow you; what then will there be for us?» (Mt 19:27). Jesus promises thrones, eternal life a hundredfold—then adds this sentence that closes chapter 19 and opens our parable: «Many who are first will be last, and the last first.» The parable of the workers in the vineyard is therefore an answer. An answer to Peter's question, and through him, to the question that everyone asks themselves one day: what will I gain from this?

The setting is simple and familiar to all of Jesus' listeners. In Palestine, the vineyard is the very image of Israel—the prophets sang of it (Isaiah 5:1-7), Hosea wept over it. Around September, at harvest time, time is of the essence: the grapes must be picked before the rains, and the landowners hire day laborers in the public square at dawn. These men are neither slaves nor permanent employees: they are poor, landless people who sell their labor day by day. To be unemployed is to have nothing to eat in the evening.

The master goes out five times: at six in the morning, at nine, at noon, at three, at five—almost at the end of the workday, which finishes at six. With the first group, he negotiates a specific wage: a denarius, the average daily wage. With the next group, there's no mention of a specific amount: "I'll give you what's right." To the last group, hired an hour before the end, he doesn't even promise a wage—just: "Go to my vineyard." This progression isn't a literary detail. It prepares for the final shock: when it comes time to pay, the steward starts with the last group. And gives them a whole denarius. The first group, seeing this, expects more. They receive the same amount. Their complaint isn't bad faith: humanly speaking, it's undeniable. And that's precisely where the parable will strike.

The paradox of a kindness that is not accountable

This text rests on a single, dizzying tension: the master has wronged no one, and yet everyone feels a sense of injustice. Let us reread his response to the first worker who protests: «Friend, I am not being unfair to you. Didn’t you agree to pay me a denarius?» He is absolutely right. The contract has been honored to the letter. No promise has been broken. And yet, something within us cries out against the injustice—it is precisely this something that the parable seeks to expose.

What we call justice is, most of the time, actually proportionality: the more you give, the more you receive. It's a logic of merit, and it's healthy in many areas—wage labor, for example, needs it to avoid becoming exploitation. But Jesus isn't talking about workers' wages here. He's talking about the kingdom of God. And in the kingdom, this logic collapses, because God doesn't reward merit: he gives a gift. The denarius isn't a wage in the economic sense—it's a sign of eternal life, offered equally to those who have served God all their lives and to those who have converted on their deathbed.

Herein lies the crux of the matter: the master's question, "Is your gaze evil because I am good?", employs a very concrete Greek expression—ophthalmos ponêros, literally "evil eye"—which, in the Semitic world, designated the envious person, the one whose gaze brings misfortune to what they see prospering in others. It is not simply ill humor: it is a gaze that darkens in the face of another's happiness, that transforms the generosity received by another into a personal affront. The first worker has lost nothing. He has merely seen someone else receive what he believed he deserved more—and this sight has spoiled his own penny.

This is where the central lesson lies: God's goodness is never an injustice toward us, but it can become a wound in our hearts—if our joy depends on comparison rather than on the gift received. The master of the vineyard in no way diminishes what he gives to the first. He adds to it, without taking away. And it is this addition offered to others that, paradoxically, impoverishes inwardly those who look askance at it.

Work, fatigue, and what we believe we have earned

The first workers have an argument that no one can take away from them: they have "endured the burden of the day and the heat." It is no small feat, under the Palestinian sun, to work twelve hours in a sloping vineyard. Their fatigue is real, and so is their merit. And it is precisely because their complaint is legitimate that the parable strikes us where it hurts: we all know this kind of weariness, in the literal or spiritual sense.

Let us consider the faithful Christian of forty years, attending Mass every Sunday, serving in the parish, never forgetting evening prayers—who learns that a man, in his hospital bed, converted overnight and received the same promise of paradise. Or, more simply, let us consider the eldest sibling who has always helped, always been sensible, and who watches the younger, carefree child receive the same parental love without ever having tidied their room. This feeling is not malice. It is the logic of merit, ingrained in us since childhood: effort is rewarded, not luck.

But the parable doesn't say that effort doesn't count. It says something else, something more subtle: it says that God's reward isn't proportional to effort because it isn't a reward, but a communion. One cannot earn more of God's love—one can only receive that love at some point in life, sooner or later, with varying degrees of faithfulness over time. The question, therefore, isn't: Have I worked hard enough to deserve heaven? The question becomes: Do I receive this gift as a gift, or as something owed?

There is a profound liberation here for those who identify with the first workers. The weight of the day and the heat was not in vain—it was lived, experienced in the presence of the master, in his vineyard, all day long. Those who worked only an hour did not have this extended presence. Their wages are the same, but their day was not the same. What the first workers had, that the last did not, is the time of the vineyard itself—the master's presence, hour after hour. This is no small thing. It is even, if we look at it this way, a privilege that comparison prevents us from fully appreciating.

Comparison, the slow poison of inner life

The entire narrative revolves around a shift in perspective: that of the first worker who, seeing what the last receives, ceases to see what he himself has received. This is the very mechanism of envy, and it deserves our attention because it hasn't aged a day in two thousand years.

Envy never arises from an objective lack. It arises from comparison. The worker who started early, before seeing the last ones paid, held a penny in his hand—exactly what had been agreed upon, exactly what he expected. He was satisfied. Then he glanced aside. And that glance was enough to transform his satisfaction into resentment, without a single penny changing in his own pocket. This is the tragedy of any life lived in comparison: we no longer measure what we have, we measure the gap with what the other has received.

This dynamic permeates all human existence—professional life, where we discover a colleague's salary and suddenly our own, yesterday satisfactory, becomes an insult. Family life, where we count the attentions given to one another. Even church life, where we can envy the fervor or charisms of a brother, forgetting our own gifts. The philosopher and theologian René Girard extensively explored this dynamic of mimetic desire—desire that does not arise from the object itself but from the desire of the other for that object—and this parable offers an almost perfect illustration of it before its time: the first worker does not desire more money; he desires not to see the other have as much.

The remedy Jesus implicitly offers is not moral, in the sense of requiring an effort of will. It is a shift in perspective. The master doesn't tell the worker, "You're wrong to be sad"—he asks him a question that compels him to turn back to the source: look at me, not your neighbor. "Didn't you agree with me?" The contract was between the worker and the master, never between the worker and the other workers. From the moment a third party is introduced into the relationship with God, the joy of giving becomes a calculation of shares. In this respect, the spiritual life is protected by keeping its eyes fixed on the one who gives, not on what others receive.

The undeserved grace and the dizzying feeling of a God who gives without counting

We must call things by their proper names: what the vineyard owner grants to the last workers is neither a wage based on merit nor a pious handout. It is an excess. He gives them as if they had worked all day, when in fact they have done nothing of the sort—and the Greek text, in referring to the agora where they stood «doing nothing,» argous, emphasizes their forced inactivity, not culpable laziness: they simply hadn't found anyone to hire them. Their situation is not glorious; it is precarious. And it is to this precariousness that the owner responds with disproportionate generosity.

This is what theology calls grace: a gift that precedes and surpasses all merit. Saint Paul expresses it in almost identical terms in the Epistle to the Ephesians: for it is by grace we have been saved, through faith—and this is not from ourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works (cf. Eph 2:8-9). Matthew's parable anticipates this theology without ever using the word grace: it reveals it, it dramatizes it, it makes us feel it in the shock of the last hour, paid for as much as the first.

This dizzying thought is difficult to accept because it reverses our deepest religious instinct: the idea that we earn our salvation through our efforts, our piety, our perseverance. But if salvation were earned, it would no longer be a gift—it would be a wage, and God would become just another employer, perhaps more generous, but subject to the same accounting logic as we are. The good news of this parable is precisely that God escapes this logic. He is not more just than we are in the sense that he calculates better; he is something other than just, in the accounting sense—he is good, and his goodness always transcends calculation.

This doesn't invalidate a lifetime of faithfulness. It transforms it. The first worker discovers, if he's willing to change his perspective, that his long day in the vineyard wasn't a means of buying the denarius, but was already, in itself, a gift—the gift of having been in the vineyard, at the master's side, from morning till night. What the parable reveals, implicitly, is that the true treasure was never the denarius. It was the vineyard itself, and the master's presence.

What this text changes in concrete terms in our lives

In the intimacy of the heart, this parable invites a simple yet daunting examination: on what does my joy depend right now? If it depends on what I possess or what I am in comparison to others, it will remain fragile—always threatened by my neighbor's handout. If it depends on the gift received in itself, independently of what others receive, it becomes stable, almost inviolable.

In our relationships, the text sheds light on our everyday jealousies—between siblings, between colleagues, between friends when one "succeeds" more quickly. It invites us to rejoice sincerely in the good received by others, not out of forced virtue, but because we understand that the good of others does not diminish our own. It is a conversion of perspective far more than an effort of will: seeing God's goodness in others as a reflection of the same love shown to us, and not as a threat.

On a social level, this parable obviously doesn't excuse the need for fair wages—the Church has always defended, since Rerum Novarum, the just wage of the worker, and nothing in this text suggests that an employer can pay arbitrarily. The parable speaks of the kingdom of God, not an economics textbook. But it illuminates a principle that has real social significance: a person's dignity is not measured by their productivity. The last person to arrive, hired an hour before the end, has the same dignity as the first—and this also applies to those whom society judges unproductive, elderly, sick, or nearing the end of their lives.

Within the Church itself, this text serves as an antidote to any hierarchy of spiritual merit between long-standing, devout Christians and recent converts, between those who have always prayed and those who return after years of estrangement. The prodigal son and his elder brother are never far removed from this parable—the same anger, the same denarius received without any possible comparison.

The patristic, liturgical and martyrological echo of the text

Origen, in his Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew, interprets the five hours of the hiring of the workers as the five ages of salvation history—from creation to the coming of Christ—and sees in the laborers of the last hour the pagan nations called late to the faith, yet receiving the same reward as the patriarchs and prophets. This typically allegorical reading gives the text a universal scope: no one, ever, arrives too late in God's plan.

John Chrysostom, in his Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew (homily LXIV), insists on a point often neglected: it is not the master who is wrong to pay equally, it is the view of the first workers that is corrupted by the comparison — he comments on the master's final question as a direct invitation to examine where our sadness comes from when another is fulfilled, and he exhorts his listeners never to measure God's gift to others as a loss for oneself.

Augustine of Hippo, in his commentary on Psalm 103, takes up this parable to illustrate the equality of the eternal reward between all the saints, regardless of the length of their earthly life — a baptized child who dies and an old man who dies after a whole life of service receive the same eternal life, not through injustice, but because eternal life is not divisible into parts proportional to the time lived.

Thomas Aquinas, in the Summa Theologica (IIa-IIae, question 63), precisely distinguishes distributive justice, which presupposes a proportion between merit and reward, and the gratuitous liberality of God, which exceeds all proportion without harming anyone — a valuable philosophical clarification for understanding why the master of the parable can affirm without contradiction that he is not unjust while giving more than what seemed due.

Liturgically, this page is proclaimed on a Sunday in Ordinary Time in Cycle A, associated with Psalm 144, which sings precisely of the Lord's goodness to all — a choice that is not insignificant: the liturgy resolutely places this parable under the sign of universal mercy rather than under that of deserved retribution, immediately directing the assembly towards a reading of grace rather than calculation.

Finally, a contemporary voice: in his commentary on the parables, the biblical scholar Joachim Jeremias emphasizes that Jesus' original audience — Pharisees scandalized by his association with tax collectors and sinners — found in this parable a direct defense of welcoming marginalized people into the kingdom, the last hour representing precisely those whom the religious society of the time judged unworthy of a full reward.

Lectio divina

Meditation prompts to allow this text to work within oneself

To silently revisit a recent moment when one compared one's fate to that of another — and to honestly ask oneself what that comparison changed, if not inner peace.

Choose, this week, a person whose success or happiness has caused some discomfort, however slight — and pray concretely for them, naming their joy rather than measuring it against your own.

To reread one's own life of faith not as a tally of years of faithfulness, but as a long presence in the vineyard — to seek what this presence, in itself, has already given, independently of any final reward.

Faced with remorse linked to a late return — in faith, in a relationship, in a commitment — welcome the promise that the last hour is never disqualified in the eyes of God.

End each evening, for a week, with a simple sentence: today, did I view the kindness received from others as good news, or as a threat?

What this text says about our era of constant comparison

We live in a civilization that has made comparison a way of life. Social media constantly displays the wealth of others—their successes, their travels, their children, their bodies—and the temptation to cast a judgmental glance has never had such an effective tool to feed on. Every scroll is a renewed invitation to leave one's own vineyard to scrutinize that of the neighbor.

This parable, two thousand years old, thus resonates with an almost brutal relevance. It does not condemn legitimate ambition or the desire for progress—but it exposes a precise mechanism: one that makes our inner peace dependent not on what we receive, but on what others receive, more or less. A widespread meritocracy, including in the spiritual life where we sometimes time our own fervor against that of the person sitting next to us, needs to hear this question from the master: Is your gaze evil because I am good?

We must also understand, with nuance, what this text does not say: it does not advocate passivity nor does it minimize the real social injustice of unpaid wages, exploited workers, and the glaring inequalities that so many voices rightly denounce today. The parable speaks of a master who gives more than what is owed, never less. It does not excuse any earthly employer from underpaying anyone. But in the spiritual realm it addresses, it offers a rare antidote to the comparative anxiety of our time: the certainty that God's gaze upon each person is full, complete, never divided proportionally to others.

Prayer

Lord, you constantly come out to meet me, at every hour of my life, even those hours when I thought I had nothing left to offer. You do not consider the hour at which I began to follow you, but the desire that you yourself place in my heart to come to your vineyard.

Teach me to receive your offering without comparing it to my brother's. Too often, my gaze turns away from your open hand to measure what you give beside me — and this measurement poisons the gift I already hold.

Heal this evil gaze within me, this eye that darkens at the sight of another's joy. Grant me the simple joy of one who has been called, whatever the hour, whatever the path taken to reach you.

You who call incessantly — at dawn, at noon, at the last hour of the evening — never cease to come looking for me, even when I remain there, in the square, doing nothing, believing that no one is waiting for me.

Make me a witness to your goodness rather than an accountant of your generosity. May I know how to rejoice, without reservation, in the denarius received by the one who came after me.

And when the evening of my life comes, may I stand before you not with my hand outstretched to claim what is due to me, but with my heart open to receive, like all others, your immeasurable kindness.

Conclusion

There is one way to read this parable that remains external, almost theoretical—a theological lesson on grace. There is another, more challenging way, which requires recognizing oneself in the worker of the first hour, penny in hand, gaze turned toward the neighbor rather than toward the gift received. It is this second reading that the text calls for. Not to work less, nor less faithfully—but to unlearn measuring one's joy by the yardstick of others'. The vineyard remains open, at all hours, for whoever finally accepts to enter it without calculation.

Practices

Before comparing a happy event of a loved one to one's own situation, say inwardly thank you for them, without ulterior motive.

Note, one evening a week, a moment when comparison overshadowed a joy that could have remained whole.

Praying for someone whose success has caused embarrassment, specifically naming their joy.

To reread one's own faith story as a time spent in the vineyard, rather than as an accounting of merits.

To welcome a late return — one's own or that of a loved one — without reservation or hierarchy.

When faced with social media, ask yourself before comparing: am I looking at someone else's contribution, or at my own presence in the vineyard?

References

Antiquity and the Fathers (1st–5th centuries)

• Origen, Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew — allegorical reading of the five hours of hiring as the ages of salvation history, illuminating the universal and timeless call of nations to faith.
• John Chrysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of Matthew, Homily LXIV — analysis of the gaze corrupted by comparison among the first workers, directly linked to the master's final question about the evil eye.
• Augustine of Hippo, Commentary on Psalm 103 — illustration of the equality of eternal life among all the saints, regardless of the length of their earthly life, supported by the parable of the workers.

Late Fathers and the Middle Ages (5th–15th centuries)

• Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, IIa-IIae, question 63 — distinction between distributive justice and God's gratuitous liberality, key to understanding why the master is not unjust in giving more.

Contemporary (20th–21st centuries)

• Joachim Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus — historical contextualization of the parable as a defense of welcoming sinners and marginalized people in the face of Pharisaic indignation.

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