As the oldest of four kids, I did a lot of babysitting growing up. Responsible for three other human lives.

As a father of three children, I’ve had occasion to reflect on this bestowal of power. To be honest, I’m not sure what my parents were thinking.

I suppose I was, more or less, as responsible as most other teenagers, but still. I know me. I know how absent-minded I can be. As a parent, I’m not sure I’d cut myself the same slack.

And, frankly, I don’t remember my parents paying me for doing it either. So, you know, there’s that.

Looking back on it—and I’m ashamed to admit it—I think I enjoyed the power too much. I liked getting to tell other people what to do. I expect that if my brothers and sister were here, they’d probably be “amening” about now.

“Go to bed.”

“Make sure you load the dishwasher.”

“No ice cream ... Because I said so; that’s why.”

Power’s a seductive thing. Who gets to be the boss? Who gets to call the shots? It’s a big deal.

It happens all the time. It happens at work. It happens between lovers. It happens between Republicans and Democrats. It even happens in the church.

Who has the upper hand? For whom or what do we drop everything and just go? Who has a claim on us? It happens.

In our Gospel for this morning, Jesus runs headlong into this whole power thing. If you remember, Jesus, after coming into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey to the shouts of “Hosanna!” runs afoul of the local religious authorities by going to the temple and turning over the money tables, calling the religious leaders frauds, and saying that they’d turned his father’s house into a den of robbers. Remember that?

That’s a big one. Jesus turning over the money tables.

After he’d wreaked havoc on the temple economy, however, he did something even more impressive. Verse 14 in chapter 21 says, “The blind and the lame came to him in the temple, and he cured them.”

That’s a big deal since the blind and the lame were viewed as blemished—which is to say, broken, not worthy to be in the presence of the Holy God. In making the healing of the blind and the lame the first act after denouncing the religious authorities, Matthew lets us know that Jesus’ big beef with the folks in charge centers on their practice of gatekeeping for God.

In effect, the religious leaders said, “We get to say who’s good enough to come into God’s house.”

After his foray into temple politics, Jesus gets pulled aside by the big high muckity—mucks of the temple, who want him to explain himself: Just who told him he could start pushing the local mob bosses around, inviting everyone in. Once again, they’re checking I.D.s, making sure of everybody’s credentials—trying to keep out the riff-raff.

Jesus goes on to tell a series of parables, all of which have as their point that the people who’ve been left to guard the henhouse have suspiciously pointy teeth. The caretakers God gave responsibility to for administering God’s justice—in Jesus’ estimation—have fallen woefully short. They’ve worked hard to keep the “wrong” sorts of people out, all to maintain their hold on things.

After Jesus tells these parables, you can see the steam rising out from under the collars of the religious elites. Oh, how they’d love to get their hands on that Jesus, coming in here like he owns the joint, messing up their perfectly smooth, perfectly profitable religious arrangement. Jesus is really chapping some backsides.

So, in our Gospel lesson for this morning, the religious poohbahs come up with a trap.