There’s a strange little proverb in our reading from Ezekiel: ‘The parents have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’
When our youngest granddaughter was small, she liked really sour sweets. One was called ‘Toxic Waste’, if I remember correctly. And she still enjoys gherkins and pickles, lemons and limes.
The proverb is such a vivid image. Someone else eats the grapes, but it’s your teeth that hurt. Someone else makes the choices, but you live with the consequences. Someone else tells the story, but you inherit the bitterness.
Perhaps we know something of that. We inherit family patterns, old wounds, unspoken rules and disappointments. Sometimes we carry the consequences of things we did not choose. Sometimes we begin to believe that the past has already decided our future. I came across a book on this entitled: ‘Every life begins inside a story that someone else started.’
Perhaps we think this is simply how things are. This is who I am. Nothing can really change.
Turn and live
That is the fatalism that Ezekiel challenges. God does not deny that the past matters. Our choices affect others. The wounds we cause can travel further than we imagine. But Ezekiel refuses to let the past become a prison.
God says: “Turn, then, and live.” It is an invitation to a different future. Not an instruction to forget what happened. Not a demand that people pretend their wounds do not matter. And certainly not a suggestion that those who have been harmed are responsible for the harm done to them.
But it is a declaration that the past doesn’t have to write the whole story. And there is a striking connection here with Yom Kippur – the Jewish Day of Atonement – which was last Sunday through to Monday.
In Jewish tradition, this is a sacred time of repentance, prayer, making amends and seeking forgiveness. The image of the Book of Life being sealed at the close of Yom Kippur gives that time a particular seriousness. Our lives matter. Our choices matter. And the way we live is not a trivial thing.
Not yet finished
Yet repentance also holds the possibility of turning. We can face what we have done. We can acknowledge the harm we have caused. We can seek to make amends and live differently. And where we have been harmed, we can seek a future not entirely defined by what was done to us.
Repentance is not pretending that nothing happened. Forgiveness cannot be demanded, and reconciliation cannot be hurried. But the possibility of change matters.
What if our story is not yet finished? What if the bitterness we have inherited does not have to become the bitterness we pass on? That is the question Ezekiel places before us. And it is a question that Jesus takes up in the Gospel.
What matters more?
Jesus tells a story about two sons. Their father asks them both to go and work in the vineyard. The first says ‘no’ but later changes his mind and goes. The second says ‘yes’ – but never goes.
It’s a simple story, but it asks a searching question: what matters more – the answers we give, or the life that we actually live?
Let’s look at the second son first. He says the right thing. He gives his father the answer he wants to hear. But nothing changes. And Jesus is speaking to people who know how to say ‘yes’ to God – people who know the language of faith, who understand what goodness is supposed to look like.
Yet when John the Baptist called people to repentance, it was the tax collectors and prostitutes who believed him, while the religious leaders failed to respond. That is a challenging reversal.
Because it’s possible to speak the language of faith without allowing faith to change us. It’s possible to say that we value love, welcome and justice, and still fail to practise them.
And that matters for us as a church today because a community can say that it’s welcoming, but still leave people feeling unheard. It can say that it’s safe but fail to listen when someone raises a concern. It can speak of repentance and forgiveness, while avoiding the truth about harm that has been done.
The question is not simply whether we have said ‘yes’. It’s whether our lives, and our life together, are beginning to show what that ‘yes’ means.
Change is possible
But as for the first son, his story does not end with his refusal. Something changes for him, and he turns around. And that matters, because we can become so fixed in our view of ourselves that we stop believing change is possible.
Maybe we say to ourselves: I’ve always been like this. I’ve made too many mistakes. I’ve let people down. I’ve lost my way…
But Jesus leaves room for another possibility. The first son is not defined entirely by his first answer. His story remains open – and so does ours.
That does not mean change is easy, nor does it mean that saying sorry automatically repairs the damage. Real repentance takes shape in what we do next – in truth-telling, accountability, making amends, and learning to live differently. But we are not required to remain the person we have been.
Taste again
Perhaps this is what it means to taste again. Not to discover that every memory has become sweet, but to become open, slowly, to the possibility that life may hold something other than the bitterness we may have known. A kindness we did not expect. A truth finally spoken. A new pattern where an old one seemed inevitable. A moment of joy that does not cancel the sorrow but sits beside it.
Sometimes the first taste of hope is very small. And sometimes we find ourselves returning to old bitterness. We say no again. We fall back into familiar ways. We struggle to believe that anything can change.
And the blessing which follows does not promise that we will never return there. It asks that, when we do, Christ will meet us there – and give us grace to begin again.
So, perhaps today we might ask ourselves: Where have I begun to believe that nothing can change? What bitterness or sourness have I come to expect – or perhaps pass on? Where in my life might God be inviting me to turn towards new life?
Because the promise of these readings is not that the past can be undone. It is that the past need not be the only thing that can be written about us.
May we learn, in our own time, to taste again – the sweetness of grace, the freshness of hope, and the unexpected goodness of a future that has not yet been written.
For the God who has brought us this far is not finished with us yet.
For those learning to taste again
Blessed are you
whose teeth
have been set on edge
by what came before;
by words
you did not choose,
wounds
you did not cause,
or stories
you inherited
before you could
write your own.
Blessed are you
who have known
the bitterness
of disappointment,
and still dare
to hope
that life
might taste
different.
May God
loosen the grip
of the past,
and make room
for a different path.
May you discover
that what has been
does not have to become
what will be,
and that God’s grace
is still at work
within you.
May you learn
to taste again –
the sweetness
of grace,
the freshness
of hope,
the unexpected
goodness
of a future
that has not yet
been written.
And when you find
yourself
returning
to old bitterness,
may Christ
meet you there
and give you
grace
to begin again;
to say yes
with your life,
to walk
where love leads,
and to trust
that the God
who has brought you
thus far
is not finished
with you yet. Amen.
‘Learning to taste again’ was delivered by Ian Banks at Christ Church Walmersley on 27 Sep 2026, Trinity 17. It was based on Ezekiel 18:1-4, 25-end and Matthew 21:23-32.