Turn, Then, and Live

Ezekiel chapter 18 speaks to us from the deep  anguish of exile, when our spiritual ancestors  wrestled with a painful truth: suffering was  inherited, and parents' sins cursed their children.  "The parents have eaten sour grapes, and the  children’s teeth are set on edge." This proverb, a  lament of resignation, whispered a theology of  despair. 

But Ezekiel shatters this fatalism. He proclaims a  radical vision of justice: each soul is accountable,  each life sacred and free.

"The soul that sins shall die," God declares, but not  as punishment passed down like a curse. Rather, as  a call to awaken, to choose life anew. 

Last week, at Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of  Atonement. Colin Campbell, a father who lost his  children Ruby and Hart to a reckless drunk driver,  shared his journey of restorative justice with Rabbi  Sharon Brous and their community. In 2019, the  family was driving through Joshua Tree when a  driver, speeding at 90 miles per hour, intoxicated,  driving without a headlight, and on a suspended  license, shattered their lives. Colin and his wife Gail  were unconscious; their children, Ruby and Hart,  ages 14 and 17, were killed in the backseat. He later wrote the book “Finding the Words: Working  Through Profound Loss with Hope and Purpose.” Colin’s story defies our expectations of justice. He  did not seek vengeance or destruction. Instead, he  sought truth, accountability, and healing. 

Restorative justice, he taught us, begins not with  punishment but with the question: Who was  harmed? What do they need? And how can the one  who caused harm repair the breach? 

This path is not easy. It demands courage from the  offender to face their truth, to listen deeply to the  pain they caused, and to commit to transformation.  Colin said, "I do not want the person who killed my  children to be destroyed. I want her to become  someone who would never do this again." With the help of Rebecca Weiker, co-founder of  Mend Collaborative, Colin met Nicole, the driver.  For years, he could not even say her name. But in  their meeting, he saw her humanity: a childhood  scarred by abuse, early addiction, and brokenness.  After 4 ½ hours of conversation, Colin showed  Nicole a photo of Ruby and Hart. They embraced.  She was looking into the picture with so much  hunger, and Colin asked her, “Do you want to keep  it?” and she said, “Yes.”

This is the essence of repentance. This is Ezekiel’s  promise of a new heart and a new spirit. This is  Jesus’ call to embody justice, not just speak it. The Shabbat between Rosh Hashanah and Yom  Kippur is called Shabbat Shuva, the Sabbath of  Return. Teshuva means “to return”. It is not a  retreat but a fierce turning toward life, toward  repair, toward justice. It is like our 40-day observance of Lent in preparation for Easter. Ezekiel begins with the sour grapes proverb, a voice  of despair and blame. But God commands: "This  proverb shall no more be used in Israel." The Hebrew bible theologian Walter Brueggemann  calls Ezekiel 18 a decisive break from inherited  guilt, a prophetic call to imagine a future beyond  despair. 

The future is not sealed. It is open. Each of us  stands before God not as prisoners of history but as  agents of change.

That’s why, in psychotherapy, we are seen as human  beings shaped by our past but fundamentally  capable of transformation. Your past explains you;  it does not define your future. 

During Rosh Hashanah, tradition teaches that the  Book of Life is opened, and we are invited to  choose who we will be. Ezekiel’s message echoes  this: You are not your ancestors’ mistakes. You are  not doomed by history. You are free. 

Stop blaming the past. Stop resigning ourselves to  fate. Our lives are ours to live. 

Twice the people accuse God of injustice. Twice  God asks, "Is it not your ways that are unfair?" We know this complaint well: "Life isn’t fair." "Why  me?" "Why now?" 

But Ezekiel insists God’s justice is not arbitrary.  God does not punish children for their parents’  sins. God calls each of us to responsibility, honesty,  and transformation.

Every Sunday, when we confess our sins, we are not  to wallow in guilt but to name truth as the first step  toward healing. 

Ezekiel’s call is not just moral but transformational:  "Get yourselves a new heart and a new spirit!" Brueggemann reminds us this new heart is not  sentimental but political and communal—a call to  new obedience and new imagination. 

Repentance is not shame; it is becoming different. Transformation is possible. Renewal is possible. A  new heart is possible. 

Repentance, often misunderstood, is not  punishment but repair, a return to our truest selves. Andrew McGowan notes that today’s Gospel  unfolds in a moment of tension. Jesus confronts the  authorities, not to debate doctrine but to challenge  complacency and demand action. 

The priests are custodians of tradition, but their  failure is knowing the truth and refusing to act. Jesus teaches: Saying "yes" is not enough; doing  "yes" is what matters.

The New Testament scholar Amy-Jill Levine reminds us that the parable is about action, not  status. One son says no but later obeys. One says yes but  never acts. Who did the will of the father? The answer is clear:  actions speak louder than words. Colin Campbell’s story shows us the difference  between punishment and repair, between words and  transformative action. 

Both readings confront us: God’s justice is not  unfair—our excuses are. God’s call is clear—we  resist it. God desires life, not death. Ezekiel says: "Turn, then, and live." Jesus says: "Go and work in the vineyard." Colin says: "I want her to become someone who  would never do this again." This is the heart of repentance: not guilt, not shame,  but the courage to believe in change. Like ignoring a warning light on the dashboard,  ignoring God’s call leads to ruin.

Ezekiel warns: "Otherwise iniquity will be your  ruin." 

Jesus warns: "The son who does not act does not  do the will of the father." 

We live surrounded by sour-grape proverbs: "It’s  not my fault." "It’s the system." "It’s the past." "It’s  someone else’s responsibility." 

Jesus calls us beyond our good intentions. Stop  saying you will go to the vineyard—go, and let your  hands bear fruit. Stop claiming authority—discern  the Spirit’s voice and walk in it with humility. Stop  blaming others—step into the holy work that is  ours to do. For the kingdom is not built on  promises, but on faithful action. 

God says: I take no pleasure in death. I desire life.  Turn, then, and live. The invitation is clear: reject fatalism. Embrace  responsibility. Act on what you know. Turn toward  life. Ezekiel’s voice still calls: "Turn, then, and live."  Jesus’ voice still beckons: "Go into the vineyard." 

And human witness, like Colin Campbell, teaches us  that repentance is repair, transformation, and hope. In this Season of Creation, we remember that God’s  world is not static but alive with possibility.  Creation itself teaches us that change is holy—seeds  break open, forests renew, rivers carve new paths.  So Jesus invites us to trust that we are not prisoners  of our past. The God who renews the earth can  renew us. The God who restores creation calls us to  become agents of healing, justice, and transformation. 

Colin Campbell’s story is not just a tale of loss and  justice, but a profound invitation to reimagine what  it means to live with sacred responsibility in a  fractured world. His journey is a testament to the  power of radical empathy and the possibility of  transformation even in the darkest places. It  challenges us to move beyond the easy narratives of  punishment and retribution that so often dominate  our culture.

What if justice is not about destruction but about  restoration? What if the true work of repentance is  not to break but to heal? What if the call to "turn,  then, and live" is an invitation to embody a justice  that is fierce, tender, and unrelenting? 

This is the prophetic heart of Ezekiel’s message and  the radical call of today’s gospel. It is a summons to  live not in fear or despair but in hope and fierce  love. To live with a new heart and a new spirit is to  embrace the messy, difficult work of  transformation—not just within ourselves but  within our communities and our world. It means facing the truth of harm done, listening  deeply to pain, and committing to repair and  renewal. It means rejecting the easy excuses of "it’s not my  fault" or "I can’t change" and stepping into the hard  work of accountability. It means recognizing that our lives are intertwined,  that the vineyard we are called to work in is not just  a metaphor but a shared reality. And it means believing, with all our hearts, that  change is possible—that even the most broken  among us can be made new. 

So as we stand at this threshold, between judgment  and mercy, between death and life, let us choose  life. Let us choose to turn, then, and live.