Hey, you got a flashlight? Or, even a match?
Yeah, I figured as much.
You can call me #3. No, I was never a Next Generation fan, why?
What about ear plugs? I’d give a kidney and my last pair of clean undies for some ear plugs. I mean, that gnashing sound is one thing. If you’ve ever been married, then it doesn’t take too long to get used to that sound of gnashing teeth.
But, the weeping? The weeping can mess with your head after a while. And, because of the darkness, because you can’t see anyone, after a while you start to think the weeping is in your head. That, it’s you. That, you’re the one weeping.
You know that Groucho joke about how I’d never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me as a member?
Yeah, that’s this place.
With the weeping and gnashing, you’d expect it to be a lot louder than it is. Instead, it’s just creepy quiet. And, even though it’s dark, you can just feel it— there’s a lot of people here.
A lot of people, though not the ones you’d expect. I haven’t bumped into one atheist, adulterer, or a TMZ reporter.
I mean, sure, Vladimir Putin is here; he keeps trying to assure Charlie Rose that he can influence a Divine election.
But, other than them and Justin Bieber, nobody here are the sorts of people you’d expect to find here.
Mostly, they’re all people just like me. Just as surprised to be here as I am.
I suppose that’s the money question, isn’t it? Why am I here?
Just before my Master went away, he tells us a story— my Master was always telling stories. To people who weren’t his servants, he never spoke anything but stories.
He told one story about a kid who wished his old man dead, cashed in his inheritance, then left home, and blew all the money at the MGM. And, when the kid comes crawling back home, what’s the father do? The father blows even more cash— that would’ve been for his well-behaved, older brother’s inheritance— on a “welcome home” party. I know, right?
My Master told another story about a shepherd who had one hundred sheep and goes off and abandons ninety-nine of them to search for the one sheep who wandered away from the flock.
It’s like that Woody Allen joke. Those who can’t do, teach. And those who can’t teach, shepherd.
My Master was always telling stories like that. I mean, my Master was killed— like he was determined to get himself killed— because, of the stories he told.
And, just before my Master went away on a journey, he tells us a story about another master, who had three servants.
The master gives the first servant five talents, and the master gives his second servant two talents— and one talent is worth about twenty years’ income, so we’re talking a crazy, prodigal amount. It’s like this master is forsaking everything for them before he leaves. It’s like he’s dying to his riches, pouring out everything that’s his, for their sake.
Even the master’s third servant, who gets a single talent, gets more cash than he’d ever seen in his life, more than he could possibly know what to do with.
And that’s the thing. That’s what I’m thinking as the Master is telling this story about a master. What kind of fool would risk wealth like that on “nobodies” like them? I mean, at least Lehman Brothers knew how to handle money.
And, what kind of bigger fools would take that master’s treasure and jeopardize it? Gamble on it?
But, in the Master’s story that’s what the master’s first two servants do, and lucky for them (or lucky the master came back when he did), because they both managed to double their investment. Five talents becomes ten and two talents becomes a fourscore gross. Just the two of them turned those gifts into the equivalent of three hundred years worth of wages.
And, their master praises them for it, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
The third servant, though— the one with the single talent that was still worth a fortune— he does the prudent, responsible thing.
He buries his master’s talent in the ground, which is what you did in those days. Don’t forget, usury, lending at interest, was against God’s Law. It violated the Commandments. So, investing that single talent or saving it in a bank account would’ve been as Bible-bad as spending it on prostitutes or Bacon Bits. By not investing his master’s money, I’m thinking this third servant’s doing the faithful, biblical thing, right?
In my Master’s story, when the master returns, he calls this third servant “wicked.”
And “lazy,” which might surprise some of you who think my Master’s so warm and fuzzy it had to have been a huge misunderstanding that got him crucified.
No, my Master says that master calls his servant “wicked and lazy.”
Pretty harsh, right?
That’s what I thought, too. Then, this master ships his servant off to the outer darkness where there is nothing but weeping and gnashing of teeth.
At the time, I thought “outer darkness” was just a rabbinic euphemism for Cleveland, but it turns out I was wrong.
So, just before my Master went away he tells this story, and, sure, it didn’t make much sense to me, but that’s how it was with most of his stories.
Still, because it was one of the last stories he told before he went away, I figured it was important, so I tried to live my life according to it.
I tried to produce with the financial blessings the Master gave me. I didn’t try to hide my stinginess behind caution or prudence. I took some risks for a higher yield, and other than a few shares of Uber and Redskins season tickets, I never wasted the wealth God gave me.
I earned as much as I could, so that I could give as much as I could. That’s the point of the story, right? A rising tide lifts all boats? Trickle down blessings?
But then- When I saw the Master again? When he came back again to judge the quick and the dead?
No gold watch.
No, “My servant is good and faithful,” bumper sticker.
Not even a Starbucks gift card.
No, instead I end up here, which I assume is the outer darkness. If there’s a sign, it’s not like I can read it. But, there’s definitely weeping and if that sound’s not teeth gnashing, then someone should call a plumber.
I guess this is better than being cut up into tiny, little pieces— that’s what happened to the fall guys in one of the Master’s other stories.
And, maybe, it’s better than what I would’ve guessed it to be like, fire and brimstone. But, it’s God-awful cold here in the darkness. And, for as crowded as it is, it’s terribly lonely.
What day is it anyway? Or, year even?
I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but it’s still hard to believe I ended up here.
Or, not hard to believe at all, I guess.
The truth is-
How I heard my Master’s story reveals an awful lot.
It shows how captive I was to money that I just assumed my Master’s story was about money. If it’s possible to see anything clearly in the dark, it’s obvious to me now.
I really believed the only real, realistic wealth in the world was cold, hard cash. Not only did I believe it made the world go around, made me “successful” and made my family secure; I believed you needed it to change the world.
I really believed that you can’t change the world one person at a time from the inside out. I really believed that the only real change in the world comes through political change and, ever since Citizens United, that sort of change takes more than your spare change.
Like I said, it shows how captive I was to money that I just assumed my Master’s story was about money.
Now, in the darkness, I can see the light. Or, see how stupid I was.
Why would I think he was talking about money? As though my Master subscribed to the Wall Street Journal. He didn’t even HAVE money!
This one time— right after he told this story, actually— some hypocritical clergy (which might be redundant) tried to trap my Master with a question about taxes. And, he tries to answer them with an illustration.
So, he asks them if any of them have any money on them, as a sort of visual aid.
He asks them if they have any money on them. Because, he doesn’t. He doesn’t carry it, he doesn’t have it, and he doesn’t think the odds are in the favor of those who do have it. He doesn’t have anything positive to say about money at all, for that matter.
So why— how could I be so dumb— would I ever think my Master’s story was really about money?
What would a Master like mine be doing telling a story like that? What does it say about greedy, unimaginative me that when I heard this story, I just assumed it was about money? And making more of it. And, being rewarded for making more money. And, being encouraged to go make still more money.
What would a Master like mine be doing telling a story that just reinforced all the other stories we tell ourselves?
How could I be so blinded by greed that I didn’t see the obvious?
The master in this story is supposed to be my Master.
And money— talent— that’s not the treasure he gave us before he went away.
I don’t know how I missed it before. He wasn’t vague or coy.
The gifts the Master left us before he went away weren’t cash and coin, or CODs.
No, he gave us bread and wine. He left us water, for baptism. He taught us how to pray. He spent fifty days after Easter teaching us how to interpret Scripture. And, he passed on to us his promise of absolution, giving us the authority— which only God has the authority to do— to forgive people’s sins.
Before he went away, my Master gave us wisdom and knowledge, faith and prophecy, healing and miracles, and love. Which is just another way to say that the gift he gave us, to each of us his servants, is the Holy Spirit.
And, sure, that gift comes to each of us in different amounts, but for each of us, the gift is more than enough.
More than enough—
To shape communities of mercy.
More than enough—
To announce his grace in places of conflict and suffering.
More than enough—
To teach that he is not dead, that he’s a Living Lord, and that he is at work in our world even now, setting captives free, lifting up the lowly, and bringing down the proud and the powerful.
What he gave to us before he left, it’s more than enough.
More than enough—
To bear witness that he is the only good and faithful servant whose perfect obedience has been reckoned as our own and therefore, by His Grace, we have been set free to imitate him without any sort of performance anxiety, whatsoever.
The gift comes to each of us in different amounts, but for each of us, the gift is more than enough for us to proclaim that He has taken away the handwriting that was against us, and it’s more than enough for us to apprentice people into living lives that make His Grace intelligible.
Even the servant with one gift— a grandma with the ability to pray, say, or a mother too busy to do anything but receive the bread of life in her hands, or a spouse focused solely on forgiving their spouse—even that servant is sitting on a fortune large enough to change the world, one person at a time, from the inside out.
That’s what my Master wanted us to know before he went away.
Shoulda woulda, coulda.
It wasn’t until I was shocked to wind up here, buried in the darkness, that the shock of my Master’s story finally hit me.
Think about it.
After spending so much time with his master, one of the master’s servants still doesn’t really know his master. He thinks his master is a hard, harsh master, and misunderstanding who his master is determines what he does with what the master has given him.
He hides the gift.
And then when the master returns, he tries to give it back. “Here,” he says to his master. “Have what belongs to you,” as though he doesn’t realize that, as a servant— a slave— he belongs to the master, too.
The single talent is the master’s possession, sure, but he’s the master’s possession, too.
There’s nothing in the story that’s not possessed— that’s the key to the story!
The servant in the story misunderstands his relationship with the master completely; he doesn’t understand that he’s the master’s valuable possession. Not understanding who his master is and who that makes him, he fails to understand that the gift the master has given him— it’s not something he has to do in order to please his master. It’s something he gets to do, because he has been made a participant in his master’s pleasure. The servant’s work is not a gift he must offer back to his master in order to please his master. The servant’s work is, itself, a gift from the master who is already pleased with his servant. Not understanding who his master is and who that makes him, it ruins all the fun! It turns the adventure of servanthood into an obligation. It turns the zero-risk opportunity of the master’s gifts into a high-risk burden that feels better buried away underfoot.
Here’s the punchline.
There’s only one servant like that in the story, but there’s not only one servant like that.
There’s only one servant like that in the story, but there’s more than one servant, who so misunderstands the Master, they think a servant’s work is a gift we must give to the Master to please him, rather than a gift given to us from a Master who is pleased with us.
There’s only one servant like that in the story, but there’s more than one servant who so misunderstands the Master, so mistrusts that they’re the Master’s prized possession— that nothing can take that status away— they bury away the gifts the Master gives them or they bear those gifts like a burden.
There’s more than one servant like that. Or else, I wouldn’t be here, gnashing my teeth, weeping.
The joke’s on me. Turns out, all my “sin” boiled down to unbelief. A lack of faith in my Belovedness.
In the story, the master says to his servant, “You wicked and lazy slave! You knew, did you, that I reap where I did not sow, and gather where I did not scatter? Then, you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and on my return, I would have received what was my own, plus some.”
But— take it from me— what the Master says in real life sounds more like:
After all the time you spent following me? Worshipping me? Learning from me? Hearing my Gospel? Eating in bread and wine my promise that I’m FOR YOU?
Still, you don’t know me? You refuse to take me at my Word— that you are my beloved?
After I’ve given you all the gifts you need to do everything I’ve taught you to do, you don’t?
You don’t do anything with the gifts I’ve given you?
Because, you’re afraid of failing?
Because, you’re afraid of me?
You can’t even mess it up— there’s no one keeping score, you’re baptized; you’ve been handed my own permament perfect record— but, still you don’t bother with the gifts I gave you?
What were you thinking? Whose job did you think it was?
My Kingdom is by Grace, yes.
And my Grace is free, yes.
But, Grace is just an idea,if it remains invisible.
Evangelism requires exemplification.
Without witnesses, it’s just words.
This Word took flesh, and it never stops needing to be put in the flesh.
I gave you these gifts.
And then, I invited you into the crazy, good fun of making my Grace visible.
But, you still don’t take me at my word?
You think I’m such a hard, harsh Bookkeeper that you bury my gifts in a deep, dark hole?
If that’s where you think my precious belongings belong, then fine— but they’re incomplete with you joining them there— you’re my precious belonging too.Outer darkness, for you.
You’re sure you don’t have any ear plugs you could spare?
Well, make sure you pack some for yourself.
I mean, obviously I’m not a gambling man, but if I had to make a bet, you might here, too, someday.