Sermons
Sunday 16th November 2014, 2 before Advent, morning
Matthew 25:14-30
by Paul Sutton
Political figures and national leaders surround themselves with advisors, communications directors, consultants and speechwriters whose job is to make them look and sound just right.
“What colour tie today?”, the Secretary of State asks. “The rich forest green one today, sir, you need to communicate serenity and friendliness at the opening of the new hospital ward this afternoon, the green tie should help with that.”
Who even knows who vets the Queen’s warehouse of colourful outfits to find the right one for the occasion! But communication directors aren’t that bothered about tie colour and hairstyle. They’re worried about words, about speeches that misfire, about so-called “gaffes”, conversational blunders worthy of Price Philip himself.
Well, if I was Jesus’s speechwriter, his communications director (and he didn’t have one, of course), I would not have written the parable of the talents that we heard in this morning’s Gospel. I just wouldn't. Which makes it all the more interesting that he did.
Here’s why I wouldn’t have told this parable:
One, it's potentially misleading about God. The master in the story is an incredibly demanding boss… even worse, a financier. An investor-tyrant who lets his employees do all the work and expects ridiculous returns on his money. As the third man puts it, he seems like a 'a harsh man, reaping where he did not sow, and gathering where he did not scatter seed.' Is that really what God is like?
Two, it runs the risk of making salvation sound like something you have to earn, in fact, something very difficult to earn. I thought the gospel was one of free forgiveness and grace and the Holy Spirit—isn't this a bit 'off message'?
Three, the bit about distinguishing between the different people and giving them different amounts 'each according to his ability' doesn't sound right. It doesn't sound fair – at least set them on a level playing field and give the characters one talent each or something.
Four, and especially in the light of heaven sounding like something you have to earn, is this really the right time to mention 'outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth'? You need to ease up on all that—you know, wear more green ties and stuff.
One more thing, purely from a stylistic angle: you're mixing up the story with the meaning. The guy didn't even lose any money, he gives back exactly what he was given (except for a bit of interest, but with interest rates like they are, that can't be much), and he gets cast out into gloomy darkness?! That's harsh! And surely a big fat bonus would make more sense in the story than 'entering into the joy of your master'?
If I was Jesus's speechwriter, I wouldn't have told this parable. I’d have given some constructive feedback along the lines I’ve just mentioned.
So why did he tell this story? Why risk misunderstanding and misinterpretation and discouragement? Was the Son of God just lacking a good PR team, or is it me who's missing something?
The main point of the parable is clear: Jesus is going away and will come back again, and in the meantime, we're not to just sit on our hands afraid, we're to do his work.
At this point in Matthew's Gospel, Jesus is in the middle of quite a long session of warning and teaching people about the future—what it will be like when he comes again. And if last Sunday's Gospel (the parable of the ten bridesmaids) was a plea for vigilance in the light of that day, this morning's Gospel is a call to diligence. Last week said 'Watch' and this week says 'Work'.
And in the midst of that, Jesus was saying something important about God, or more accurately, about himself, seeing as he's the one who goes away and is coming back again. Jesus knew God wasn't a 'harsh man', a greedy and demanding financier, but he also knew that there was something legitimate about the comparison. The fact that he describes God by an imperfect analogy doesn't seem to bother him. He really is going away, leaving a task for his servants to get on with, and then he really coming back again.
But what is that task? That's what makes us feel uncomfortable, the idea that unless I produce Warren Buffett-style returns, I'm not acceptable to Christ. Well, I do think it's meant to make us feel a bit uncomfortable. But Christ has given, freely given, all Christian people so much: forgiveness of sins, gifts, unique opportunities and abilities, and the Holy Spirit—and he expects us to go and do his work in our own lives, families, churches, communities, businesses and nations.
There isn't a fourth servant who went out and traded with the money the master had entrusted to him and the markets took a turn for the worse and he made some bad deals and had to borrow money to shore up his debts and ended up, through no fault of his own, losing it all. That isn't how it works: following Christ isn't like taking a punt on the stock market. No, the only way Christ's servants can fail to be fruitful is through sheer folly and fear and laziness.
The master could hardly believe the third servant's investment strategy—he literally buried the talent underground. He said, '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 with interest.'
Living the life that Jesus lived and commands seems like an absurd risk, some of the time. Perhaps our use of money highlights that most of all, on today’s Gift Day here at Holy Trinity—'I can't give any more to church, I've barely got enough to cover my mortgage'. Or our time: 'I can't go and bring refreshment and comfort to that person in trouble, my diary is crumbling under the pressure already.' Or forgiveness: 'I can't take the initiative in making up, it wasn't my fault and I will look like a fool.' Or mission: 'I can't speak to my colleague about church and Jesus and the Bible, I’ll be laughed out of the office.'
It all seems so risky. But in reality, the only risky thing is burying Christ’s gifts and wandering on as if it never happened. Jesus wants us to be fruitful, to do his work until he comes again. And his commendation, 'Well done, good and faithful servant—enter into the joy of your Master' will be the sweetest words you've ever heard.
It’s even an encouragement that one servant is given five, another two, and another one talent. My task is not to 'beat the market', to do better than you, to change the whole world like the apostle Paul undoubtedly did. My task simply to be faithful with what's been entrusted to me—skills, opportunities, money, time, people. That may be very little. Faithfulness with very little is faithfulness enough.
What about the hard words to the third servant, cast out into the outer darkness? Shouldn’t Jesus have toned that down a bit? It's a warning we don't like to think about or hear, but it's one we need to hear. Jesus, the very best and kindest and most loving of men, warned repeatedly—more than anyone else would dare to—about outer darkness, weeping and gnashing of teeth. And this is the man on whom the darkness fell, who wept, who cried out 'Why have you forsaken me'.
The parable of the talents holds out the prospect of unspeakable joy! But it also warns of terrible darkness.
I'm not Jesus's director of communications, and it's just as well I’m not. No-one tells the Son of God what to say except his Father in heaven. We need to listen to what he has to say. And what Christians long to hear him say most of all are these words: 'Well done, good and trustworthy servant. Enter into the joy of your master.' Are we being faithful with what he has entrusted to us.
