November 16, 2014 – The 23rd
Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 28A
© 2014 Evan D. Garner
Audio of this sermon can be heard here.
There is a certain,
unspoken exchange of trust and worry and confidence and fear that happens when
a boss hands his young protégé the keys to his car and says, “Here, you drive.”
Has that ever happened to you? Did you ever climb behind the wheel of your
boss’ car while he buckled into the passenger seat and pretended not to notice
every single thing you did? Back when I worked for Robert Wisnewski in
Montgomery, it happened a lot, and it always seemed to happen at the worst
possible moments.
One Tuesday, we drove
over to Augusta, Georgia, to watch a practice round at the Masters. We hit the
road right after the 7am service, stayed all day, and then headed home in the
darkness. He drove over in the daylight, but, now that it was night and we were
both exhausted, he handed me the keys and said, “Your turn.” I think he fell
asleep before we even made it to the interstate. As fatigue set in, I couldn’t
decide whether I should turn on the radio and risk waking him up or leave it
off and risk joining him in a potentially fatal slumber.
Another time in May, we
drove up to Sewanee for the seminary’s graduation. It was a wonderful
celebration hardly dampened by the steady rain that started to fall as the
ceremony ended. As we retreated toward his car, Robert tossed me the keys, not
even saying a word. I don’t know how often you drive down the mountain from
Sewanee in the rain and fog, but doing so in your boss’ car is not fun. I
strangled the life out of the steering wheel as I leaned forward in my seat,
straining to see what was in front of the car. All of the sudden, a huge
tractor-trailer tire appeared directly in front of us. “Hold on,” I cried, as I
tapped the brakes, checked the mirrors, and swerved into the adjacent lane.
Robert took a sharp breath and uttered a doubtful groan, but the tires held onto
the pavement, and we continued our journey back home—me sweating bullets and
him just smiling at the whole situation.
What is it like when
someone really important gives you something of great value and says, “Here you
go: it’s your turn?” What happens when someone entrusts you with something of
great worth and, in so doing, not only hands over the asset itself but also puts
the whole relationship that the asset represents into your hands? Well, it kind
of depends on what kind of boss you have. Is your boss the kind of person who,
if you crashed his car into oblivion, would fire you on the spot? Or is he the
kind of boss who would wrap his arms around you and say, “Are you ok?”
Jesus said, “[The kingdom
of heaven] is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and
entrusted his property to them.” To the first, he gave five talents; to the
second, he gave two talents; and, to the last, he gave one talent—to each
according to his ability. We know what happened next. Most of us, even before
we heard the gospel lesson this morning, knew what happened next. The first
slave doubled the money he was given, and, when his master returned to settle
accounts, he produced the ten talents, and he was invited to enter into the joy
of his master. The second did likewise, doubling the investment, and, after
producing the four talents, he, too, was invited to enter into his master’s joy.
And then there was the
third slave. He, of course, was afraid of what would happen if he lost what his
master had given to him. He knew his master to be a harsh man, so he went and
buried the talent in the ground. I like to imagine that fearful slave walking
past that spot nonchalantly every single day, casually glancing over his
shoulder to see if anyone was following him, checking to be sure that the dirt above
the buried treasure had not been disturbed. And, finally, when the master returned,
the third slave handed him the one, dirt-smeared talent, relieved that no one
had dug it up when he wasn’t looking. He was delighted merely not to have lost
his master’s money. But was his master satisfied? Not in the least.
Before we join Jesus in
condemning the “wicked and lazy slave,” I think it’s worth stopping for a
moment to consider just how much money had been entrusted to each of them. A
talent was a measure of weight used for precious metals, and one talent equaled
fifty-seven pounds of silver, which was enough money to pay a skilled laborer
for nine years’ worth of work. If you paid a craftsman twenty dollars an hour
for nine years, it would cost you around $375,000. So, when the master handed
over these talents, he wasn’t just giving the slaves the keys to his car. He
was giving them hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of treasure. If your
boss handed you $400,000 and said, “I’ll be back in a few years; see what you
can do with this,” how would it make you feel?
Again, I guess it all
depends on what kind of boss you have—or at least on what kind of boss you
think you have. Let me ask you this: who do you think is more likely to
crash—the guy who is terrified that his boss will kill him if he crashes his
car or the guy who knows that his boss will take care of him no matter what
happens? And might it be possible that they have the same boss?
This parable about the
kingdom isn’t a story about a tyrannical God who punishes those who fail to
earn him a return on his investment. It’s a story about how you and I can be so
overwhelmed by fear that we scare ourselves right out of God’s kingdom. God
entrusts us with an incredible gift—more precious than we can even imagine.
What will we do with that gift? What will we do with the life that we are
given? Will we take that gift and risk what we have in order that it might
multiply? Or will we bury ourselves in the ground because we are afraid of what
might happen if we mess up?
It all depends on what
kind of God we worship—on what sort of master we think is in charge of our
lives. You know, looking around at the images of God and Christianity that
pervade our culture, it would be easy to go through each day worried that God
was out to get you. If you drive south on I-65, you can see a billboard with
the image of a cardiac sinus rhythm going to a flat line and the words,
“Someday you will meet God,” written on it. How is that supposed to make you
feel? Like God loves you? If you listen to any of the preachers on the radio or
watch any of them on television, what sort of God do they portray? It’s not the
kind of God I want to meet when I die. Nor is it the kind of God whom Jesus
came to earth to show the world all about. No wonder the world is running away
from Christianity! Instead of showing the world God’s unconditional love,
Christians have spent the last seventy years telling the world that it had
better get its act together before the master returns.
But that isn’t the God I know, and it’s not the God of our faith. My God is the kind of God who says, “I will love you no matter what.” Our God is the kind of God who takes the very worst that humanity can give him—the cross upon which we killed his son—and turns it into new life by raising Jesus from the dead. That’s the kind of God who says, “No matter how badly you screw this up, I will always love you.” How can we be afraid of a God like that?
Jesus Christ came to set
us free from everything that separates us from God—from our sin, from our
mistakes, and especially our fear. That is the good news that we have to offer
the world. That is the real gift that God has given us. But what will we do
with that gift? Will we trust that God will love us no matter what? Or will we
allow fear to take that treasure away from us? Fear is the only thing that
threatens to isolate us from God’s kingdom. Fear is the only thing that can
keep us from celebrating all that our gracious God wants to bestow upon us.
Will we live in fear of failure because we doubt that God will still love us
when we mess everything up? Or will we believe that God’s love is bigger than
any mistake we could ever make? Amen.
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