[MT: This was conceived as a kind of sermon, and it's the kind of sermon I'd probably give if I were ever asked to give a sermon. I doubt whether this would be a good thing, though.]The parables of Jesus can be both blessings and barriers. At their best they give us a clear, unfiltered view of Jesus' teaching, of how he wanted us to live and move in this world. At their worst they leave us confused and unsure of ourselves.
When we read the story of the Prodigal Son we're left with an unshakable sense that this is how God loves us. The father ran to his wayward son. He defied convention and abandoned his dignity and hiked up his robes and ran to his son. There were no lectures or admonishments. There was only unfettered rejoicing at his boy's return. And then in the midst of this overflowing joy the father takes a moment to assure his other son that he loves him, too, and that he'll forever retain his share of all the father is and all he has.
There's no confusion in this parable. It rings unmistakably clear. It strikes the very heart of us and leaves us nodding, quietly affirming that Yes, this is the true essence of my God and my savior.
There are other parables that aren't quite so simple. We read them or we hear them and we hope that they'll illuminate themselves, in a flash of sudden clarity make some universal truth obvious and irrefutable. But they often don't. Instead they leave us feeling like the dense and beleaguered disciples, forever hearing but never understanding and in need of Jesus' patient tutoring to give them any sense at all. What then?
All we can do then is read and re-read them, speak the words over and over to ourselves and wait patiently for the meaning to make itself known. There are thousands of commentaries and aids to interpreting the parables. They are as valuable and helpful as we let them be, but in the end we need to find a meaning in each story that attaches to us at the level of our hearts rather than our heads. And for the most part we need to do this on our own.
There is real danger in this. Jesus must have foreseen the danger that might come from multiple diverse interpretations of his stories. But he would also have recognized the enormous grace that comes from a parable made real, a parable given transformative power through personal experience. Of the grace that might come to a man or woman wondering for all they're worth what meaning could possibly be there.
Perhaps that's why his parables seem to be a mix of brilliant gems and occluded, opaque stones. We're asked to interpret the difficult ones ourselves, on our own time. But we're warned that our interpretation can never run against the grain of the unmistakable truths that lie beside them. We're free, in other words, to interpret them as our circumstances allow, but in doing so we must never imagine God as having any other nature than the one expressed to us through the parable of the Prodigal Son. He runs to us.
In Matthew's Parable of the Talents a wealthy unidentified man prepares to go on a journey. He calls his slaves forward, and to the first he gives five talents, to the second he gives two, and to the third he gives one, each according to his ability. Then he departs. He gives no instructions, even though the wealth he's handed over is an awesome amount of money-worth as much as fifteen years' wages for the common laborer.
After a long time he returns, and he calls his slaves to come to him. The first slave has traded with the talents, and to the original five he now adds five more. The master is overjoyed and praises him lavishly. Well done, good and trustworthy slave; you have been trustworthy in a few things, I will put you in charge of many things; enter into the joy of your master!
Likewise, the second slave has doubled the sum the master gave him, and for this he receives precisely the same words of praise.
But then the third slave comes forward. He buried the single talent in a safe place on the master's departure, and he now returns it. Perhaps beginning to understand that he didn't do what was expected of him he rushes to explain himself: Master, I knew that you were a harsh man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; 25 so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.
The master's response is immediate and sharply negative. He calls the slave wicked and lazy, and berates him for his mistake. In what seems to be a fit of rage he cries, Take the talent from him, and give it to the one with the ten talents. 29 For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. 30 As for this worthless slave, throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'"
The parable ends. We're left with a hollow feeling, as if we've just seen a child in a grocery store get her hand smacked for fiddling with a bright package of candy.
When this parable is discussed, if it's discussed at all, it's most often interpreted as a stern instruction to use our spiritual gifts. The returning Christ demands to know that we've invested in our individual gifts and used them for the betterment of the body. After this brief sketch the interpretations usually end.
A number of scholars and students have been stumped by the disproportionate response of the master. Even though the third servant didn't steal the talent, or use it for himself, or run away with this huge sum of cash to another land beyond reach of the master, he's dismissed to the outer darkness. He is excommunicated, and left alone beyond the reach of the body.
Like these scholars and students, the compassionate person feels worried and uncertain because of this response. This is not Jesus as we know him. This isn't the behavior of the father in the Prodigal Son. Noted gospel scholar Geza Vermes is so disenchanted with this parable that he's remarked, "the whole of Matthew 25 is a shambles…" Another writer in a recent work says this parable is so uncomfortable that some scholars have interpreted the master and his reaction as a model of the world's behavior, rather than as a disciple's behavior, essentially showing us the antithesis of the way Jesus would react.
But if we want to discover what Jesus means for us today we need to take the clear with the opaque. We need to absorb the obvious parables and grapple with the difficult ones. We need to try and interpret Matthew's Parable of the Talents on our own.
To accomplish this we need to do two things. We need to interpret it so as not to contradict the more obvious parables-to propose an explanation that would in no way alter the character of the prodigal's father, for instance, were he to be dropped abruptly into the story. And we need to determine what the talents represent. This metaphor is at the heart of our story. Jesus is using this parable to describe what the Kingdom of God is like. These talents are of such vital importance that our treatment of them--for we must assume that each of us can take the role of one of the slaves--will be the sole determination in whether or not we share in the master's joy.
We're held back in this second task by the vagaries of language. It's almost impossible to separate our understanding of an ancient talent, a large unit of Greco-Roman money, from a modern talent, a personal gift or skill. In fact, it's assuming that these are the same that makes us initially feel uncomfortable with this story.
Have any of us not known a gifted person who was unable to fully realize their talents? There are women with beautiful, bell-like voices who are terrified of performing in public and whose songs are never heard by anyone but their children. There are gifted gardeners who are unfortunate enough to live in Fairbanks. There are poetic writers who lack the time or energy to finish their work and make it accessible to all. There are healers who struggle with self doubt, and pastors whose inspiration is drowned by depression or the realities of the world. Would we assign any of them to the outer darkness?
But if we discard our modern understanding of talents, whether physical or spiritual, what do they represent? They are clearly of great value. What earthly thing was of greatest value to Jesus?
For a possible key to this parable we might look to another book of the gospel: In John 15:12 Jesus says, Love one another as I have loved you. Does Jesus value anything more than he values you and I? Is it possible that we are indeed the slaves, but that our personal relationships with others are the talents entrusted to us? What if the other members of our community are the talents we've been asked to care for, or if a talent represents the depth of spiritual maturity in the community's members?
Or seen another way, the slave with two talents teaches and nurtures them in the master's absence, so that on his return they are more fully formed, more spiritually mature. Perhaps each one has become twice as capable of embodying the character and nature of the master-through compassion and humility and wisdom-and can better help God's dream come to fruition.
And then what does this view tell us about the slave who was given one talent? Perhaps it says that he buried the soul entrusted to him. He didn't nurture this person, or teach them, or walk with them on the Way. He ignored this soul. Perhaps he buried them in legalism and rites and laws, and never allowed the one entrusted to him to seek the face of God.
An extreme example, seen in light of modern evangelism, leads us to imagine that this slave adhered to a strict end of days faith, where they were saved on their baptism but then buried in a field to await the return of the Lord or passage to heaven and the afterlife. If so, the great sin of the third slave seems to be that he didn't work with this talent to further God's dream in this world, did nothing with this talent to help create a current day kingdom in which all could share.
Whatever we imagine, it seems clear that the slave not only failed to nurture the thing that was in his care, but also strangled it and put out its flame. It's possible the master was not so much displeased by what the salve didn't do with his talent, but what he did do with it: he buried it in a cold and lonely field. Perhaps it's for this sin that the master casts him out.
What understanding can this view lead us to? Simply that the talents represent the people who share our experiences on this journey, whose lives we touch and are touched by.
There is power and maybe even grace in this view. It is as true for lay people as well as pastors, for those deeply involved in the church as for those peripherally involved. When you next sit down in church, turn to your left and look long and hard at the faces you see. Turn to the right and look at the people there. These are your talents. These are the precious relationships the master has entrusted you with. How can you enrich their lives and their walk of faith? How can you allow yourself to be enriched by them? Take a mental image of these faces, whether they're new to you or you've known them your whole life. Sear them into your memory. These are the talents entrusted to you.
When you go home, let your mind wander over the faces of your friends, your relatives, the people you care for and who care for you. These are your talents. Nurture them. Help them feel and find God's grace.
In the end, this view doesn't fundamentally alter the teachings and salvation of Jesus. This may just be another view of another parable. But there may also be here the thing we search for the most: a meaning to these stories we can take to heart, that we can experience through our everyday lives.
As a recent book on Jesus remarked, "The importance of these stories lies in their meanings. An empty tomb without meaning ascribed to it is simply an odd, if even exceptional event. Only when meaning is ascribed does it take on significance. This is the function of parable... Indeed, it may be that the most important truths can be expressed only in parable."
Amen.
[This post was originally published in February 2006. MT]
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