Matthew 25:14-30
In yet another strange parable from Jesus, a man on his way out of town distributes his wealth to his slaves. Upon his return, the man sees that two of the slaves invested the money he gave them, growing their wealth, and consequently, these slaves enter the joy of their master. The one who fails to invest is chastised, thrown into the outer darkness, where there is weeping and gnashing of teeth. To be clear, Jesus is not suggesting investment strategy, and he’s not describing the logic of the free market economy. Instead, he is teaching his disciples about what it means to follow him. He is teaching them to invest, to invest their lives in the work of the kingdom. Jesus is proclaiming good news about entering into “the joy of the master,” into his joy. He also offers a cautionary tale for those who fail to invest their lives in kingdom work, saying they will fall into outer darkness, a place of sorrow. Jesus’ cautionary tale is one of consequence, not one of judgment. Investment brings joy. Failure to invest leads to sorrow.
In writing my sermon this week, I kept typing, then reading what I had written, then deleting, starting all over. Typing, reading, deleting. Typing, reading, deleting. I couldn’t figure out how to share what feels to me like the deepest truth of my life: the joy I know in following Jesus, the joy I experience in my little corner of kingdom work. For me, the more I invest in something, the more I receive from it—in relationships, in various pieces of ministry, in caring for the land on which I live, in the energy I give my neighbors and our neighborhood, in how I participate on various committees and boards. The more I invest, the more I receive. One place where I have met keen joy these last few months is in the Garden of Grace. Here on the south side of the Grace property lies the Garden of Grace, a garden labyrinth. The good folks at Agave Farms put it in for us about a year and a half ago and still help us tend it. For the past couple months, each Saturday when a few masked volunteers gather to pack boxes of groceries for members, neighbors, and friends of Grace, I have walked over to the garden, usually with a young volunteer or two, to harvest that week’s produce to include in our food boxes. A week ago yesterday, Kyle who’s in kindergarten and Chelsea who’s in pre-school joined me in the garden, along with Kim who works for Agave Farms, to plant flowers and pick radishes. Building relationships with the girls, helping them nurture a relationship with land and plants as well as giving them an opportunity to serve others, and witnessing the beauty and abundance of God’s creation, I knew deep and abiding joy. A little time and effort in kingdom work, a lot of joy.
I suspect that most of us know this kind of joy in some aspect of our lives. We see joy in Linda as she teaches young children the stories of our faith. We see joy in Solveig as she sings. We see joy in Lester as he assists members of our community with needs. We see joy in Brandon as he plays organ. We see joy in Coco as she cares for her little Jayden and joy in Sofia as she cares for little Isabella. We see joy in Sylvia as she walks alongside foster families. What (relationships, activities, or work) bring/s you deep, abiding joy?
As I pondered Jesus’ words this week, though, I wondered: does this sermon even need to be preached? Don’t we all do the things that bring joy, the things that are deeply satisfying? Sadly, many of us are skilled at numbing, at filling our precious time with activities that aren’t very meaningful to us, perhaps scrolling through social media or watching Netflix. For some of us, we are not able to engage in activities that long brought us joy because of a medical condition. For others, we don’t know what brings joy; we haven’t had life-giving opportunities to serve or give in a way that utilizes our God-given gifts. Now in the eighth month of the pandemic, even the most joyfully stalwart among us may be flailing. Maybe we can’t invest, can’t serve, can’t give in the ways we previously did. In this most difficult situation, pandemic or otherwise, we might be taking the path of least resistance, the one that requires the smallest effort. For we are tired and overwhelmed and depressed. But here, Jesus’ parable challenges us—to invest even when we are scared or our choices for investment seem slim.
The third slave who receives one talent buries the talent in the ground. He does not invest it. Jesus tells us the slave is fearful of the master, so the slave tries to avoid the master’s wrath by doing what is cautious and prudent. As a big fan of caution and prudence, I have always disliked and not understood the master’s response to the slave’s responsible act. “You wicked and lazy slave!” the master cries. On the contrary, I would like to respond to the master, on the contrary, this last slave is thoughtful and diligent. Except that he acts out of fear. He timidly digs a hole, buries the gift he has been given.
Kingdom work, the work of love and justice and peace, caring for neighbor and creation, this sometimes requires risk. I don’t mean joining a group of people unmasked in a pandemic kind of risk, and I don’t mean a life-threatening risk except in truly extraordinary circumstances. Instead, I mean the risk of doing something new, the risk of trying something that will nourish your physical, emotional, spiritual health, the risk of orienting your life around love for your neighbor and thus God as your very highest priority. That might look as simple as calling a friend you haven’t spoken with in a while, as simple as saying yes to a volunteer opportunity, as simple taking the time to hike (maybe even with other Lutherans today!). Poet Mary Oliver writes: “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” How will you invest this great gift of God? To invest it in the work of the kingdom is to enter into the joy of Christ. Thanks be to God! Amen.