Theological perspective section (Mark Douglas)
A conventional theological reading of Matthew 25:14–30 treats it as a pericope on stewardship: “Talents”—gifts, skills, resources—are fungible in the divine economy and can therefore be understood in economic terms. Christians are given different talents by God and should use them rather than bury them. We will be asked to give an accounting of our use (or nonuse) of them and will be rewarded or punished accordingly. Such a reading meshes nicely with—and undoubtedly in part grows out of—the various projects of free-market capitalism, get-what-you-deserve justice, and disciplined self-improvement that have so marked American society. Such a reading also misses the compelling theological significance of Matthew’s purpose in placing this parable at this point in his text.
This is the third of four stories Jesus tells about the implications of the impending but uncalendared eschaton. All four stories center on the return of the master or bridegroom or king, the judgments that come with that return, and how those who await his return spend their time. Reading the passage as a pericope about stewardship—a reading unfortunately exacerbated by the unfortunate transliteration of the Greek talanta into the English “talent,” with its clear English meanings—skips over the central eschatological significance of the parable as Matthew tells it. Luke’s telling of the parable, in Luke 19:11–27, locates the passage between Zacchaeus’s surprising acceptance of Jesus and Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. So situated, the story has both a clearer economic link (via Zacchaeus’s giving away of his money) and a tighter connection between the nobleman’s return and Jesus’ royal arrival in Jerusalem. As this befits Lukan theology, so Matthew’s placement of the parable into Jesus’ sermon on the future eschaton fits Matthean theology. Matthew is telling stories about the end of time—a point likely to be subverted or perverted when we focus too closely on stewardship, which has stronger theological ties to what God has already done for us than what God will do with us.
Note, also, what else is not really at the center of the story: the two slaves who actually are good stewards. In spite of receiving a different number of talents and appearing before the master at different times, these two are indistinct. They double their master’s investments in the same way. They give nearly identical speeches in their accounting before the master. They hear identical commendations from their master. They share a common reward. They are not so much characters in the story as foils against which to compare the third servant, whose actions are unique, whose speech is unique (and fairly involved for a parable), and whose condemnation by the master serves as the climax of the story. Indeed, while sometimes referred to as the parable of the Talents, the parable is not so much about talents as about the third slave, the master, and the relationship between them. These elements more clearly reflect Matthew’s theological vision of how we are to live between now and the eschaton.
Does it matter that the third slave is only given one talent? Probably—but not in the Pauline “many gifts/one body” sense that the master gives different amounts of money to each slave as a way of revealing that none of us is asked to take on more than we can handle (1 Cor. 10:13). Here in Matthew, the one given the least is thrown into the outer darkness, not the one given greater honor (cf. 1 Cor. 12:22–26). The peculiar grace of given nothing beyond your ability to handle is absent here. Instead, the third slave’s getting a single talent reveals as much about the master’s foresight in knowing the slave’s abilities as about the slave’s actual abilities. He receives only one talent because the master knows he is less likely to behave wisely with it than the others do with their talents.
Were we to understand the master only from the perspective of the slave, we would know him as a “harsh” man who takes what is not clearly his and strikes fear in the hearts of those around him (vv. 24–25). Likewise, were we to understand the slave only from the perspective of the master, we would know him only as “wicked and lazy” (v. 26) and “worthless” (v. 30). In neither case are we inclined toward sympathy.
Rather than relying on contending accusations, we may get a more accurate reading of the master and the slave on the basis of their actions. Far from simply being harsh, the master acts generously, trusting even the third slave with the wealth of more than fifteen years’ wages. Far from reaping what he did not sow, he returns to their oversight the wealth that the first two slaves earned and, even more importantly, invites them into his joy, therein transforming his relationship with them from master/slave to something approaching equality (vv. 21, 23). Throwing the third slave’s rhetoric back against him, the master points out that if the slave really thought of his master as “reaping where [he] did not sow” (v. 24), he would have behaved differently, taking the talent to the bank and gaining the advantages of usury rather than burying it in the ground.
What of the third slave? He does not squander his talent or use it for his own benefit, and he does return it to his master. His actions, though, are apparently driven by fear—which turns the parable in a surprisingly subversive and paradoxical direction. The emotion that drives the third slave creates the conditions that lead to his downfall: fearing his master, that which he fears is realized. Perhaps, for Matthew, the God we face is the one we imagine.
Likewise, the emotion that the passage initially provokes in its readers—fear that our impending judgment includes the possibility that we too will be thrown “into the outer darkness” (v. 30)—is the emotion the passage calls us to resist. This eschatological passage is not so much about stewardship and the wise use of resources as it is about a willingness to resist fear and, like the first two slaves, to behave in risky and trusting ways, for in so doing we enter into joy upon the master’s return.
Pastoral perspective (John M. Buchanan)
You might approach this story about the wealthy man who entrusts his property to three servants or slaves by talking to an investment manager or someone who works in what is called the “wealth management industry.” Ask him or her what you have to do, and the risks you must be willing to take, to double your money. He or she will, in all probability, tell you about the Rule of 72, which most of us have never heard of. If your investment has a guaranteed interest rate of 5 percent, you divide the interest rate into 72, and the answer will be the number of years it will take to double your money. Five percent into seventy-two equals fourteen and a half years.
If you inquire about how risky this is, you will learn that if you want to double your money quickly, the risk escalates dramatically. In the world of venture capital, only about one out of four or five—some say one out of ten—makes it. The other times you lose—everything.
Jesus told this story in the middle of his own personal high-risk venture. It was during the last few days of his life. Earlier he had made a decision to leave the safety of rural Galilee and go to Jerusalem, the capital city, where the religious authorities would regard him as a threat to the status quo and their own power and prerogatives, and the Romans would surely regard him as a disturber of the peace.
The parable is about a wealthy man who goes away on a long journey. Before he departs, he distributes his property to three slaves. It is a great deal of money. The first slave takes the money to the market, to a wealth management firm, and invests in high-risk ventures. The second slave does the same thing, puts the money to work at high risk. Both do very well. Both reap the rewards of the Rule of 72. When their master returns, he is very pleased. “Well done,” he says. Then he promises that they will receive more responsibility in the future.
The third slave takes a very different approach with his money, his one talent. He digs a hole in the ground and puts all the money in the hole for safekeeping. In a time of stock-market decline, this man looks very wise.
This is not a bad man. This is a prudent, careful, cautious investor. He is not about to take chances with the money. It is all there, every penny of it, when his master returns. He is proud of himself. “Here it is. All of it, safe and sound.” For his efforts he is treated as harshly as anyone in the whole Bible.
I cannot help wondering how it would have turned out if the first two slaves had put the money in a high-risk venture and lost it all. Jesus did not tell it that way, but I cannot but imagine that the master would not have been harsh toward them, and might even have applauded their efforts. The point here is not really about doubling your money and accumulating wealth. It is about living. It is about investing. It is about taking risks. It is about Jesus himself and what he has done and what is about to happen to him. Mostly it is about what he hopes and expects of them after he is gone. It is about being a follower of Jesus and what it means to be faithful to him, and so, finally, it is about you and me.
The greatest risk of all, it turns out, is not to risk anything, not to care deeply and profoundly enough about anything to invest deeply, to give your heart away and in the process risk everything. The greatest risk of all, it turns out, is to play it safe, to live cautiously and prudently. Orthodox, conventional theology identifies sin as pride and egotism. However, there is an entire other lens through which to view the human condition. It is called sloth, one of the ancient church’s seven deadly sins. Sloth means not caring, not loving, not rejoicing, not living up to the full potential of our humanity, playing it safe, investing nothing, being cautious and prudent, digging a hole and burying the money in the ground.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer said that the sin of respectable people is running from responsibility. Bonhoeffer, who was a pacifist, took his own responsibility so seriously he joined the Resistance and helped plan an assassination attempt on Hitler’s life. His sense of responsibility cost him his life.
How important is this personally, in terms of how we live our lives? Jesus’ warning is that the outcome of playing it safe—not caring, not loving passionately, not investing yourself, not risking anything—is something akin to death, like being banished to the outer darkness.
Now for most of us, religion, our personal faith, has not seemed like a high-risk venture. In fact, it has seemed to be something like the opposite. Faith has seemed to be a personal comfort zone. Faith, many of us think, is about personal security, here and in the hereafter. Faith, we think, is no more risky than believing ideas in our heads about God and Jesus, a list of beliefs to which we more or less subscribe intellectually. Faith, we think, because that is what we have been taught, is getting our personal theology right and then living a good life by avoiding bad things. Religion, we think, is a pretty timid, nonrisky venture.
Here Jesus invites us to be his disciples, to live our lives as fully as possible by investing them, by risking, by expanding the horizons of our responsibilities. To be his man or woman, he says, is not so much believing ideas about him as it is following him. It is to experience renewed responsibility for the use and investment of these precious lives of ours. It is to be bold and brave, to reach high and care deeply.
So the parable is the invitation to the adventure of faith: the high-risk venture of being a disciple of Jesus Christ.