So, one farmer asks another farmer, “What are you going to plant this spring, Jake? . . . Corn?”  And Jake replies, “Nope, scared of the corn borer.”  So he asks, “What about potatoes?” –“Nope, too much danger of potato bugs.” . . . “Well, then, what are you going to plant?”  And Jake answers, “Nothing.  I’m going to play it safe.”* 

Take a risk.  But maybe not with money.  The International Financial Climate—well, it’s grim, isn’t it?  It looks like recession.  Listen, I’m going to ask, and I want you to tell the truth, now, at least to yourself:  how many of you have caught yourselves thinking that it might be better, after all, just to bank your money under your mattress?  Eh?  The old Serta Savings and Loan?!

 That’s fear, isn’t it?  Anxiety, and doubt, and fear.  Some people say that our country has become addicted to fear; and if that’s true, then we seem to be poised for an enormous binge on our drug of choice.  Just about everywhere you go, you’re going to hear people telling you how bad things are.  Radio and television—telling about the real suffering that is happening and will happen.  But let’s take a risk, anyway. 

Wait.  What does that look like?  Does it mean we should be like those first two slaves, from today’s parable of the talents?  Out there wheeling and dealing, playing the game, turning millions into more millions, trying to please our dishonest boss?   

Hey, did she just call Jesus dishonest?!  No.  That is, to quote the infamous Sunday School student, “I know the answer’s supposed to be Jesus, but it sounds like a frog, to me.”  This master sounds like a toad!

 You see, this parable was not told to capitalists like us.  In Jesus’ day, people assumed that resources like food and money were limited.  So, if you accumulated a lot of resources, then everybody knew that you’d accumulated them at the expense of somebody else:  like a thief, you had taken not only your share, but theirs, as well.  You couldn’t get rich, without taking something somebody else needed.  Of course, things are completely different today, . . . right?

 Suppose a big-box Wal-Mart store wants to move into town.  You know the drill.  Some people support it, because it will provide a lot of jobs for the local economy, as well as goods that a lot of people can afford.  And, it’s so convenient!  Other people point out that, if the Wal-Mart moves in, it will also eliminate a lot of jobs, as it puts local shops out of business.  They say that Wal-Mart’s prices are so low, in part, because they underpay their workers, both abroad and at home.  They say that poverty will actually increase among working families, while the owners of Wal-Mart get super-rich off all their stores.  In such a scenario, nobody gets rich except at the expense of somebody else.  “Inexpensive” things come at somebody’s expense.

 Anyway, in Jesus’ day, there was no such thing as an honest rich man.* Rich people had their slaves handle their finances, so all the dishonor would fall on the slaves.  And, in today’s parable, the “master” is rich—obnoxiously rich, as in $40 million rich.  That word “talent” has nothing to do with what we think of as talents; it’s a measure of money—representing at least 20 years of work for the average laborer.   

The master’s first two slaves are out there trading and multiplying money.  Only the third slave does what was considered, in Jesus’ day, a responsible thing:  he buries the money for safekeeping.  The Serta Savings and Loan.

 And he gets punished for it.  He does the cautious, responsible, honorable thing.  He even speaks truth to power:  he tells the master, to his face, that he’s a harsh and dishonorable man.  “I was afraid of you,” he says.  And the master scoffs at him:  he says that, in that case, the lazy slave should have been smart enough to take the money to the bank to earn interest, at least—which was usury—which was considered wrong by Jews like Jesus!  Great guy, this master!

Take a risk.  It’s clearly a message of this parable.  “Look,” this parable seems to say—“if even those two brown-nosing slaves of an unrighteous master know how to take a risk, then how much more should you be able to take risks?  The One you serve is righteous, and what’s at stake for you is much more important than financial wealth.  Do not let fear make you hesitate.” 

Yesterday, the NPR radio show This American Life featured a story about a guy who likes to ask people which of two superpowers they would choose, if they could—flight, or invisibility?  Would you rather be able to fly, or would you rather be able to become invisible?  In today’s parable, it seems as if the first two slaves chose to fly; the third chose invisibility. 

Last week, the parable of the wise and foolish bridesmaids gave us two options—those who are prepared, with enough oil in their lamps; and those who are unprepared, and run out of oil.  But what about Option C, where we remember that our bridegroom is the one who miraculously fills empty oil jars, who makes water spring from desert rocks, who even turns water into wine?** 

This week, in a parallel parable, we again see two options—those who play the game, risking money in order to accumulate wealth for an unrighteous master; and another, who refuses to play the game, choosing to hide his treasure instead.  But, what if--?  What if the third slave had also taken the risk to trust in the One who offers us Door #3 – abundance in impossible situations?  What if the third slave had not only spoken truth to power, but had redistributed power’s wealth to those who needed it?  What if we ourselves did that very thing, in these tense financial times?   

What would cause us to take such a risk, to take the risk of letting go of our fear? 

 Here it is, I think:  we are loved.  Christ Jesus already risked everything for us.  He lived our life with us, suffered and died with us, and offers us his resurrected life.  We know that nothing anywhere can separate us from God’s love.  [As Brother Roger of Taizé would put it,] our past is buried in the heart of Christ, who has already taken care of our future.  The Holy One takes care of us.   

Others need to know this good news.  They need to know that the Holy One cares about their suffering.  They need food, and shelter, and freedom from oppression, and a warm welcome.  We can share all those things with them.  We can extend God’s grace. 

In Matthew’s next parable, which we’ll hear next week, Jesus makes it clear that it’s not the accumulation of wealth that he’s interested in; it’s kindness and justice for those who need it most.  So, let’s take a risk.  We can take it, knowing that there is one thing that can never be taken from us—God’s love.   

We, the church, are so often like the cautious slave—afraid, hesitant, trying so hard to do the right thing that we end up burying our treasure.  In Matthew’s day, Jesus’ Jewish followers were agonizing over whether to entrust the good news to Gentiles—non-Jews, who didn’t keep God’s Law.  Should they be fully included in the new faith community?  The Christ-like answer was Yes.  To those who know they are loved, even more love will be given. 

Take a risk.  “Be a sinner and sin boldly,” as Martin Luther told his friend Philip Melanchthon, “but believe and rejoice in Christ even more boldly.” 

Many of you must be familiar with the old “Footprints in the Sand” piece, about a traveler who gets carried by God.  As a parting shot, this morning, I’d like to offer a slightly-irreverent retake of that story—maybe you’ve heard this one, too.  I think it actually manages to capture some of the spirit of Matthew’s gospel:  if God’s love and justice is really at work in the world, then don’t waste time—get out and share that good news! 

One night I had a wondrous dream.

One set of footprints there were seen—the footprints of my precious Lord—

but mine were not along the shore.

But then, some stranger prints appeared.  I asked the Lord, “What have we here? 

These prints are large and round and neat, but, Lord, they are too big for feet.”

“My child,” he said in somber tones, “for miles I carried you alone. 

I challenged you to walk in faith, but you refused and made me wait. 

You disobeyed; you would not grow; the walk of faith you would not know.  

So I got tired, I got fed up, and there I dropped you on your butt.

Because, in life, there comes a time

when one must fight and one must climb—

when one must rise and take a stand . . .

or leave your butt prints in the sand.

(author unknown)