The Parable of the Talents & the recycle bins

“Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping

where you did not sow, and gathering where

you scattered no seed…” –Matthew 25:24

This morning was beautiful in Houston: crisp, cold, --the air was clear –the sky was brilliant and a peaceful blue.   I got out for my morning walk a little late –I tend to get out a little later these days—but when I woke and found the house was cold I knew I couldn’t stay in bed; I had to get outside. I had gone to bed still thinking about those virgins and their oil jars and their lamps, but I woke up to the thrill of a cold house; I had to be up. And I was eager to get outside.

The cold weather (for Houston) came with a bit of a breeze (I guess) because a few of my neighbors’ recycle bins were blown open. (Several of us had put our bins out Friday, hoping that the recycling pick-up would start again, but apparently not yet. There hasn’t been a pick up since before Harvey; so, many bins in our neighborhood are almost overflowing with broken down boxes and beer cans and plastic bottles.)  When I got halfway down the street to Helen’s house –she’s the friendly neighbor lady with the three floor mop dogs who talks to me about the weather and her grandchildren and our friend Molly.

Anyway, when I got to Helen’s house (p.s. her husband’s name is Anthony) (I mean, just so you know)… Anyway, and … Anyway, when I got to Helen’s house I noticed that their recycle bin had blown open and  there was a couple of flattened boxes near their driveway and a couple of plastic water bottles, and another sheet of cardboard up against the curb across the street.  My immediate reaction was to pick them up, but I didn’t. I started to walk past them. Looking at their open bin which was still pretty full, I figured trash had blown out of it sometime in the night, and thought of closing it for them so more trash wouldn’t blow out. But, I started to talk myself out of it. I began to convince myself that this wasn’t my mess to clean up, and that –in fact—it would be good for the person responsible to find it and clean it up.

I rationalized that they needed to learn to put their recycle bin away and not to overstuff it –and to make sure they secured the lid.  If –I reasoned—I cleaned up their mess –which, now I was noticing was also scattered across their driveway and decorating their front lawn (Boy! They must be good at this whole recycling thing!) –anyway, if I cleaned up their mess for them they wouldn’t find it and learn to take proper care next time.  Heck, it would be a disservice to them and the community at large if I… It was at that point that I found myself stooping down to pick up a flattened box and a couple of plastic bottles….

Anyway (again), this is how I came to stop thinking about the poor foolish virgins and their lack of oil and began to understand more clearly the parable of the talents. Coming upon the mess at Helen’s house (and Anthony) my initial reaction was to help. There was a mess, and I didn’t want to just leave it for someone else. That would be wrong. Yet, when I hesitated, and began to rationalize, I pushed that initial urge down; in a way, I buried it, and as I did, I noticed a growing tension and anxiety rising inside of me –taking its place.  And with this growing tension came resentment. Why can’t people take care of their own trash? Why can’t THEY be responsible for their own recycling? Who do THEY think they are? Why should I be taking care of their messes?  They won’t learn or change unless I let them suffer the natural consequences of not securing their trash. In fact, for their own good, I should probably grab some more recycling and throw it around the yard as well and those beer cans in the neighbor's recycle bin –maybe I should throw some of those around, too!

In that moment I was becoming a “hard man,” a man “who reaps where has not sewn,” a man who “gathers where he has not scattered,” and a man who scatters where he has not recycled! (when no one is looking…)

But the reason I was becoming that man was because I was burying my talent.  I was (to use a psychological term) sublimating my gifts.  Yet, after picking up Helen’s yard and pushing what I could back down into her bin and then putting the excess into the bin of those nursing students who live next door, I continued on my walk and –with another stop or two to pick up stray cardboard and plastic-- I realized:

This is the parable. I was living it. Right here. Right now.  God has given me certain gifts (my talents), one of which is the urge to help.  And when I bury that talent not only do I hide my gift, but I also begin to grow resentful, just like that “one talent” servant in the parable.  And like that servant I begin to project my resentment onto others –including the Master (i.e. God).  Burying my talent, I begin to grow hard and bitter and I project that bitterness and growing hardness, onto the world. I see others as fools and irresponsible and selfish and…

But, in fact, at 6:08 am, Helen and Anthony were probably still snuggled warmly in their bed under extra blankets and completely unaware of what the beautiful cold morning had wrought on their recycling. (And, in fact, they are actually very kind, very generous and very loving neighbors, who always invite us to their post-Thanksgiving Crab-fast!)

Back to the parable. When Mr. 1-talent Servant accuses the master of being a “hard man who reaps where he does not sow,” I wonder if that servant isn’t actually projecting his own hardening heart onto a master who, it seems at the beginning of the parable, is actually very generous and trusting.  According to scholars, a “talent” was actually a huge sum of money –worth about 15+ years labor. So, this master handed that first servant the equivalent of about 75 years salary and asked the servant to take care of it for him.  (My first thought wouldn’t have been to invest it, it would possibly have been to get on the next camel caravan headed to Switzerland!)  So, the master wasn’t acting hard or selfish when he handed out the talents to his servants.  He entrusts huge sums of money to his servants, and then he shares with them the profits.  So, why does the 1-talent servant call him hard?  Because the servant himself has become hard.

If we share the gifts God gives us, we find that they are returned to us doubled, and our vision of God will (I imagine) expand as well; but if we bury our gifts we lose them and as we do we will find our spirit shrinking, our hardening hearts blaming God and our vision of God embittered and growing resentful and scrupulous.

Be your gift! Become the gift God made you to be, and no amount of oil or lamps will matter because you will set the world on fire (St. Catherine of Siena); you will light the world!  But bury your gift and the world seems to grow dark and cold and hard –and in that darkness, you can too easily lose your way, and then where will you be? Somewhere sad, bitter and lonely, haunted by the sound of much “weeping and the gnashing of teeth.”

Postscript: As I was coming back to the house, I saw a largish opened box in the middle of my next door neighbor’s lawn. My first thought wasn’t about recycling or bins, but of Christmas.  I looked at that simple, empty, open brown box and thought –What an interesting Christmas lawn-decoration. Way to go, Anna! I like it. Simple. Subtle. And much easier to maintain than her wobbly giant  inflatable Santa on a train.  Sometimes what you see depends less on what it is, than the way you look at it.

A devouring fire --The glory of the Lord on the mountain

“To the watching Israelites, the glory of the Lord looked like a
devouring fire on the mountain top. Moses went right into
the cloud and on up the mountain. Moses stayed on the
mountain for forty days and forty nights.” --Exodus 24:17

A devouring fire? What could that mean? And why does the author say that it looked like a devouring fire to those watching? For me, I hear in this at least two meanings that speak to my life. First, there is the fact that “the glory of the Lord” may look to the world like a devouring fire, and our desire to walk toward it may look like foolishness to some and the sight of it may be a fearful stumbling block to others (cf. 1 Corinthians 1:23). The glory of the Lord is not for the faint hearted, one might say. But, if we pay attention to the context of this part of Exodus we know that what looks like a “devouring fire” to the watching Israelites, is --in actuality-- the glory of God. And Moses is not harmed by it. Not a hair of his head.

But, on the other hand, the glory of God truly is –I’m certain-- a devouring fire, though one we should not fear, but should rejoice in. As St. Peter tells us in his first letter, “In this you may rejoice, though, for a time, you must bear all sorts of trials; so that the worth of your faith, more precious than gold, which perishes even if it has been tested by fire, may be proven…” (cf. 1 Peter 1:7).

So what is being devoured when we walk into the glory of the Lord? Into God’s devouring fire? I suspect it is our ego, our pride, our sin –the dross that clings to us. For me, it is –it must be—the “I wants,” that still cling to me and that I too often cling to and clutch at so desperately. I want to be successful. I want to be honored. I want to be loved. I want to be comfortable. I want to be prosperous. I want to be free of sickness. I want a Beck’s Prime veggie burger and a ½ pound of fries with a large Vanilla malted! And a bag of popcorn and a root beer and a new pair of sneakers and cats that don’t tear up the house and a car that never needs repairs and…. And one of those drinks with the little pink umbrellas… and that paddle ball thing, too. I want that, too!

And yet, still, I wonder: what is the devouring fire in my own life? Is it the difficulties I’ve had at work? Loss of autonomy? Changes that feel like trials? Or is it my loss of the diaconate? The humbling trial of being told I wasn’t called to this vocation that I had begun to identify with so intimately… I felt devoured after the meeting when I was told I was being dropped from the program. I felt devoured and spit out. And for almost two years now I have had to humble myself and accept it, and try to hold onto my faith, my love of God, my commitment to His church and to do His will. And it has been hard. It has been painful. It has felt –at times—quite fearful and quite foolish. I have been asked, why I don’t just change religions or join another church? Why don’t I become a Methodist (for instance) and then I can be a minister and have my own church –if I want! And yet, I have remained. I have remained where God has lead me and I wait upon the Lord. I wait within the devouring fire of his glory –trusting that in His glory, I will not be harmed –only tested and made stronger. I am also learning that forty days and forty nights is “God speak” for “this may take a while.”

Ask yourself: what is the devouring fire in your life? Where is God calling you to something hard, to do something painful, something humbling, something that requires you to let go of your wants, your plans, your very self and be more fully dependent on Him? More fully His? Is your devouring fire a troubled relationship that you must humble yourself to mend? Is it a difficulty at work that requires you to let go of some power or some position you worked hard to achieve? Is it a longing for popularity or glory that you can’t let go of? Is there a hurt you must let go of? A disappointment? A loss? A loneliness you cannot fathom?

Do not be afraid to enter into the glory of the Lord, even though it looks to all the world like a devouring fire; as the great poet Jane Kenyon once wrote: God does not leave us comfortless… Whether God calls you up the mountain, or He calls you to come to Him walking on the water –accept His invitation. Go to Him. Do not be afraid. God is waiting; in what looks like a devouring fire, He is waiting just for you.

Praying for hunger: Corpus Christi & the food of God

“Amen, amen, I say to you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man
and drink His blood, you do not have life within you.”
--John 6:53

 “Brothers and sisters: The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not
a participation in the blood of Christ?  The bread that we break, is it
not a participation in the body of Christ?  Because the loaf of bread is one,
we, though many, are one body, for we all partake of the one loaf.”
--1 Corinthians 10:16-17

What does it mean to eat the flesh of the Son of Man? What does it mean to participate in the blood of Christ?  What does it mean to hunger after the body of Christ?

Here in the 21st century, as we struggle with all the issues of our day, how do we live out this calling? How do we truly participate in the blessing of His blood? His body? Those are questions that are key to the solemnity of Corpus Christi. We are called on this day to give special attention and adoration to the sacramental presence of Christ in the Holy Eucharist.  And the church has selected these two readings from Corinthians and John's Gospel to help us remember that we are called to participate in the blessing that is the body and blood of Christ.  And so, some churches will have processions and set aside time for adoration of the exposed Eucharist: the body of Christ. It is a call we must not ignore, because it is a call for us to grow not only in our faith but in our hunger for God.

The first reading for today's mass is the one that spoke to me today.  The Old Testament reading  from Deuteronomy. And especially this passage:

“…He therefore let you be afflicted with hunger, and then fed you
with manna, a food unknown to you and your fathers…” (8:3)

In my New Jerusalem Bible, this verse reads:

"He humbled you, He made you feel hunger..."

I think that reading it I was reminded of poor Abram (in Genesis) being called out of his homeland and away from his kinsfolk and lead to a foreign land. Humbled and probably feeling a bit afflicted by God asking so much of him. And, of course we see the same kind of reaction from the Jews wandering in the desert for 40 years, complaining to Moses that He led them out of Egypt (where at least they had food and shelter) only to let them die of hunger in the desert.

  When God leads us away from the familiar and the safe, He leads us into a kind of hungering --and certainly it is  (as far as I can tell) always a humbling experience. God leads us out of our safe space and allows us to be afflicted with hunger, if not for actual food, then for safety and security, for friends and family, for comfort and reassurance.  And God lets us be afflicted by this hunger, not to test us or prove to us He's the boss, but in order that He might feed us with a bread unknown to us and to our parents. 

What is this bread that we do not know? This manna? That is my question?  And how do we get it? I think there is a clue in a famous scene in John’s Gospel.  When the apostles return to find Jesus talking with the Samaritan woman at the well, they offer Him something to eat, but Jesus tells them He has food to eat that they don’t know about.  And when they are puzzled by that, He explains:

“My food is to do the will of the one who sent me, and to complete His work…”
–John 4:34

I wonder if that doesn’t tell us something about Heavenly food, about manna, and also about the importance and the work of prayer. We tend to think about prayer as a way of filling our tank. We go to God in prayer so He can fill our spiritual tank up for the work we have to do, or the world we have to face, etc. etc.  We go to God because we need grace and we have a spiritual longing for the divine.  I certainly don’t deny any of that.  But, I also wonder if the paradox of prayer is that instead of filling us up, the real work of prayer is to empty us out. And that by emptying us it prepares us to be filled by the real food of God’s blessing; the real manna; that food that Jesus is talking about.  We go to prayer not to be filled, but to be emptied, so we can be made hungry for  the will of God, the work of God.  To be made ready for this meal, we have to be humbled, and perhaps a sign of this humility, of the process of being humbled is a growing hunger, a longing for something we cannot achieve on our own; something we cannot even imagine for ourselves: a food unknown to us and to our parents.

Like Abram, lead to a strange land, when we kneel in prayer we are emptied of all our earthly resources, all our powers and glories and achievements; humbled; we are emptied so that God can fill us with grace and make of us a blessing to the world –That is how we participate in the work of God. We pray not to be filled up, but to be emptied, so we can be fed by the work of God.
Want to know what work God has for you? Empty yourself in prayer. Let God afflict you with hunger through prayer. And then let God feed you with the food that Christ spoke of: the Work of God. 

Are you listening, Mr. Sutter?  Put down those chips and that bowl of dip, something better awaits you.

The blessing of vulnerability --further reflections

“Go from your country, your kinsmen

and your father's house to the land
that I will show you... You are to be a blessing.”

–Genesis 12:1-2

What are the Beatitudes but a call for us to leave our place of security and comfort and go to a foreign land –a place of vulnerability, of risk and of blessing.  In Genesis, God calls Abram to leave his homeland, his kinfolk and his father’s house to go forth to a land that God will show him.  In that place and by becoming vulnerable to the curses and blessings of these foreign people, by leaving behind his security and earthly support system and putting his trust wholly in God Abram becomes a blessing. 

“Blessed are you who are poor…”

“Blessed are you who hunger…”

“Blessed are you who mourn…” –cf. Luke 6:20-21 & Mt. 5:3-11

Is this not a call to us to leave behind our homeland of culture and identity, our kinfolk of support and insurance, our father’s house of security and comfort and go to a foreign land that Jesus is showing us: a land of hunger, poverty, mourning, meekness and abuse?  Go not where we are safe and feel secure and accepted, but where we feel some risk of rejection and martyrdom even.  What greater love is there than to give up your life for another? 

But how do we live this out?  What does it mean in our daily life?  For me, there was a wonderful incident the other night that assured me that I had stumbled in the right direction.  I was volunteering at the hospital with the chaplain’s office. The chaplain tapes a list of names to his door for me. It is usually a longish list, but he will highlight the ones that he wants me to visit. Usually I just visit those highlighted names; I tend to be a rule follower. But as I was heading to the elevator I noticed a name --someone I had visited before–not highlighted. And something inside me made me feel that I should visit that patient.

I imagined that I would go up, say hello to him, perhaps offer a prayer and be on my way.  But when I got to his room on the 4^th floor, he was asleep.  So I was about to go back to my assigned list when I noticed a man who looked a little troubled in the room next door. So, I poked my head in and asked if there was anything I could do for him.  He was very hard of hearing, but he was also quite clearly agitated and needed someone (or something).  So I struggled to talk with this elderly man, but I listened as he told me that he was anxious about his daughters and confused about why he was being left at the hospital. After a while I offered to pray.  He didn’t understand at first, but as I began to pray the Our Father, he fell right in with me –as if suddenly something clicked.  A nurse arrived while we were praying and when we finished, she began her business with charts and scans, but she also began to ease his worries by reminding him why he was in the hospital. 

I left and tried the other man again. He was still asleep.  As I turned to leave and go back to my assigned names, another nurse approached me.  He wanted to know if I was the chaplain, because a patient had just died and his family needed someone.  My first reaction was a start of fear. I’m not a chaplain and I wasn’t sure what to do.  But, instead of hiding behind my lack of qualifications. I explained that I was a volunteer, and asked him to show me where the family was.  Standing at the door to the room, I asked God for a blessing and went inside to be with a family in deep and unconsolable mourning.

That was a place and a moment where I felt weak and slightly afraid. I hungered for the security and safety of the “right words,” but I had only my presence and a selection of psalm to offer them. I felt fearfully vulnerable. But, it was the place God lead me. And so I trusted. I trusted that whatever happened –this wasn’t about me. It was about their sorrow and their need to have someone come and pray with them in their time of mourning.  And so I went. And praying with them, sharing psalm 42, listening to their memories and their pain, hearing what a loving father the deceased was, all of it –I believe it was a blessing for them, but I am certain it was a blessing for me.

And it all started with me reading a name on my list that wasn’t selected for me by the chaplain, but (I guess) was by the Holy Spirit.  The first step was leaving the safety and security of the highlighted names, to go somewhere God was leading me.  Then, visiting the man who was almost deaf was a second step. He wasn’t the one I felt an attachment to, and I only stepped into his room because I could see him through the window and saw what looked like fear and confusion on his face –in his eyes. It was uncomfortable and awkward trying to talk with him –but because I tried, because I didn’t just give up and walk away, I was still on the floor when the other man died and because I left his room when the nurse started her work I happened to be walking out the door just as the other nurse came looking for a chaplain. 

And by being vulnerable what did I find?  An opportunity to become a blessing.  And an opportunity to be blessed.  And you know, I think in that moment of blessedness I had a brief glimpse of another foreign land: Heaven. Perhaps what Jesus is telling us in the beatitudes isn’t just that being poor, or meek, or hungry or thirsty or suffering for Christ is good for us; perhaps what He means when He says “blessed are…” is that to offer ourselves in this way is truly blessed; it is a taste of Heaven. 

Think about your own life. When did you feel most blessed? Was it in a moment of earthly success (a 100 on a test, a new job, successfully completing a project or getting an award for some achievement) or was it when you offered yourself completely (in all your brokenness and insufficiency) and found that you were received and you were a blessing to someone who needed you?

To become a blessing is to be doubly blessed.