Scripture: Matthew 25:14-30 and Mark 11:12-14
I have a longstanding interest in the origins of words. Words come from all sorts of odd and unexpected places, and understanding their background can shed light on their meaning and proper usage. I say that as though I were a serious person, which I am not, so let me hasten to add that a lot of word origins are also just plain fun.
In some cases, we can attribute a word to a particular person. Roughly 1,700 words and phrases appear for the first time in the works of William Shakespeare and scholars believe that he invented most of them. You quoted Shakespeare this week, probably without knowing it, if you said such words as: lonely, swagger, critic, manager, accommodation, bedroom, bedazzled, generous, baseless, or majestic. Shakespeare made all those up.
In his poem, Jabberwocky, Lewis Carroll first gave us the word “chortle,” a delightful combination of “chuckle” and “snort.” And my brilliant law school colleague, Don Herzog, came up with a word that now appears in the Oxford English Dictionary: “anecdata,” which combines the words “anecdote” and “data.” “Anecdata” refers to the reliance on personal experiences, rather than systematic research or analysis, for proof of something. It’s a particularly good word to have at your disposal these days, when so many people would rather rely on anecdata than on actual data.
Sometimes we have a very clear sense of a word’s origin. For example, the word “companion” comes from two Latin roots, one meaning “with” and the other meaning “bread.” This makes a “companion” someone with whom you break bread, or, if you prefer, someone with whom you share a sandwich. The root for “bread” also gives us the Italian word “panini,” and “panini,” in turn, gives us an average of about 600 calories.
Sometimes experts disagree about the origins of a word. Take, for instance, the word “posh,” meaning “fancy,” as in “we stayed at a posh hotel.” Some sources suggest that the word originates from a time when ships regularly sailed from the new world to the old and the best stateroom views were on the northerly, ocean side of the vessel. In order to make sure luggage found its way to the right place, the bags of the wealthiest travelers were marked “port out, starboard home.” Ultimately, this reduced to the abbreviation p-o-s-h. Scholars have debated the merits of this theory, but it makes for a good yarn.
Speaking of yarn, one of my favorite word origins relates to the word “clue,” as in “the detective found a clue.” The word derives from an Old English word, “cleowen,” which meant a ball of yarn. What does a ball of yarn have to do with the word “clue” as we use it, you may ask? Well, as you’ll recall, in ancient Greek mythology the hero Theseus had to go deep into a labyrinth to kill the dreaded Minotaur monster. As he entered the maze, he unwound behind him a ball of yarn—a “cleowen”— so he could find his way back out. From this myth, a “cleowen,” shortened to a “clue,” came to mean anything that helps us find our way out of a mystery.
And, speaking of mysteries, the only thing I love more than a good word origin is a good one of those. I adore how mysteries give you a puzzle to solve and test your skills of deduction and observation. But, again, I don’t want to misrepresent myself as a serious person. Mysteries are just plain fun, too.
Now, you may be wondering where I’m going with all this stuff, so let me assure you that—despite all appearances—I actually do have a plan here.
First, I’m talking about these ideas because this morning I’m going to try to solve with you some intriguing mysteries about the two texts that we just heard from Matthew and Mark. I also hope to show you that those two texts are connected in an interesting and unexpected way. Together, we’ll follow the “clues” where they lead us.
Second, I’m talking about these things because one of our texts is also responsible for creating a word that we use all the time. It is, as you may have guessed, the word “talent.” Let’s start there.
In the ancient world, a “talent” meant a unit of weight, typically of gold or silver. The amount of weight that qualified as a talent varied as between civilizations. For example, a talent weighed much more in the time of Moses than it did during the Roman Empire. But, from one culture to the next, the word got at the same idea: a talent was a standard measure of a valued substance.
That’s what Jesus meant when he used the word in the parable. And it’s obviously not how we generally use the word today. But, if you do use the word this way because you carry weighted units of gold with you wherever you go, then please let me know. I want to be your friend.
Most etymologists believe that at some point during the fifteenth century the word “talent” began to take on an additional meaning—based on the very parable that we heard this morning. A talent came to signify any skill that God bestows upon someone, just as the master in the parable bestows talents upon the servants. A talent is therefore a gift: we can’t earn it or acquire it; we can only decide what to do with it—or fail to do with it.
Now, let’s think back on the parable of the talents and let’s take note of a mystery that I think is tucked inside of it. Recall the story: A man, the master of several servants, is headed off on a journey. He summons his servants and gives one five talents, one two talents, and one a single talent—“to each according to their ability,” the text tells us.
When the master comes back, he finds that the first two servants have increased the value of what he gave them. The third one, to whom he gave a single talent, buried it in the backyard, presumably to keep it safe. But, of course, it did not increase in value underground. So, you might say that the first two had a talent for talents, while the third had no talent for talents.
The master praises the first two servants, but receives with anger the report from the third. He rages against the servant. He calls him wicked and lazy. He orders him thrown into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
Now, I want you to notice something about this parable that might not have caught your attention. There’s a little mystery going on here. There’s something missing from the story. And the thing that’s missing is a fourth servant—specifically, a fourth servant who was a plainly, unmistakably, and grievously bad person.
Think about it. When Jesus tells a parable that includes multiple characters, it’s usually the case that at least one of them is a bad guy. Maybe it’s a bad guy who gets redeemed, like the Prodigal Son. Or maybe it’s a bad guy who stays bad, like the priest and the Levite who ignore the downtrodden man that the Good Samaritan saves. But, in most parables like this, the cast of players includes a bad guy.
In this parable, however, that figure is absent. The worst character we get is the third servant, who frankly doesn’t seem all that bad. He didn’t spend his talent on a fancy new chariot with a sunroof, or waste it in town on wild indulgences, like the Prodigal Son would’ve done. He wasn’t cruelly indifferent, like the priest and the Levite. He just hid his talent. It’s more a sin of omission than commission.
But you see—and this is the critical point—the parable makes clear that it’s still a sin. In my view, that solves our mystery, it explains why Jesus didn’t need a fourth “bad guy” servant to make his point. Jesus wanted us to understand that we can waste our talent by simply doing nothing with it, by burying it, by putting our light under a bushel, as it were. He wanted us to see that, when we do that, we put ourselves at odds with God.
Perhaps you’ve heard the adage: “Your talent is God’s gift to you. What you do with your talent is your gift back to God.” The first and second servants made the most of their talents, and it filled the master with joy. The third servant did nothing with his talent, and it was as if he’d thrown it back into his master’s face. No wonder the master was so harsh with him.
I want to say a word about the master’s harshness with the third servant, because it may take us aback. Indeed, it may strike us as grossly unfair, given that the parable tells us that the master gave out talents based on abilities. The master knew that poor, beleaguered servant number three didn’t have much to work with. That’s why he gave him just one talent in the first place.
But it’s critical to bear in mind that this parable is exactly that: a parable. It’s not a set of specific and literal instructions on how to behave. It’s not telling us to berate people who fail to do the same things that more talented people do. It’s a rhetorical device, a prose poem of sorts, a story that Jesus uses to gesture toward a greater truth about how God wants us to make use of the gifts with which he blesses us.
This discussion of the nature of parables brings me to our second mystery, one embedded in the passage from Mark that we read for today. It’s an odd little story, placed after Jesus has entered Jerusalem and gone to Bethany. Jesus and the disciples are headed back to Jerusalem when he spots a fig tree beside the road. Jesus is hungry, but the tree has no fruit because it isn’t in season.
Jesus’s reaction may remind us of the master’s response to the third servant. He gets angry. He berates the fig tree for having no fruit. And he curses the tree, declaring: “May no one ever eat fruit from you again.”
For many years, I stumbled over this story and struggled mightily with it. It seems so very unlike Jesus. Why get mad at a tree for doing what trees do—bear fruit in season? Why kill a living thing because it failed to do something it couldn’t do? It all seems cruel, unfair, inexplicable, and totally out of character.
And then, just recently, a solution to the mystery occurred to me. What if, in its original form, this text didn’t describe actual events but was, instead, a parable? What if Jesus stopped beside the fig tree with his disciples and said something like this: “Consider the fig tree. It bears fruit only in season. But you must bear fruit when the Son of Man calls upon you to do so, or be cursed.”
Such a text would convey the same message as the one we find in the eleventh chapter of Mark. But as a parable, instead of as a description of actual events, all the problematic dimensions of the story would fall away. We can almost imagine a footnote to the text saying: “No fig trees were harmed in the making of this parable.”
This is just my theory and you may disagree with it and I may be wrong. But to support my thesis—and here I rely on actual data rather than on anecdata—I would point out that Jesus also talks about fig trees in the twenty-fourth chapter of Matthew and in the thirteenth chapter of Luke. And, in both of those passages, Jesus uses the fig tree as part of a parable.
From Matthew:
[And Jesus said:] “From the fig tree learn its lesson: As soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near. So also, when you see all these things, you know that he is near, at the very gates.”
From Luke:
“Then [Jesus] told this parable: A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, ‘See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?’ He replied, ‘Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.”
I like the way the parable of the talents connects with these various texts about fig trees. Taken together, I think these texts have this message to convey: We must cultivate our talents, feeding and nurturing them. And we must be prepared to bring those talents to fruition during any season. Because every season is the season of God’s good work.
Or let me put things a bit more directly. In my view, in these texts Jesus is trying to move us away from a “bystander mentality.” He wants us to understand that God has work for us to do and that we can’t get it done if we’re not putting our talents to use and if we’re not bearing fruit—even when the cold winds of the season resist it. It’s a challenging collection of ideas, and Jesus wants us to take up that challenge.
It is sometimes said that every preacher has only two sermons. One is a challenge sermon. One is a comfort sermon.
Given all that is going on in the world, maybe you came here today looking for comfort. And you drew the short straw because I’m the person in the pulpit. So you got yourself a challenge sermon instead.
But I want to invite you to consider a possibility, something that I think Jesus understood, and that I believe he wants us to understand as well. Often the comfort comes in the challenge. Let me say that again: Often the comfort comes in the challenge.
Often the comfort comes in recognizing that the Most Powerful Force in the Universe has called us into action. Often the comfort comes in appreciating the gifts we have at our disposal and in putting them to use. Often the comfort comes in bringing our talents out into the open and showing what they can do.
Sisters and brothers in Christ, now—more than ever in our lifetimes—the world needs us to look up, to speak up, and to show up. It needs us to multiply and amplify our talents. It needs us to bear fruit—even in the prevailing and relentless wind and ice. It needs us to return our gifts to the master even bigger and brighter and bolder than they were when we received them through his grace. And what better time to get all that underway than in this precious and holy season of Lent?
The word “courage” comes from a root that means “heart.” The word “faith” comes from a root that means “trust.” The word “miracle” comes from a root that means “object of wonder.”
Jesus tells us that if we trust our hearts to him, and to the Father, and to the Holy Spirit, then there will be no end to the wonders we will see. Our talents will grow in the flexing. And, to borrow a phrase from Albert Camus, in the midst of winter we will find within ourselves an invincible summer.
Praise God that it is so.
And the people said: Amen.
