Dearest Rachel –
When I was in junior high, I attended a Lutheran school, having been withdrawn from the local public school after a third-grade teacher got sick and tired of me being the precocious “well, ackshully…” kid in her class and told my parents I needed to have my head examined. They actually did so, for one appointment with a psychiatrist, who told them that the problem wasn’t so much with me as the teacher; however, when they confronted the principal with these findings – and he, surprisingly enough, agreed with them – he admitted that, since the teacher had tenure, and couldn’t be reproved for her assessment of me. I would just have to bear with her, and any other such teachers that the school system might have me deal with in the coming years. Thankfully, there were other options, and while it wasn’t cheap for them to do so (especially once Dad started his own sales representation business), I was enrolled in this parochial school where, while Christian in nature, they didn’t always line up with our own beliefs, but were generally open to good faith (pardon the pun) disagreements.
In the spirit of all this, some of the literature that was part of the school’s curriculum was of necessity religious, including a semester going over Luther’s catechism, in preparation for the rest of the class (good Lutherans all) to be confirmed before taking their first Communion. In the spirit of understanding what it really meant to partake of what our church referred to as ‘the elements’ of communion, I refused to participate at either church (not that I would have been allowed to at the Lutheran church) until I had sufficiently understood and passed the course along with my classmates – I was well aware of the passage where Paul talks about those who “eat and drink judgment upon themselves” for taking it too lightly. All of which, I think I’d told you about, more or less, during our time together; none of this should be new as much as just refreshed memory that you weren’t around to watch or experience with me.
It so happened that one of the books – and I don’t recall if it was even part of the curriculum, whether chapel, confirmation, or straight-up literature class – that I came across there contained a series of modernized parables. One of them stood out to me then, and still does now, because it contained an idea that wasn’t addressed by Jesus when He told the original story to the crowds in either Galilee or Judea.
You’ll recall the parable of the talents; the servants entrusted by their master with ten, five and a single bag of gold while he went on a trip. Each were meant to do something with the money, and bring it to him when he came back with a return on their investment. The first two doubled their money, and were consequently praised and rewarded for their stewardship. The third didn’t seem to know what to do with the money – and didn’t seem to think much of his master’s moneygrubbing ways (although give him credit for chutzpah for saying that to his master’s at the end) – so he simply hid the money until his master returned, rather than, say, putting it in the equivalent of an interest-bearing deposit (which appears to have been a thing even back in those days). Needless to say, not only was he not praised, but he was essentially fired on the spot, for both his insolence and indolence.
But this book had an alleged fragment that the author claimed had been left out of the scripture about a fourth servant, who had likewise been given a single bag of gold. Unlike his fellow servant, he had attempted to invest it, but for reasons that escape my memory (this was over forty years ago since I read it), he had lost the original principal, never mind any earnings that it might have generated. Despite being afraid of his master, he came back with his story and humblest apology, expecting to be cast out into the darkness with his fellow servant.
Instead, and, much to his relief and astonishment, he was welcomed by his master, forgiven for the loss of the funds, and given the reward that had initially been stored up for the other single-bag servant. When questioned about his reaction to these results, the master simply stated something about the fact that this servant at least made the effort that his partner had not. It probably sounded more profound in the original text, but I can’t remember exactly what he said about forgiving his wayward servant. In a way, it seems like a plausible reaction one might expect from God for what He’s entrusted us with and what we do with it, but without it being addressed, it’s hard to say.
Why didn’t Jesus speak of a servant who invested unwisely (or unfortunately)? Good ideas don’t always pan out; investments don’t always produce the handsome returns they should. One could expect the rewards of investment come with the risk of loss; what if a diligent servant should lose what he’s been entrusted with? How would God react to a failed investment? It seems like a fair question, given the analogy.
There are two reasons I can think why this might have been omitted, though, both of which have to do with what the ‘talents’ are supposed to represent. God states through Isaiah that His word will not return to Him empty; if what we, as his servants, have been entrusted with is His word to distribute, we cannot lose it ourselves, at the very least (although it does beg the question about the unequal quantities given to some servants). On the other hand, it may well refer to the talents we have been given (a word which has moved etymologically specifically because of its use in this parable – up until this point, it was simply a measure of precious metal, somewhere between sixty and seventy pounds of the stuff), which we are also unable to lose, although we can let them atrophy from disuse, I suppose. In either case, there isn’t the need to concern oneself about losing something like there would be with real money. The only question would have to do with the return on one’s investment; could you make it pay off like the Master wants you to?
I realize that modifying scripture is, at best, no more than Christian fanfiction, and at worst, borders on blasphemy (we both recall that John talked about the punishments awaiting those “who add to this book” at the end of the revelations he wrote about near the end – one wonders about the fate of those who did so like, say, Joseph Smith or the disciples of Mohammed), so please don’t think that I’m trying to come up with definitive answers to this possibility. And indeed, He may have left it out because He didn’t consider it an applicable possibility. But without it being addressed explicitly, I know I’m not the only one to have wondered about it – indeed, it might not have crossed my mind if I hadn’t read someone else writing about it. But it seems a reasonable question; can we waste our efforts in His service? And is He okay with that, or does He not consider effort spent in His service to be a waste? You have these answers on your side of the veil, honey; it’s a shame we don’t over here, where we might be able to course correct if we knew.
Or maybe we wouldn’t; we both know what humans are like all too much of the time.
In any event, that’s all I have for now. Keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 