Its somewhat legendary in the Episcopal Church that the seminarian or brand new clergy get assigned to preach on the Sundays when the lessons are really difficult, or when the theology is complicated (like on Trinity Sunday). Steve, I’m not a seminarian! And just because I’m moving away is not an excuse to punish me.
But here we are, gathered to worship the God of justice on a Sunday when the readings make it pretty hard to figure out what that means. If we take Jesus’ parable at face value, it seems to suggest that dishonesty in the service of covering one’s own backside is a good thing. And then, after the parable concludes with the master commending the manager for cooking the books, Jesus launches into a series of inscrutable and in some ways apparently contradictory teachings about faithfulness with dishonest and true wealth.
Since this parable does not occur in other gospels, Scripture scholars tell us that it’s likely that what we heard in the lesson today is the evangelist Luke’s gathering of disparate teachings of Jesus about money. And surely he had a point in doing it this way, even though it’s not so readily apparent to us. One commentator suggests that the dishonest manager was commended for writing down his master’s debtors because the debt was usurious—hence in violation of Jewish law—or because he forwent his own commission. All of which is certainly possible, but its not what the text says, and it feel a little bit like trying to gaslight the manager’s dishonesty.
Why is this text so hard to interpret? Well, why is life so hard to figure out? Every day is full of of choices whose impacts we can never fully anticipate. It’s entirely likely that even when we try to behave as the children of the light that Jesus calls us to be, we will end up being children of this age like the dishonest manager. Really, the only way to avoid this risk is to simply opt out of hard decisions about the resources that we control, or that we control on behalf of others.
Some years ago I was called upon to offer respite care for a very sick man who ultimately died. It was a tragic situation, both because he was rather young and because of his peculiar personal circumstances. He came from a wealthy family that was also very critical, evidently of him in particular. So although he was in control of a fortune and a family foundation, he was unable to do anything with any of it. He was depressed and a hoarder, and could not make any decisions about the use of his stuff, his time, or his money because he was so afraid of making the wrong choice. He was both a master and a manager, but could not do anything—good bad or indifferent—in either role.
We’d never do that, right? I’d like to think I wouldn’t, but I have to tell you that my current process of moving my residence to Portland after 21 years in the East Bay has been a pretty sobering reality check. The house looks good on the surface, but Lord have mercy on what I‘ve managed to stuff into forgotten corners of closets or under beds. As I uncover it, box by box, I keep asking myself what I could possibly have had in mind in keeping this and such.
Most of it is of no value other than sentimental—things like children’s artwork—and of that I could have kept 10% and it would have been plenty. But there are a few things I’ve stored up that have far more financial and utility value than sentimental, so I could easily have sold them or given them away to people who might really have needed them. But instead I found more efficient storage systems, which is our generation’s equivalent of building bigger barns or burying things of value. Something about which Jesus had plenty to say as well.
So back to this bewildering parable. I’m not looking for a way to justify or excuse the manager’s malfeasance, but I do find myself wondering if Jesus’ point was something else. Perhaps this parable is not so much ethics as eschatology. That is, it may be more about what we’re becoming than about what we’re doing. The entire witness of Scripture—played out in the lives of masters and managers, slaves and soldiers, woman and men—is an unrelenting call to become a community of stronger and deeper and more mutual relationships. Because God’s own nature is revealed in relationship.
Steve, that would be my Trinity Sunday sermon. Want to invite me back?
Whatever else the dishonest manager’s sins of omission or commission may have been, he used the resources he had to invest in strengthening his relationships. Jesus said “make friends for yourself,” and he did it. Maybe he did it in the right way, maybe he did it in the wrong way. This parable does not make it clear how we are to judge his choices, just as it is not always clear how to judge our own. Fortunately, that’s not our job. In the fullness of time, we’ll either be commended by God, or our sins will be covered by God’s infinite mercy.
You at St Stephen’s are in the midst of some exciting new ministries, which makes it a bittersweet time for me to bid you farewell. Whatever you decide, it’s going to be good! You’re considering a generous capital campaign and you’re discerning how you want to invest in your outreach ministries. In a sense, both of these endeavors put you in the role of God’s manager and so—taking a cue from this parable—I hope you are courageous in building relationships. With those already present here, with those who long to be part of this community but just don’t know it yet, with those in the surrounding community who need your compassion, and with those who won’t ever profess Christianity but will meet Christ through you.
There’s a half-sheet in your bulletin. Why don’t you take a moment and fill it out—all you have to do is indicate what you most value in outreach—and the ushers will collect them during the offertory.
There. You made a choice! And in the Episcopal Church, we think the Holy Spirit guides and blesses the choices made in Christian community. But really, the only way you can make the wrong choice is by not making one at all, like the poor gentleman who died with his family foundation intact. There’s another parable of Jesus—the parable of the talents recorded in Luke and Matthew’s Gospels—in which the greatest sin is failing to put the master’s resources to use. It seems that Jesus wants us to know that it’s OK to use our resources in all sorts of ways, just so long as we don’t bury them.
In the 18 months or so that I have had the privilege of serving alongside you, I’ve seen some talents exhumed at St. Stephen’s. I’ve gotten to minister alongside those of you who have exercised new leadership in teaching, administration and pastoral care. And now you are embarking on even more courageous investments in ministry. Be brave, brothers and sisters. Don’t bury the riches entrusted to you. You cannot serve God and wealth, Jesus tells us. But we can use our wealth to serve God. And indeed, we must.
