Thirty-Third Sunday in Ordinary Time A
There
are a whole lot of things that a pastor needs to know
that
they never get around to teaching you in the seminary.
You
may recall that, early on in my time here,
I
had to get a crash course in boilers
when
the one at Notre Dame blew up.
In
my last assignment—in Old Forge—it was roofing.
St.
Bartholomew’s in Old Forge
is
one of the newest churches in the diocese—
dedicated
in 1991, if I remember right.
But
it fell to me to put the third roof on that rather young building. They
just kept leaking.
Part
of the process was removing the church’s steeple—
and
not temporarily, either, but for good.
It
was a tall, slender fiberglass unit,
ordered
out of a church supply catalogue,
that
looked alright from the ground…
…but
when you got up to the base of it you could see
that
it wasn’t really designed for Adirondack weather:
it
was rapidly rotting away.
About
10 days after the steeple was dismantled,
a family
wanted to talk to me after Mass—
some
of the many summer residents
who
come-and-go in that resort town.
They
wanted to talk about the steeple…
…because they had donated it back when the church was built.
…because they had donated it back when the church was built.
They
weren’t angry—thank God!—
but they were pretty disappointed.
I
can still hear them saying:
“But,
Father…the great cathedrals of Europe…
they
have steeples which stand for 500 years or more!”
(Oh,
how I wanted to add:
“But they’re not made of fiberglass!”)
Unfortunately,
the steeple they’d paid for
didn’t
stand for 20 years, leave alone a few centuries.
We
seem to somehow have forgotten what we once knew:
how
to build things to stand the test of time.
I
had a similar conversation with some parishioners
a
few weeks ago.
I
stopped by their home and found them
doing
some exterior work to the house and yard,
getting
ready for winter.
He
was putting new trim around the windows.
“Those
windows look pretty new,” I said.
“They
are,” he answered. “They were just
put in last year.
But
get up close and you can see they didn’t do a very good job.
While
it looks OK, it won’t last.
It’s
sad,” he continued.
“Once
upon a time, people took more pride in their work.
I guess they cared more,
and
they knew how to do this sort of thing well.”
These
are just two examples of something, I fear,
which
goes way beyond
how
we construct our homes and houses of worship these days;
they’re
signs of what I’ll call our “good enough culture.”
It’s
funny, because we live in an age
when
we want everyone to feel like a winner…
but,
in the end, when everybody’s a winner…nobody wins.
We’ve
seen a gradual, general lowering of standards.
In
so many areas of life—manufacturing, education and sports,
politics,
religion and relationships—
we
appear increasingly less and less willing to strive for the best,
and
more and more willing to settle for what’s merely “good enough.”
This
Sunday, Jesus tells the parable
of
the master, the servants, and the talents.
Just
so you know: a “talent” in gospel times
didn’t
refer to some personal skill or ability.
A
talent was a unit of measure,
and
a silver talent—the sort Jesus seems to be talking about—
wasn’t
exactly pocket change:
it
was 130 pounds of silver—
the
equivalent or 9 or 10 years’ salary for an average skilled laborer.
Even
the third servant, who’d been given “just” one talent,
had
been entrusted with a veritable fortune!
Given
that bit of background,
it’s
fairly common when this gospel is read
to
get a homily on parish stewardship—
on
what contributions it takes from parishioners
in
order to make a parish run well.
Don’t
worry:
I’m
not going to talk about giving money to the Church
(although,
if you read our annual reports,
you’d
understand why I might);
and
I’m not going to talk about
donating
your time and your talents, either
(although
it is getting harder all the time
to
find enough volunteers to do things around here).
Instead,
I want you to consider
the
stewardship of your own hearts.
We
receive so much from God:
his
love;
faith
in Jesus Christ;
baptism,
to wash away sin and make us members of the Church;
the
Holy Eucharist, which is the bread of eternal life.
And
that’s just the start of the list!
What
return is God getting on his big investment in us?
When
it comes to what you do for your faith,
what
you do for your family—
in
both cases, what you do for God—
are
you settling for “good enough”?
Jesus
makes it rather clear this Sunday:
when
we appear before God,
“good
enough” simply won’t do.
God
doesn’t want “good,”
and he doesn’t accept “better”;
God
expects our best.
Now,
that’s not to say he expects us to be perfect.
Doing
your best is different for each one of us,
according
to the particular talents you’ve been given.
And
this isn’t a competition, either.
The
only one we ought to aim to please is God,
who
alone truly understands what we’re capable of.
We’re
given an example of this principle in action in our first reading,
as
we hear that moving hymn to a worthy wife.
It’s
poetry that celebrates the beautiful life
of
one who consistently gives her very best—
not
out of obligation
(although
she has one to her husband and children),
and
not in hopes of gaining a reward, either
(although
there will be one of those, too).
She
does her very best in everything because of love—
and nothing else.
and nothing else.
Not
“good enough,” but her best.
Is
that what we’re giving to the Lord?
We
may react like that third servant in the parable,
who
seems to find his master’s ways rather unfair:
He didn’t give me any clear
instructions before leaving!
He didn’t say exactly what
it was he wanted me to do with that talent!
He’s just a passive-aggressive
tyrant!
Or
is he?
Yes,
God entrusts us with the treasures of his kingdom—
vast
spiritual fortunes, in fact—
but
he doesn’t then micromanage them;
God
takes a great risk—he trusts us—
and
in large part leaves their proper investment
up
to you and me.
For
one thing, God isn’t after cookie cutter Christians—
every
one of them just like all the others.
We
belong to a Church, not a cult,
and
our diversity is a great blessing.
How
boring the Church would be if we were all the same!
Instead,
God is inviting our initiative and creativity.
And
he respects our freedom.
Sin
warps our sense of freedom,
and
frequently turns it into what seems like a burden instead.
But
God won’t unnecessarily restrict us.
The
stewardship we exercise over our hearts
must
be our own freely made decision.
St.
Paul reminds us, as he reminded the Thessalonians,
that
there will come a day of reckoning—
whether
the end of our lives or the end of time—
we
know not when.
Therefore,
we cannot rest on our laurels,
lest
we get caught unawares and left in the dark.
When
we’re called upon—each one of us on our own—
to
give a final accounting of our life
and
the use we’ve made of God’s many graces and blessings,
to
say, “I thought what I did would probably be good enough,”
won’t
exactly be very convincing.
Now,
you might be saying to yourself,
“Father,
I think you’re quite mistaken
about
this business of a ‘good enough’ culture.”
I
very well might be.
So
I challenge you: prove me wrong!
Not
so much in building a church or a home,
but
when it comes to everything that happens under their roofs,
God
expects from us the very best.
And
he has every right to, doesn’t he?
After
all, the very best is always what God is giving to us.
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