Grace to you and peace from our loving God, and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

The parable of the talents is an exceedingly difficult text. Many preachers, in fact, avoid it for reason of the ease with which folks see here some pretty awful things. It's too easy to forget that this is a parable and to take the words spoken of the master as if there are spoken about God. Likewise, the harshness of the pronouncement of the master becomes an excuse for legalism. "For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away."

I'd like to give a try at resurrecting this difficult parable, and even at finding an important word of grace.

"For it is as if a man, going on a journey, summoned his slaves and entrusted his property to them; to one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his abilities. Then he went away.

There is most certainly grace here. The servants, or "slaves", as the word is sometimes translated, are given talents according to their abilities. All the holdings of the master are entrusted into their care, and he feels free to go away. If, for a moment, we can think of the parable as an allegory, so that it is God who acts in this way, what a wonder it is that God is able to trust us so completely.

The master isn't setting up a careful, legally binding contract with some other established entrepreneur like himself. Instead, he freely bestows responsibility and a chance for unsupervised action on the shoulders of three slaves. The master not only treats the servants like free-thinking entrepreneurs; he knows them well enough to treat them as individuals. But not all three honor the gift. The first two multiply their money:

Then the one who had received the one talent also came forward, saying, 'Master, I knew that you were a harsh man, reaping where you did now sow, and gathering where you did not scatter seed; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talents in the ground. Here you have what is yours.' But his master replied, 'You wicked and lazy slave! You knew, did you, that I reap where I did not sow, and gather where I did not scatter? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and on my return I would have received what was my own with interest. So take the talent from him, and give it o the one with the ten talents. For to all those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. As for this worthless slave, throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.'"

It almost sounds like a commentary on the current state of financial markets, of pension funds, and 401(k)s and IRAs. There is indeed much weeping and gnashing of teeth in these days.

But then, the other servants have invested wisely and experience creditable returns. The last one does the supposed safe thing—what many of us now wish we might have done. Even according to rabbinic tradition, anyone who buries money that has been put into his care in no longer liable for its safety. It is automatically assumed he has taken the safest path available to him to ensure the money's well-being. The slave can feel secure in knowing that he took a safe, prudent course of action on his master's behalf.

But the moment he opens his mouth, he betrays the selfish motives that prompted his actions. He doesn't bury the money to keep it safe, but to keep his own neck off the chopping block. What, according to ancient tradition, could have been interpreted as responsible is now revealed by his own words as cowardly and self-serving. His fears undermined the accountability that his master expected.

The slave's description of the master as "hard" and as one expecting to reap where he had not sown shows how fear has distorted the slave's vision of this opportunity. The master intended to benefit from his slaves—but only because he gave these three men a free, no-strings-attached chance to be creative. They were given a free hand to sow, a free rein to scatter as widely as possible their investments. But this fearful slave can only think of this freedom as a snare waiting to catch him in failure. Fueled by fear, he opts for faithless inactivity.

He misread the master. He failed to see that the community was designed by grace, and that not only is risk tolerated, it is expected. I believe that is the central point of the parable. The community of grace expects risk and permits failure. But the worst failure is not to make well-considered use of what God grants. It is the failure to recognize the grace that is given. Those willing to risk nothing actually risk losing everything.

Admittedly, some folks find it harder to take risks than others. Some can only enjoy a trip if they know exactly where they're going, how to get there, and precisely where they will stay. They don't want to take the chance that rooms will all be taken. They want the comfort of knowing that everything will go smoothly. I'm more of a "get in the car and drive" kind of person. I enjoy discoveries and surprises, along with opportunities to linger in intriguing places.

Edwin Friedman-rabbi, family therapist, sailor, and map collector—argues that the relationship between risk and reality is constitutive—that risk shapes reality. Friedman would snap us out of our "map-dependence" by revealing that "map-knowledge" is really quite fleeting and transitory. In his study of old maps, he discovered that the very willingness to risk new models doesn't merely alter, add to, or abolish old models. The very risking of new models "changes the context of experience and makes the very methods of conceptualization associated with the old model obsolete."

Friedman's study of Columbus, da Gama, Magellan, and Drake makes clear that it is the very risking of a new thought or a new spirit that brings about a new frame of reference, a new context of experience, a new way of living in the world—and thereby, changes reality. "Not one's sense of reality," Friedman insists, "but reality itself." ("Maps," Speech delivered at the 1983 American Family Therapy Association)

All these explorers had at least one thing in common. They all based their momentous journeys on maps that were completely wrong, hopelessly flawed or vastly mistaken. Furthermore, they had to know that there was a very good chance their charts were in error—after all, no one had taken these journeys before. Still, each of these adventurers pressed on, accepted the risks, plunged into unknown territories, and changed the world.

Of course, they didn't always end up where the thought they were going. Rather than Columbus "discovering" America, the native Americans "discovered" him, lost and confused about where he was. Neither Columbus nor Magellan proved that sailing west was a great shortcut for ending up in the East, and Lewis and Clark never found a secret inland passage. Still, because of their risk-taking, the face of the planet was re-drawn, and the dreams of future generations were reshaped.

Friedman gives this example of the relationship between risk and reality:

You're #317 in line for the Auschwitz crematorium and #318 turns to you and says, "Would you believe, in little more than a decade these people will feel so badly they'll give enough money to Israel to make the difference for its survival. Not only that, the Luftwaffe will be called Lufthansa and it will have the greatest number of flights to Israel per day?" The finding of something more radically different than you can imagine can only come about because somebody has the spirit of adventure, not because their theory is right.

To those without vision, traveling beyond the boundaries of their maps, venturing beyond sight of the shore behind them and without any sight of shore in front of them, is terrifying and panic-inducing. Since at least the time of Moses, there have been those who clamor to go back to the familiar past—the "fleshpots of Egypt." The human preference for the known, no matter how unpleasant, is strong.

Still, the gospel does not promise a safe harbor. On the contrary, true disciples are called to take risks, weigh anchor, venture beyond the known and secure. A calm sea does not produce a skilled sailor. Playing it safe, as did the third servant, is not on the master's radar—or sonar—screen.

The master's judgment of this slave and his action reveals that if we wish to be disciples, to call ourselves faithful servants, we are called to do more with the gifts we have been given than worry about their preservation.

Even God has never been one to play it safe. A God not interested in taking risks would never have created Adam in the first place. But God not only risked creation. God risked relationship—first with Noah, again with Abraham, eternally with David and the people of Israel. Finally, God even risked the divine self-taking human form in the incarnation and suffering an ignominious death, only to rise again on the Day of Resurrection.

The righteous risk. I like the double entendre of the phrase. Risk is a righteous thing—the righteous risk. And the ones who desire to be righteous are called to take risks—the righteous risk. We are invited by the gospel this morning to a willingness to open our lives to a power beyond our own.

Of course, the risks called for are not so much about the kinds of investments that cause anxiety as we watch the DOW and read our pension statements. The risks God would have us take are for the sake of others. Risking ourselves—not only our money or our status—that is the genuine risk of discipleship. Other people—God's people, and God's creation—are the focus of our risk-taking.

Relationships are the riskiest business around. Risking to love and serve, risking rejection and ridicule, risking for the sake of future generations, risking despair for the promise of fulfillment—these are the truly profound risks that God wants for us. After all, they are the only ones that recognize grace, that mirror it, and that place us squarely within its grasp. Amen.

May the peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep our hearts and minds through faith in Christ Jesus our Lord, unto eternal life. Amen.