Some years ago, I witnessed a rather masterful preacher interpret this parable by cutting up her MasterCard in front of the congregation, and then dropping the pieces in an offering plate. “No one can serve two masters,” she reminded us, while ceremoniously depositing shards of plastic. The object lesson was both clever and shocking. I’ll certainly never forget it. But there’s a subsequent story few in the congregation were ever made aware of. When I complimented Pastor Karen on the visual lesson, she told me that the dismembered credit card had been taken from the offering plate and used to make unauthorized charges. She didn’t want to tell anyone about it, though, because she didn’t want people in the congregation to suspect each other.
Money. Money is so very messy, no? If we take Jesus’ parable from Luke 16 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 in the 16th Chapter, the evangelist Luke gathered a disparate collection of Jesus’ teaching about money into one. And surely he had a point in doing so, even if it may not be readily apparent to us. I can tell it’s not readily apparent because of the variety of contemporary interpretations: commentators variously suggest that the dishonest manager was commended for writing down his master’s debtors because (1) the debt was usurious—hence in violation of Jewish law—or because (2) he forwent his own commission. All of which are certainly possible, but they’re not what the text says. So explaining it that way it feels a little bit like trying to gaslight the elephant in the room. Which is—d’oh—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 choices whose impacts we can never fully anticipate.
It’s entirely likely that when 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 is to simply opt out of hard decisions about the resources we control, or control on behalf of others. And that’s no way to live.
Some years ago I was called upon to offer pastoral 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 very wealthy family that was also very critical, evidently of him in particular. So even though he was in control of a fortune and a family foundation, he was unable to do anything with any of it. He was depressed, a hoarder, and unable to make any decisions about the use of his stuff, his time, or his money because he was so afraid he’d make the wrong choice. He was both a master and a manager, but could not do anything—good bad or indifferent—in either role.
Which takes me 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 about ethics as about eschatology. That is to say, 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 triune nature is revealed in relationship.
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. 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 Martin’s are making choices in favor of exciting ministries. You are committed to providing opportunities for everyone at St. Martin’s to deepen their spiritual journies, and to making this a place of real belonging, safety, and connection. These are not divergent priorities: all of us grow and flourish in settings where we are known and cared for. You’ve also told me that you will renew your commitment to carbon reduction and climate resilience. I know that for St. Martin’s, this is not some kind of special boutique ministry; environmental sustainability is integral to creating safety and wellbeing for all created beings.
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 generations yet to come and with those who may never profess Christianity but will meet Christ through you.
Returning to the contemporary parables—the misused MasterCard and the misguided heir—let me remind you of what you already know. Money really is messy. I suspect we all feel some mixture of confusion and inadequacy when it comes to giving, saving, spending, and investing, if we are wealthy enough to do so. And hopefully we feel some joy and satisfaction in our good use of God’s resources as well. May we hold our money fears and hopes in the balance of humility, because we actually don’t know what we don’t know when it comes to our household finances and the global economy. But we can always—and indeed always should—check in with our hearts and our histories and ask ourselves about what kind of giving really feels faithful and good. And—yes—generous.
Myself, I have never felt bad when I have used my resources to build community. So every week my husband and I buy food to bring to an ESL—that’s English as a Second Language—class that I help teach to immigrant Guatemalans. I sometimes question the money I spend on Amazon, but I never question the value of that weekly trayful of tacos.
I may put both expenses on the same MasterCard, but I’m pretty confident that one of them is a more accurate reflection of my true wealth. It’s a better choice, and my heart already knows it. I think that you already know the better choices , too.
So let me challenge you to make the right choices: choose generosity, choose inclusion, choose sustainability. 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. So it is my privilege to bless you at St. Martin’s as you embark on even more courageous investments in ministry. And here’s my counsel: be brave, brothers and sisters and siblings. Don’t bury the riches entrusted to you. You cannot serve God and wealth, Jesus tells us. But you can use your wealth to serve God’s beloved creation and people. And indeed, you must.
