A man goes on a journey. Before he leaves, he calls his servants and divides his goods among them. To one he gives five talents, to another two, to another one—“to every man according to his several ability” (Matthew 25:15). Then he’s gone.
The servant with five talents trades and makes five more. The one with two does the same, doubling what he received. But the third servant takes his single talent and buries it in the earth.
When the master returns, he settles accounts. The first two servants hear those words: “Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord” (Matthew 25:21). But the third servant, trembling, explains his fear: “I knew thee that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hast not sown, and gathering where thou hast not strawed: And I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth” (Matthew 25:24-25).
The master’s response cuts deep: “Thou wicked and slothful servant” (Matthew 25:26).
Dostoevsky understood this tension between fear and action. In The Brothers Karamazov, Father Zossima speaks of the burden of being responsible for everyone and everything. Yet that responsibility doesn’t paralyze—it compels. The servant who buried his talent chose safety over stewardship, security over service.
Bach wrote his cantatas for weekly church services, deadline after deadline. He could have hoarded his gifts, protected them from the critics and the mundane demands of liturgical life. Instead, he poured them out week after week, trusting that what flowed through him belonged not to him but through him.
The talent in Christ’s parable wasn’t small change—it represented about twenty years’ wages for a laborer. Each servant received wealth beyond imagination. Yet the story isn’t about money. It’s about what we do when we’re entrusted with something valuable.
The fearful servant saw his master as harsh, a reaper where he hadn’t sown. But look at the master’s actual words to the faithful servants. He doesn’t say “You’ve earned your reward” or “You’ve proven your worth.” He says “Enter thou into the joy of thy lord” (Matthew 25:23). Joy, not transaction. Invitation, not payment.
Ecclesiastes reminds us that “in the morning sow thy seed, and in the evening withhold not thine hand: for thou knowest not whether shall prosper, either this or that” (Ecclesiastes 11:6). The farmer doesn’t bury his seed to keep it safe. He scatters it, knowing some will fall on rocky ground, some among thorns, but some will find good soil.
The buried talent earned nothing because it risked nothing. It remained exactly what it was—one talent, unchanged, unfruitful. The master takes even this from the fearful servant and gives it to the one who had ten. “For unto every one that hath shall be given, and he shall have abundance: but from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath” (Matthew 25:29).
This isn’t about fairness as we understand it. It’s about flow. Water that moves stays fresh. Water that sits grows stagnant. The gifts we’re given aren’t meant to be preserved like museum pieces. They’re meant to move, to multiply, to find their way into the world.
The servant with one talent saw only what he might lose. The others saw what they might gain—not for themselves, but for their master’s kingdom. They understood that faithfulness isn’t about perfection. It’s about participation.
We all have talents buried somewhere. Some we’ve hidden from fear, others from false humility. We tell ourselves we’re being careful, responsible, wise. But Scripture doesn’t commend the careful servant. It commends the faithful one.
The master returns. He always does. And the question isn’t whether we’ve kept what we were given safe. It’s whether we’ve used it well.
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