Buried talents.

If you stopped me on the street today and asked me what my talent is, I would tell you it’s writing. And you would probably assume, based on my answer, that I write.

And you would be wrong. I haven’t written in a long time. I want to say it’s because I’ve been busy, and I’ve had writer’s block, and I haven’t had anything to say. 

But the truth is that I’ve been afraid. Afraid because maybe my words won’t be good enough or strong enough or deep enough. Afraid because there are plenty of words out there already—should I add my voice to the cacophony? Afraid because maybe I have nothing to offer.

I’ve finally acknowledged that the root of my silence is fear and the only way to break my fear is to break my silence. 

Have you ever read the Parable of the Talents? I’ve always read it as an admonishment to be industrious, but I learned something more from it today. 

The master gave his first servant an amount of money, and he used it to make more. The master gave his second servant a smaller amount, and he used it to make a smaller amount more. The master praised them both. Not because of the amount of money they made (neither one made enough to tip his scales), but because they were faithful. 

The master gave his third servant a tiny amount of money, and he dug a hole in the ground and buried it. He was afraid. Better to bury the money and keep it safe than to risk losing it in any attempt to increase it. The master was not pleased. 

I feel for that third servant. He was staring potential failure in the face, and the best course of action seemed to be inaction.

What I’ve never considered before is this: I don’t think the master was upset about the money his servant didn’t make. The master didn’t need the money. 

He was upset that his servant chose fear over faithfulness. 

I’ve been making the same choice. I’ve been burying my talent deep in the dirt, making plenty of excuses, because I’m afraid of failing. But the master’s response is clear: it’s not about the return.

Maybe my words won’t be good enough or strong enough or deep enough. Maybe I won’t get the return I think I should. But maybe that’s no excuse for digging the hole. Maybe it’s time to stop fearing imperfection and start embracing faithfulness.