Why do you always tell stories? John asked.
Jesus smiled, picking up a stone and turning it in his hand. “Because truth settles deeper when it’s hidden in something simple.”
He looked at them—at the fishermen, the tax collector, the zealot—and added, “Let me tell you one now.”
“It’s like a man going on a journey,” Jesus said. “He called his servants and entrusted his wealth to them. To one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one—each according to their ability. Then he went away.”
He Was Trusted with a Gift—And Feared It Would Ruin Him
Jesus told a story of three servants. Only two were ready.
“Don’t lose it,” the master said. Then he was gone.
Elias looked down at the weight in his hands. Five talents. More silver than he had ever held, and it wasn’t his. He wasn’t sure if it was a reward or a test. But he knew it mattered.
He didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he laid the coins on the table and stared at them, as if expecting them to move. By morning, he had a plan. Elias went to the markets, met with traders, studied ledgers, made deals. Each choice felt like a prayer. He wasn’t trying to get rich. He was trying to be faithful.
In a nearby village, Martha dusted flour from her arms and tucked two talents into a hidden shelf behind the hearth. She ran a small oven by the road. People came for the bread, but they stayed for her laughter. The coins gave her enough to expand. More ovens. More workers. More children fed. At night, she whispered thanks—not for the profit, but for the chance to build something that outlasted her.
But in a stone house just beyond the vineyards, Judas held his single talent like a stone. He didn’t spend it. He didn’t risk it. He buried it behind the barn, the dirt damp and cold beneath his fingernails. “I won’t lose it,” he told himself. “That’s what matters.”
Time passed. The master returned.
Elias met him first, hands full. His eyes shone—not with pride, but relief. He had doubled what was given. The master smiled. “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
Martha came next. Her hands were flour-covered, her apron stained, but her face glowed. She had doubled hers too. The master saw the joy behind her work and said, “Enter into the joy of your master.”
Judas came last. His hands were empty. His eyes downcast. “I was afraid,” he said. “So I hid it.” He held out the buried coin, caked in dirt.
The master’s smile faded. “You knew I expected more.”
He took the coin and gave it to Elias. Then turned away.
The disciples sat still, letting the story settle into their bones. Jesus looked at them—at Peter’s calloused hands, at Thomas’s furrowed brow, at John’s searching eyes.
He didn’t say, “Be like Elias.” He didn’t say, “Work harder.”
He just let it sit.
And somewhere in the silence, they each felt the same question:
What have I done with what I’ve been given?
And what am I still burying?
Why do you always tell stories? John asked.
Jesus smiled, picking up a stone and turning it in his hand. “Because truth settles deeper when it’s hidden in something simple.”
He looked at them—at the fishermen, the tax collector, the zealot—and added, “Let me tell you one now.”
“It’s like a man going on a journey,” Jesus said. “He called his servants and entrusted his wealth to them. To one he gave five talents, to another two, and to another one—each according to their ability. Then he went away.”
He Was Trusted with a Gift—And Feared It Would Ruin Him
Jesus told a story of three servants. Only two were ready.
“Don’t lose it,” the master said. Then he was gone.
Elias looked down at the weight in his hands. Five talents. More silver than he had ever held, and it wasn’t his. He wasn’t sure if it was a reward or a test. But he knew it mattered.
He didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he laid the coins on the table and stared at them, as if expecting them to move. By morning, he had a plan. Elias went to the markets, met with traders, studied ledgers, made deals. Each choice felt like a prayer. He wasn’t trying to get rich. He was trying to be faithful.
In a nearby village, Martha dusted flour from her arms and tucked two talents into a hidden shelf behind the hearth. She ran a small oven by the road. People came for the bread, but they stayed for her laughter. The coins gave her enough to expand. More ovens. More workers. More children fed. At night, she whispered thanks—not for the profit, but for the chance to build something that outlasted her.
But in a stone house just beyond the vineyards, Judas held his single talent like a stone. He didn’t spend it. He didn’t risk it. He buried it behind the barn, the dirt damp and cold beneath his fingernails. “I won’t lose it,” he told himself. “That’s what matters.”
Time passed. The master returned.
Elias met him first, hands full. His eyes shone—not with pride, but relief. He had doubled what was given. The master smiled. “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
Martha came next. Her hands were flour-covered, her apron stained, but her face glowed. She had doubled hers too. The master saw the joy behind her work and said, “Enter into the joy of your master.”
Judas came last. His hands were empty. His eyes downcast. “I was afraid,” he said. “So I hid it.” He held out the buried coin, caked in dirt.
The master’s smile faded. “You knew I expected more.”
He took the coin and gave it to Elias. Then turned away.
The disciples sat still, letting the story settle into their bones. Jesus looked at them—at Peter’s calloused hands, at Thomas’s furrowed brow, at John’s searching eyes.
He didn’t say, “Be like Elias.” He didn’t say, “Work harder.”
He just let it sit.
And somewhere in the silence, they each felt the same question:
What have I done with what I’ve been given?
And what am I still burying?
