I always feel sorry for the man in Jesus’ story
who buried his money and returned it intact to the master,
only to be scorned for his trouble.
He is remembered forever as the man who didn’t get it,
the man who missed the stewardship boat,
the man who was profoundly untalented.
What brought him to that inearthly choice?
What circumstances put a shovel in his hand,
and only preservation in his heart?
“I was afraid,” he said.
Maybe it was a deathly fear of change,
he’d rather bury something than risk losing it,
(or risk it growing, a possibility he hardly considered).
I can relate to him;
I am (wonderfully and) fearfully made.
Some days I can hardly pry my hands off my
because it’s mine, you see, that’s the point.
If I let go, who knows how it will change,
I’m scared it won’t be for the better.
Use these chains, this box, these blinders,
step right down here, close down, close in.
Roll that stone over, a few shovels more,
and nothing will be lost.
All of me, safe in the ground: a deep mine.
Imagine our surprise and shock when the voice of Jesus
breaks open our story like a tomb with the words, “Come out!”
We pause, in the dark, wondering for the first time
whether what we are is buried