This postThis morning at breakfast I was reading in A Storyteller in Zion, and I came across the chapter entitled “Consecration: A Law We Can Live With”. And it profoundly moved me.
“Now I understand the parable of the talents. Now I know the real sin of the unrighteous servant, the one who buried the one talent in the ground. He was treating the money as if it belonged to him, withholding it from anyone else, so that it couldn’t be used for anything. But the other servants, knowing that the money didn’t belong to them, put it out with moneylenders so that it could be used to build things, to make things. Everyone profited — the servants who shared freely, the moneylenders, and the people who borrowed and then repaid. But the one who clung to his money and let no one else use it — no one benefited, not even him. And his constant fear of losing that money became a burden to him. It was his soul he buried in the ground, his freedom.”
When I read that paragraph, I too understood the parable, more than I ever had before. Big-time goosebumps, no less.
Then both the husband and wife knew that their dreams were wise ones. And from that day forward they ceased to own any thing or to be owned by any thing. Many things were still recorded as their property, after the manner of the world, but whatever they had, they shared freely with any who needed it. Thus they had no fear of being robbed, for they owned nothing. They no longer cared about impressing their wealthy and educated friends, and soon they learned which of their old friends were true, and which of them were false, because the true friends rejoiced with them in their new freedom, while the false friends mocked and despised them.
That, my friends, is freedom. After reading this essay, I find myself looking upon my possessions as a bondage. It’s not having them that’s necessarily the problem — it’s thinking of them as mine, mine, mine. I’d much rather be free, not worrying about material things that really don’t matter in the end. And using my possessions instead to help other people — now that’s something that turns my head. (And my heart.)
Another thing that struck me was the whole looking-down-upon-the-poor thing. I’m going to become a librarian, which means I’m probably going to be poor. And I’m fine with that. Once or twice, though, when on a date with a girl I liked, responding to the “What are you going to do for a career?” question has left me half ashamed, as if it’s bad to be poor. Nor do I think I’m completely free yet from judging the poor, thinking it’s their fault for not working hard enough or not getting enough education or whatever. I want to erase that mentality completely out of my mind and heart. It is poison.
Speaking of judging, I still do it far more often than I’d like. How do I uproot it out of my soul? It’s not a good thing. But sometimes judgment is required, of course — for example, I absolutely will not marry a girl who dresses even slightly immodestly, and I think that kind of judgment isn’t on the wrong side of the line — but in general cases, it all too often results in a holier-than-thou attitude which is probably just as sinful as the judged act (and so while I wouldn’t marry a girl who dresses immodestly, I have to make sure I don’t look down on her, because when I do, it’s a lot harder to love her unconditionally the way Christ does).
Conclusion: if I could pluck the love of things and all my unrighteous judgmental attitudes out from my heart, right this very moment, I would. Since that’s physically impossible, I’ve got to ponder and pray and search out how I’m to bring about the same effect. Haven’t a clue. But I do know that the more I remind myself of these spiritual diseases, the more inclined I’ll be to shun them when I’m tempted. And, last but not least, though in all reality He should be first, I must turn to Christ and honestly plead for a new heart.
