When we began the process of getting Michèle baptized, our parish handed us a tiny booklet of recommended readings for the ceremony.
We decided we wanted the readings to address Michèle as an adult, and so the reading we chose wasn’t in the booklet, it was the Parable of the Talents.
I often mention the Parable of the Talents because, in Europe at least, the economic morass has given increased prominence to the anticapitalist strain of Catholic social doctrine, and here is a parable where God is portrayed as a wealthy investor treating his servants the way Goldman Sachs treats traders and encourages a financialized economy. He even says “whoever has will be given more, and … whoever does not have, even what they have will be taken from them.” #the1percent!!
But before this politically advantageous reading, I was as a child almost literally obsessed with this parable. To whom much is given much will be asked. And of course, to anyone who is born in the West, very much has been given. Moreso to someone who is born in a relatively privileged family, with loving parents of relatively good health, with no obvious disabilities, etc.
To whom much is given much will be asked. It is both plainly just and, for those whom much indeed has been given, terrifying. In the aristocratic tradition which I admire, this was taught from the crib. The expression noblesse oblige in the American vernacular (ironically, it has been lost in its original French) just means “If you have money, you should give it away,” but in reality, it means, you should live your life in an ethic of duty. You have been given many talents, and one day the Master will collect on His investment. And, to take from another passage, you must stay awake, because you do not know the day nor the hour.
I am less terrified these days, because I’ve realized that there’s a cheat code: the currency the Master demands is love. I’m still not worthy by any stretch of the imagination (but that’s also fine), but at least it makes me not feel guilty about, like, having performed poorly academically.
Anyway—sorry Michèle. Life comes with burdens. (And welcome.)
