Years ago, I remember coming across a television show called Doomsday Preppers.  I had seen commercials for it before, and honestly, I thought it was some bizarre fictional drama – something along the lines of Lost or The Walking Dead.  But then I discovered it was a reality show. These were people actually convinced that some catastrophic event was coming and doing everything imaginable to prepare for it. Each episode followed different individuals and families anticipating disasters: nuclear war, terrorist attacks, the collapse of the electrical grid, the breakdown of civilization as we know it. And their preparations were extraordinary.

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People converted their homes into bunkers. Rooms filled floor to ceiling with canned goods and emergency supplies. Underground shelters, escape tunnels, elaborate survival strategies. They spent enormous amounts of time and money preparing for whatever disaster they believed was coming.

Now, living here in Northern New Jersey, especially after experiencing September 11th and Superstorm Sandy, we know there’s nothing wrong with preparing for emergencies. That’s just being responsible.

But what struck me about these people wasn’t simply how prepared they were. It was how completely their lives had become consumed by what might happen. Their worlds had become increasingly smaller, more isolated, more controlled. There was something profoundly sad about that.  They were so consumed with protecting their lives from some future disaster that they were sacrificing the very lives they were trying to protect.  Fear had become the organizing principle of their existence.  And while it’s easy to dismiss that as something extreme, I wonder if we’re really all that different?

Maybe we’re not building underground shelters or stockpiling canned goods. But how many of us have built our own little bunkers? Emotional ones. Relational ones. Spiritual ones. Places where we retreat because we’re afraid of getting hurt, afraid of failing, afraid of being disappointed, afraid of what might happen if we step outside what’s comfortable and familiar. And the longer we stay there, the more reasonable, responsible, even wise our decisions can begin to seem. Because fear can become so powerful that we not only bury what God has given us – we begin to misunderstand the God who gave it.  And that’s what makes this parable Jesus tells in today’s Gospel so unsettling.

A master prepares to leave on a journey and entrusts three servants with enormous sums of money. One receives five talents, another two, and the last receives one. And a talent in the ancient world represented an extraordinary amount of wealth. Even the servant who received only one talent was being entrusted with something tremendously valuable. The first two servants immediately put that money to work. They invest it, take risks, and double what they’ve received.

But the third servant? He digs a hole in the ground and buries it.

And when the master returns, he gives his explanation: I was afraid.

He didn’t steal the money. He didn’t squander it. He didn’t lose it through some reckless investment. He protected it. Kept it safe. Perhaps in his mind, he had done exactly what a responsible person should do. You gave me something valuable. I made sure nothing happened to it. Here it is, exactly as you left it. What’s the problem?

But here’s something even more revealing. The servant doesn’t simply admit that he was afraid. He actually attacks his master’s character in an attempt to defend himself.  He describes his master as demanding, someone who harvests where he hasn’t planted, who gathers where he hasn’t scattered. Basically, he’s saying, You’re harsh. You’re unreasonable. You take what other people have worked for. I know what kind of person you are. And that’s why I buried your money. Think about that.

Here’s a man who’s been entrusted with an extraordinary amount of wealth. His master has demonstrated tremendous confidence in him. But the servant doesn’t recognize that. All he sees is the possibility of failure, punishment, of not measuring up. And rather than taking responsibility for his own decision, he makes his master the villain. You left me no choice. Look at what you’re like!  And the master immediately calls him out. Even if the servant really believed what he was saying, why hadn’t he at least put the money in a bank where it could earn interest?

His explanation doesn’t hold up. And that’s where this Gospel becomes particularly uncomfortable for us. Because how often do we do something similar in our relationship with God? We convince ourselves that God is impossible to please. That He’s constantly evaluating us, keeping track of every mistake. That He’s asking far too much of us. And sometimes we disguise our fear as being practical or realistic.

Someone senses God might be inviting them to consider a vocation, but immediately comes up with a hundred reasons why that couldn’t possibly be right. I’m not holy enough. I’m not that kind of person. Or someone knows there’s a relationship that needs healing, an apology that needs to be offered, forgiveness that needs to be extended. But what if the other person rejects me? What if I get hurt again? So we convince ourselves there’s nothing we can do…and maybe even that God understands why we’re not going to try.

And that’s what’s so subtle about fear. It doesn’t always leave us shaking in our boots or overwhelmed with anxiety. Sometimes it sounds remarkably reasonable. We can come up with all sorts of explanations for why something isn’t the right time, isn’t practical, isn’t realistic, or simply isn’t meant for us. And those explanations can be so convincing that we never stop to question whether they’re coming from genuine discernment — or from our own reluctance to trust God.

Which raises a question I think is worth asking ourselves: Have you ever convinced yourself that God couldn’t possibly be asking something of you – not because you’ve really brought it to Him in prayer, but because deep down you’re afraid of what His answer might require? That’s worth sitting with.

And here’s where our first reading from Proverbs offers a fascinating contrast. We’re introduced to this remarkable woman who works diligently, uses her gifts, provides for others, and extends her hands to those in need. And we’re told what makes her truly worthy of praise. It’s that she’s a woman who fears the Lord. Now wait a minute. Haven’t we just been talking about how fear can paralyze us?

Yes. But there’s a tremendous difference between being afraid of God and having what Scripture calls fear of the Lord. And the difference has everything to do with love. There’s a kind of fear that keeps us from doing something wrong because we’re afraid of the consequences. And that isn’t necessarily a bad starting point. Think of a little kid who obeys a rule simply because they don’t want to get in trouble. They might not understand why the rule exists, but at least they’re avoiding something harmful. In a similar way, avoiding sin because we fear its consequences isn’t necessarily a bad motivation.

But as we grow in our relationship with God, something should change. Think about someone you genuinely love. You don’t want to disappoint or hurt that person, not simply because you’re afraid of what they’ll do to you, but because you love them. The relationship matters to you. That’s closer to what Scripture means by fear of the Lord. It’s an awe and reverence for God’s infinite greatness, joined to a love that makes us want to honor Him rather than offend Him. And that kind of fear doesn’t make us retreat from God. It draws us closer. It moves us to respond.

That’s what’s driving the woman in Proverbs. Her reverence for God produces something tangible: generosity, service, faithfulness. She doesn’t simply admire goodness. She puts it into practice. Meanwhile, the servant in the Gospel allows his fear to become disconnected from any love or trust for his master. And what does he do? He digs a hole.

And that’s what makes the contrast so striking. The woman in Proverbs looks at what she’s been given and sees opportunities to serve God and others. The servant looks at what he’s been given and sees only what he might lose. One is moved by love to reach beyond herself. The other is so consumed with protecting himself that he withdraws. One kind of fear opens our hands. The other makes us bury what we’ve been given.

And what exactly has God entrusted to us? Certainly our natural gifts, abilities, opportunities, relationships, the time we’ve been given. But for those of us gathered here at Mass, there’s something even more extraordinary. We’ve been entrusted with the Gospel. With the gift of faith. With God’s grace and the sacraments that strengthen us. With the extraordinary privilege of knowing Jesus Christ and sharing in His life.  We have access to treasures that generations of Christians have suffered and even died to preserve.

And the question isn’t simply whether we possess those gifts. It’s whether we’re allowing them to bear fruit in our lives. We can receive the Eucharist week after week, but are we allowing that encounter with Christ to change the way we love? We can celebrate God’s mercy in confession, but are we becoming more merciful toward others? These aren’t treasures we’re meant simply to hold on to. They’re gifts meant to transform us and, through us, the lives of others.

There’s something else we need to recognize, especially as we approach the end of the Church’s liturgical year, when our readings draw our attention to the end times and our final judgment. This parable is about the return of Christ.  The master goes away, entrusts his possessions to his servants, and after a long time returns to settle accounts. Jesus is preparing His disciples for the time when He will no longer be visibly walking among them – and for the day when He will return. And that means there’s a reckoning.

For all of us.

There will come a day when our opportunities to respond, to forgive, to serve, to grow in holiness will have reached their end. And we’ll stand before Christ. Not to compare ourselves with somebody else. Not to impress Him with our accomplishments. But to give an account of how we’ve responded to His grace.

And Jesus doesn’t soften the consequences for the third servant.  He’s cast into the darkness outside, separated from the joy into which the others are welcomed. Those are frightening words. And we shouldn’t rush past them. Because Jesus is warning us that it really is possible to waste what God has given us. That our decisions have eternal consequences. That a lifetime spent refusing God’s invitations can ultimately become a refusal of the very communion with Him for which we were created.

And sometimes faithfulness is going to cost us something. It might mean choosing honesty when dishonesty would make our lives considerably easier. Refusing to compromise our values when everyone around us seems perfectly comfortable doing so. Being willing to stand alone when going along with the crowd would be so much simpler. Or perhaps it’s continuing to do what’s right when nobody notices, nobody appreciates it, and nothing seems to be changing. And those moments can be especially difficult.

Because we naturally want some reassurance that our sacrifices are worth it. That our efforts are making a difference. That our faithfulness will somehow pay off. But following Christ doesn’t guarantee that doing the right thing will always produce the results we’re hoping for. Sometimes faithfulness means choosing what is right even when it seems to cost us more than we’re getting in return. Following Christ involves a Cross.

And yet, there’s something beautiful about the first two servants that we shouldn’t overlook. They didn’t know how everything would turn out when they put their master’s money to work. But they trusted him enough to act. And even though they received different amounts and produced different returns, they receive exactly the same praise. Well done, my good and faithful servant. Come, share your master’s joy.

The master doesn’t compare their accomplishments. He recognizes their faithfulness. And that’s important, because God isn’t asking you to become someone else. He’s not expecting you to possess the gifts, opportunities, or abilities of the person sitting next to you. He’s asking you to be faithful with what He’s entrusted to you.

And here’s where we discover why that faithfulness is possible. Because we already know the God who will one day judge us. Jesus Christ has revealed Him to us. Before we ever did anything to deserve His love, He loved us.  While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. And through His death and Resurrection, He opened the way to eternal life – something we could never earn or achieve on our own. Think about the contrast with that third servant’s accusation. The servant portrays his master as someone who only takes. But Jesus reveals a God who gives  – even to the point of giving Himself. And He doesn’t merely command us to take up our crosses. He’s already carried His Cross for us, and He gives us the grace to follow Him.

That’s the foundation of our courage. Not the confidence that we’ll never fail or suffer, but the confidence that the God who calls us is worthy of our trust.

And that brings me back to those doomsday preppers. The saddest thing about watching the people on that television show wasn’t the bunkers or the stockpiles. It was the possibility that they could spend their entire lives preparing for a catastrophe that never happened –  while missing out on the life unfolding right in front of them.

And I wonder how often we risk doing something similar spiritually. Building walls around ourselves. Avoiding the possibility of failure. Convincing ourselves we’re being responsible, realistic, careful – when sometimes, if we’re really honest, we’re just afraid. Because fear can become so powerful that we not only bury what God has given us — we begin to misunderstand the God who gave it.

So as important as it is to reflect on the talents God has given us and what we’re doing with them, perhaps there’s something more important we need to ask first: What do I really believe about the God who gave them to me? Do I see Him as someone impossible to please? Someone waiting for me to fail? Or do I recognize the Savior who has already given His life for me, who offers me His grace, and who calls me to follow Him?

Because one day, the Master will return. And when He does, the time for deciding what to do with what He’s entrusted to us will be over. But today, there’s still time. Today, His grace is being offered. Today, His invitation is before us. And the question is whether we’ll continue burying what He’s given us — or finally trust Him enough to respond. Not simply to avoid judgment, but because of the joy He’s inviting us to share.

May we never become so afraid of God that we miss the joy of knowing Him.