Nuances of a Living Faith 107: The Parable of the Unheeded Steward

Introduction

This moves slowly by design. It is to be read as one might walk through a vineyard at dusk, when the light is thinning and familiar things begin to lose their sharp edges. Like the teaching stories of the Gospel tradition, it returns again to the vineyard, where fruit, labor, and trust gather in silence.

Then the parable begins.

---

And He spoke to them again in parables, saying:

There was a vineyard set upon rolling hills where the soil held the warmth of long days and the stones kept that warmth after the sun had gone. Rows of vines stood in straight lines, held by wooden stakes darkened with weather. The wind moved through the valley with a low rustling sound that passed through the leaves and moved on. A bird lifted from one row and settled in another, then was still.

A landowner planted this vineyard in a chosen place. He enclosed it, set it in order, and left it in the hands of tenants before he went to a distant country.

When the season of fruit drew near, he sent servants to receive what belonged to him by right. But the tenants took them. One was sent away wounded and did not speak of it afterward. One stood for a time in silence before returning without what he had been sent to gather. One did not return at all. Others were sent after them, and the same pattern followed without change, though each instance was described differently.

Within the vineyard, the tenants spoke among themselves. At first their words were careful, as though each man still held something in reserve. One said the vineyard had been near ruin before their work set it in order. Another said that ruin was spoken too easily, as if it excused what others now claimed. Another said that what had grown under their hands bore their work in it and could not be separated without loss.

One man listened without speaking. He remembered how the ground had looked in the early days, when nothing was settled and every vine required tending that could not be divided. He did not speak. When asked, he said only that a man can begin to see the past in the shape of the work he is doing now, then returned to his task.

Another man spoke once in defense of the servants who had come. When others turned toward him, he lowered his voice and did not speak of it again. Later he told himself that silence was not agreement, though he no longer knew what it had become.

In the evenings the words gathered near the pruning fires, where cut branches lay in small heaps. One man held a vine still green at the center and broke it as he spoke. No one stopped him. The sound of breaking wood became commonplace. What was said in one place was repeated in another, until repetition settled over the vineyard like something no one had chosen and no one now questioned.

After this the master sent his steward, the one sent in his name, carrying a word not his own but from the one who sent him.

When he entered the vineyard he walked between the rows where the soil had been turned and the air still held the trace of labor. Some watched him without speaking. Others kept working, though their hands slowed as he passed. A branch hung half severed, turning slightly as the wind moved through it.

When he spoke, there was no excess in his words. He said the vineyard was not theirs, that what had been placed in their care remained with the one who gave it, and that the fruit did not belong to them.

A leaf came loose from the vine and fell between them without sound.

No one answered for a brief moment. One man opened his mouth and closed it again. Another began to speak and stopped, as if hearing his own thought too clearly to continue.

He stood apart, neither approaching nor being approached. His stillness held its place among them, and the silence around him seemed to gather where he stood.

Then responses came slowly. One man said that such words would disturb what had been built through long work. Another said that no man should be held to a charge he did not knowingly accept. Another said that the vineyard depended on shared understanding, and anything that broke that understanding was not to be kept among them.

Not everyone spoke. One man said that the steward’s words would not leave him at ease, though he could not tell whether it came from truth or from what it required of him. Another said he needed time, and he repeated it, as though time itself had begun to thin rather than answer.

Among them, agreement formed slowly. It came through repetition, through relief as uncertainty began to fade, and through the ease of returning to what required no strain. What disturbed them was named disruption. What required change was named burden. What resisted agreement was set aside without answer.

When one man said he could no longer remain, no one answered him. Some looked away. Some looked toward the vines. His leaving passed without resistance, and no one spoke after he was gone.

But one man said nothing. He had not agreed or refused. When the others spoke, he looked at the ground where vine shadows crossed the soil. As the man turned to leave, he stepped forward as if to speak. His mouth opened, then stopped. The steward stood at the edge of the row, waiting…

But the words did not come.

He stepped aside. Later he told himself he had nothing to say, though he remembered the place where speech had nearly formed.

Some said afterward that the steward had spoken too sharply. Some said he had been difficult to follow. Some said it was not him they turned away from, but what his words would have required of them. So he was led away, and nothing broke outwardly in that moment. But the vineyard was no longer as it had been.

A bucket of water stood near the path. No one moved it. It remained there as the light fell lower across the rows. The shadows lengthened between the vines as the sun sank deeper, and the light grew red as it went down. The shadows thickened and rose until they gathered into darkness over the vineyard.

Days passed, and the work continued. Pruning was done, though not with one mind. Some cut where others would have left growth. Some left what others would have removed. The vineyard still bore fruit, though unevenly, and some clusters split where they had stayed too long in the heat, while others did not reach fullness.

A few noticed this and said nothing. One man stood for a long time before returning to his work.

In time, there arose among them those who spoke with confidence. Their words were familiar and steady, and because they matched what many already believed, they were received without question. Some followed them with relief. Others followed because it was easier than remaining in uncertainty among those who no longer agreed.

A warning stirred in some hearts, though no one spoke of it. Ease began to replace what had once been clear. It was not answered. It was not resisted. It was set aside, and in time it was no longer noticed.

Sight grew less steady. Not at once, but in steps that were easily missed. What was no longer questioned was no longer seen.

When the master came to the vineyard, he found work continuing, but without full awareness of what had been given. He saw fruit gathered without careful sorting. He saw rows tended without shared purpose among them. He saw what had been entrusted treated as though it belonged entirely to those who worked it.

Among them there was no longer a single understanding of what had been given.

When these words were heard, there was silence. The pruning tools lay still where they had been set down. No one spoke at first. Some looked toward the ground between the vines. Others looked toward the rows where the light was fading.

The man who had once almost spoken stepped forward again. His mouth opened, then closed. Nothing followed. He remained where he stood, carrying something unresolved, as the others stood in silence around him.

The bucket of water stayed where it had always been. The light thinned across the vineyard until it was no longer distinct from the shadows it made. The rows became difficult to separate from the dusk that gathered between them.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear.