When I was a teenager, a cousin I very much admire was serving as the bishop of my congregation. On I believe a Thursday night, he invited all ward members to gather in the chapel for a special, extra activity. Over the pulpit, our young and handsome bishop read the parable of the talents from the Gospels of Matthew and Luke. As I was becoming a fairly accomplished pianist and was beginning to learn to write, I liked the parable of the talents. I knew that, in the Bible, a talent was a unit of money, but I was also inspired by the idea of developing and sharing our personal talents in the common usage of the word.
As the bishop read the familiar scripture, I listened carefully, the meaning of it clear to me. We were to take what we had and magnify it for the glory of the Lord. The bishop closed his Bible and spoke to us in his low and measured voice, explaining that we would each be given strips of paper representing ten talents as we moved from the chapel to the large multipurpose room across the foyer that served as the setting as everything from basketball games to wedding receptions. He told us that we would be allowed to use our talents as we saw fit, but, to me, it was crystal clear that we were to somehow double our talents before the activity ended.
We filed out, each receiving our “talents.” The other room was set up like a carnival, with various activities to choose from. There were games where you could spend your talents for fun. There were games where you could earn new talents. There were items for sale that you could buy. There were treats you could purchase and eat. The hall reminded me of the world, with its variety and distractions.
Avoiding all the activities that would take but not replenish my precious ten talents, I focused on the games and scripture challenges giving opportunities to earn more talents. One by one, I doubled those talents until I had twenty. Relieved, I knew I had used my time well and done my duty.
I looked up to see what would happen next, and I noticed that there were a lot fewer people in the room than there had been. I couldn’t see anyone from my family. Were people just going home? Had I misunderstood the activity after all?
I walked by a man set up with a very expensive electronic kitchen gadget, who called out to me. I could obtain it for only eight talents, which I had. He very persuasively demonstrated how it was used, and I thought of how much work it would save my mother, and how I didn’t have a Christmas present for her yet.
I hesitated. I knew I wasn’t supposed to spend my talents, but others were doing it. No one around me seemed to have kept and multiplied their talents like I had. And where had everyone gone? It seemed late in the evening, and like the activity was winding down. I couldn’t see any of the people who served as my anchors. Would I rather go home with twenty gray strips of construction paper, or with the kitchen tool, nicer than anything else I could buy in real life, that I could present to my mother? Maybe if I did buy it, there was still time to earn eight more.
I traded in some of my paper talents, and, as soon as the box holding the gadget was placed in my arms, the bishop’s wife came up to me and grabbed my arm. “I need you to come with me,” she said, insistently.
I tried to tell her I was going to maybe do a few more things, but she held fast to me, saying that I had to go with her right then. She led me out of the cultural hall and down the stairs. With each step I took downward, my foolish mistake became more and more imprinted on my mind. I didn’t have the talents I had worked for anymore. I wasn’t prepared anymore for the “judgment day” to come.
I was told to wait in the hall with other ward members. Clutching my prize, I could only hope that my selfless act would count for something.
Once in a little room with one of the bishop’s counselors, I told my tale of woe. I HAD immediately applied myself to doubling my talents. I had only given some of them up for something that seemed of greater worth, and that was a gift for someone else. The counselor listened and took my remaining talents, handing me a silver star to pin onto my clothes.
I was being assigned to the terrestrial kingdom, the second place. And I had to leave the prize I had purchased behind. I could not take it with me. Guides guided all of us back into the chapel, where we were to sit in the section of our various kingdoms. About a dozen others had silver stars, and I sat with them.
My mother and maybe no one else, or maybe one or two others, sat in the front of the chapel, with gold suns pinned to them. Most of the ward crowded into the third kingdom. I looked around in amazement. How had most of the ward missed the message? How had so very few passed the test of understanding and diligence? But, even as I judged others, my heart convicted me of having also been deceived.
As my soul had never before longed for anything else, it longed to join my mother on, as it were, the front row of heaven. I had a hard time holding back tears. I felt stunned. How had it happened that I had given up what I knew, what I had clearly understood, for something worldly? How had I been tricked?
I resolved, deep in my heart, to never let that happen again. Whatever lay ahead of me in my life, I would not be deceived by the distracting messages of the world. I would not forget to prepare to present the Lord with the talents I could collect.
