Jesus tells us today about a dishonest steward.
Which is an awkward beginning.
He has wasted his master’s property.
He is about to lose his job.
And then, with remarkable speed, he becomes extremely energetic.
Nothing concentrates the mind like being told: “You are being dismissed.”
Until then, apparently, the accounts could wait.
Now every debtor is suddenly receiving a personal visit.
“How much do you owe?”
“One hundred measures of oil.”
“Make it fifty.”
“One hundred measures of wheat.”
“Make it eighty.”
He is not becoming honest.
He is becoming urgent.
And that is the point.
Jesus is not praising fraud.
He is saying: Look how seriously this man acts once he realises his present situation is about to end.
That is the uncomfortable part.
Because we know exactly the same thing.
Our present situation is going to end.
Saint Paul says: “Our citizenship is in heaven.”
Not here.
Here matters.
Our work matters.
Our families matter.
Our duties matter.
But none of them is permanent.
We are passing through.
And Christianity has always had the slightly inconvenient habit of mentioning this.
The world says: “Build your life.”
Christ says: “Yes. But remember you are going to die.”
Very poor advertising.
But very useful information.
Because most bad decisions depend on pretending that what is temporary is permanent.
Money feels permanent when you are counting it.
Status feels permanent when people know your name.
Health feels permanent until it is not.
And then suddenly the Gospel’s steward becomes much easier to understand.
The accounts are closing.
Now what matters?
Saint Paul says some people live as though earthly things were everything:
“Their god is the belly… with minds set on earthly things.”
That does not mean food is evil.
It means a good thing has become the highest thing.
And once anything created becomes highest, it becomes a god.
Money can do it.
Pleasure can do it.
Comfort can do it.
Approval can do it.
We can spend an entire life arranging temporary things very carefully and never ask where the whole life is going.
The steward, at least, finally asks.
He sees the end coming and acts.
Christ wants the same seriousness from us.
Not panic.
Conversion.
If I knew I would stand before God tonight, what would suddenly look less important?
What sin would I stop defending?
What apology would I make?
What Confession have I been postponing?
What person would I forgive?
What prayer would suddenly become worth saying?
The strange thing is that we already know we will stand before God.
We simply do not know when.
So Jesus says: Be shrewd.
Use what is passing for what lasts.
Use money to do good.
Use time to love.
Use influence to serve.
Use suffering to unite yourself to Christ.
Use this life to prepare for the next.
That is Christian prudence.
Not fearfully staring at death.
Living so that death does not catch us pretending we were never warned.
And Saint Paul gives us the reason for hope.
He does not merely say: “You are going to die.”
He says Christ “will transform our lowly body to be like His glorious body.”
There is the whole difference between Christian seriousness and gloom.
We are not preparing for extinction.
We are preparing for resurrection.
Our citizenship is in Heaven because Christ is there.
And He will come again.
That is why the Church keeps giving us the sacraments.
Baptism makes us citizens of this new life.
Confession restores us when sin has pulled us away from God.
And in the Eucharist, the risen Christ gives Himself to us:
Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity.
He gives us now the life which will be fulfilled in glory.
So the dishonest steward teaches us something useful by accident.
He finally understood that the present arrangement would not last.
And once he understood that, he stopped drifting.
Perhaps that is the question today.
Not: “Do I have plenty of time?”
We do not know.
But: “Am I using the time I have for what will last?”
The steward knew the accounts were closing.
So do we.
The difference is that we know who waits beyond them.
Not merely a master with a ledger.
Christ.
And our citizenship is with Him.
