Money

A man in a crowd shouted out to Jesus: “Tell my brother to share the family inheritance with me!”

It’s the sort of thing that someone somewhere says pretty much every day. It’s the type of family dispute that can end in court—or with a lifelong resentment.

Money. Few things tie us up in knots as easily as money does. We make it a proxy for success, for security, for power. Even for love.

But Jesus doesn’t take the bait of the man asking for his inheritance.

He doesn’t offer a ruling. He doesn’t ask for the facts of the case. Instead, he gives a warning about the risks of greed—and then he tells a story.

“There was a rich man,” Jesus says, “whose land produced abundantly.”

Nothing scandalous so far. The man’s not cheating or stealing. He’s just had a good year. He surveys the overflow, and he makes a plan: tear down the old barns, build bigger ones, store it all up.

And then he talks to his soul.

“Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.”

It sounds... reasonable, I guess. Something you might say after an encouraging meeting with your financial advisor. But maybe just a bit off. Because who talks to their soul that way?

“Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, and be merry,” the man tells himself. It sounds like a pretty solid retirement plan.

But God calls him a fool.

Not because he was successful. Not because he planned ahead. But because he mistook abundance for immunity. Because he believed that a large enough storage unit could protect him. That a large enough bank account could save him.

“This very night,” God says, “your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared—whose will they be?”

That’s the sting, isn’t it? Not just that he dies, but that all his careful preparation couldn’t guarantee him a single extra day of life.

It wasn’t the planning that was the problem. It was the illusion—the quiet, persuasive lie—that wealth is the same thing as security.

This parable made me think about inheritance and legacy—and all the things we try to pass on and hold onto.

I spent some time this week looking through old family documents, and I found a letter my grandfather wrote to my father. My great-grandmother had just died. She’d been a teacher, and had raised her three daughters alone. There wasn’t much money, but there was a will. And in it, she left more to one daughter than to the other two.

My grandfather felt the need to explain. He wrote that the daughter who received more had cared for her mother for several years. That it was fair. That the lucky daughter would leave her own estate to her sisters anyway. He even underlined the words: “This is fair.”

We’re not talking about great riches here. But still—he felt the need to defend it. To make sure the story was told a certain way. To make sure, maybe, that nobody would feel cheated or unloved.

That letter caught my attention because it wasn’t just about money. It was about love, and fairness, and fear. About how we try to control things that we can’t actually control.

That’s what the man in the parable was doing, in his own way. Trying to secure the future. Trying to guarantee comfort. Trying to build something solid enough to quiet the voice inside that says: what if it’s not enough?

But Jesus says: it never will be enough.

The man in the parable was asking money to do things that aren’t money’s job. The Gospel doesn’t condemn planning. It doesn’t condemn work, or saving, or even wealth.

What it condemns is pretending. Pretending that we can outpace our fears with a good enough plan. Pretending that control will bring peace. Pretending that our lives consist of what we possess.

Jesus tells his disciples—right after this parable, as if to catch them before they fall into the same trap—”Do not worry about your life… what you will eat, or what you will wear… For it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

And Paul, writing to the Colossians, says something that implies the same thing: “You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.”

That’s the real security—being hidden in God, held in a story that doesn’t end at the grave. Which makes me wonder: where exactly did the rich man in the parable go wrong?

I think the real turning point is when he starts talking to his soul.

“Soul,” he says, “you have ample goods laid up. Relax.”

As if a full barn or bank account has anything to do with the state of our soul.

But the truth is, everything we try to secure is fragile.

Jesus says it in the Gospel passage that follows the one we read today: Ravens neither sow nor reap. Lilies neither toil nor spin. The grass of the field is here today and gone tomorrow.

Your wealth, your plans, your body, your breath—it’s all fragile. All temporary.

And yet, Jesus says, “Don’t be afraid.”

“Don’t worry about your life… Your Father knows what you need… It is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

If we can make peace with the fragility of life—if we can stop pretending we’re in control—we can actually become more free. Free to act without guarantees, to use what we have now rather than hoarding it for some safer future.

You can build barns. You can write plans. You can do the responsible thing.

But don’t let any of that fool you into thinking you’re safe.

Because the truth is that you’ll never be safe from hardship. But you can trust that God will be with you through whatever comes.

What does it look like to live without fear when bills are due, when health fails, when the future feels uncertain? Jesus doesn’t leave us with just a command—he gives us a vision. He shows us what it means to be rich toward God.

What does it mean to be rich toward God?

It means asking not “How can I protect what I have?” but “How can I use what I’ve been given?” It means investing in relationships, using your gifts for others, having courage to speak truth when it matters.

So spend your life freely—not recklessly, but generously. Eat, drink, and be merry, sure. But do it now. And share your food. Share your joy with those around you.

None of us knows when our last night will come. But we do know this: God’s Kingdom is already here.