Purchasing Wisely
Commentary
Remember the story of Robin Hood? Robin Hood was no common thief; he was a distinguished social savior serving as an agent of the proper redistribution of wealth. “I take from the rich and give to the poor,” he said. Robin Hood believed Nottinghamshire should be one big, happy family, and he patrolled the highways and byways to make it so for the children and the peasants.
Economists sometimes talk about the “trickle-down” theory. It assumes that growing wealth at the top of a social system will “trickle down” through the ranks, till even the neediest beggar rejoices in increased abundance. It’s like rain falling on a mountaintop. Moisture feeds the timber and brush up there. But it does more. Water trickles down in rivulets and streams till every part of the valley below is fed.
Systems tend to work best in theory, though. Most of us realize that without some assistance, the wealth of the wealthy often stays right there on top of the mountain. Usually it fails to relieve the poverty of the poor.
There will always be a need for Robin Hoods in our cruel world to patrol the financial highways and byways. I remember a musical version of “Jack and the Beanstalk” that had the same message. Jack had climbed up to the Giant’s glittering castle in the clouds. Everyone cheered when he managed to sneak off with the giant’s goose that laid golden eggs. Jack left with this parting shot: “I’ll take much more before I’m through! You took it from my daddy, so I’ll take it back from you.” The audience was supposed to be pleased.
Our human economic theory, based on market-driven supply and demand, is often oiled with greed. It tends to leave us suspicious and jealous. We despise Robin Hood if we’re wealthy; we revere him if we’re poor.
And perhaps we even drop a few dollars at the lottery booth in a long shot at beating the system. Jesus’ economic theory in his parable for us this morning doesn’t necessarily change the systems of this world in dramatic ways. Nor does it significantly alter our needs, as Jeremiah’s story shows. But, as Paul admonishes Timothy, it does defuse our greed. After all, remember what Jesus said in another passage? “Seek first the kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well.”
Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15
Jeremiah lived almost a century after Isaiah. By his time, Assyria had long ago destroyed Judah’s northern brother neighbor Israel (722 B.C.). Judah was itself only a tiny community now, limping along with diminishing resources, and constantly tossed around by the bigger nations of its world.
But things were changing rapidly on the international scene. Assyria was being beaten down in 612 B.C. by its eastern bully province, called Babylon. After snapping the backbone of Assyrian forces at Carchemish, and wrestling the capital city of Nineveh to the ground, Babylon immediately took over Palestine, the newer name for the old region of Canaan.
Judah was experiencing a rapid turnover of kings, many of whom were puppets of Babylon. For decades already, the country had been paying yearly tribute or security bribes to Babylon. Since 606 B.C., Judah had been forced to turn over some of its promising young men for propaganda retraining exile in the capital of the superpower, in anticipation that they would return to rule the nation as regents of Babylon.
For reasons like these, Egypt began to loom large in many minds as the only possible ally strong enough to withstand Babylon’s domination of the region. Even though Israel’s identity had been forged through a divine exit strategy from oppressive Egyptian mastery several centuries before, now a good number of voices were publicly suggesting that the remaining citizens of Jerusalem get out of town before a final Babylonian occupation, and find refuge in the safer haven of Egypt.
Into these times and circumstances Jeremiah was born. From his earliest thoughts he was aware of Yahweh’s special call on his life (1:4-10). This knowledge only made his prophetic ministry more gloomy, for it gave him no out in a game where the deck was stacked against him (chapters 12, 16). So he brooded through his life, deeply introspective. He fulfilled his role as gadfly to most of the kings who reigned during his adult years, even though it took eminent courage to do so. Although he lived an exemplary personal lifestyle, political officials constantly took offense at his theologically charged political commentaries, and regularly arrested him, treating him very badly. Jeremiah was passionately moral, never allowing compromise as a suitable temporary alternative in the shady waters of international relations, or amid the roiling quicksand of fading religious devotion. He remained pastorally sensitive, especially to the poor and oppressed in Jerusalem, weeping in anguish as families boiled sandals and old leather to find a few nutrients during Babylonian sieges, and especially when he saw mothers willing to cannibalize their dying babies in order to keep their other children alive. Above all, Jeremiah found the grace to be unshakably hopeful. He truly believed, to the very close of his life, that though Babylonian forces would raze Jerusalem and the Temple, Yahweh would keep covenant promises, and one day soon restore the fortunes of this wayward partner in the divine missional enterprise.
The last king of Judah was Zedekiah (597-586), who seems to have been spineless, placating all in sight, and making secret deals with everyone. In the end, he tried secretly to flee Jerusalem in order to save his own skin (chapters 21-22, 27-28). During these dark times Jeremiah wrote a letter to the people of Judah who had already been deported to Babylon (chapter 29), urging them to settle in. Although Yahweh would surely restore the nation in the future, said Jeremiah, the current generation had to suffer punishment for its sinfulness. At the same time, during the final siege of Jerusalem, when the entire economy and real estate market had collapsed, Jeremiah bought a field deemed worthless as a token of good faith that Yahweh would call the people back from exile to prosperity (today’s lectionary reading, chapter 32). But when Zedekiah got overly confident about his valued position as Babylon’s local appointee, Jeremiah warned him that the judgment of Yahweh was irreversible, and days of destruction were just around the corner (chapter 34).
The theme of the Sinai covenant is very prominent in Jeremiah’s prophecies. Most striking is his recognition that it governs both Israel’s success and its demise, and that one day soon Yahweh will have to find a way to renew that covenant in a manner which will keep the restored nation more faithful to its identity, and true to its mission.
1 Timothy 6:6-19
There are the strong bookends for dating the last decade of Paul’s life, of course: his release from prison in Rome in 59 A.D. and his death around 67 A.D. In between we have to arrange the pieces with the few clues ferreted out of Paul’s writings, buttressed by a number of hints from other early church testimonies.
Because of Paul’s promise to visit Philemon, made sometime during 59 A.D., along with our knowledge of the typical flow of traffic around the Mediterranean and the bits of travel reports that Paul makes to Timothy and Titus, it seems reasonable to assume that Paul traveled with Titus and Timothy from Rome to the island of Crete, soon after Paul’s release in 59 A.D. There he installed Titus as pastor, and then continued his journey to the mainland of Asia Minor. By late 59 A.D. Paul was likely enjoying the warm hospitality of his friends Philemon and Onesimus, just outside of Colossae.
Around the turn of the next year, Paul probably headed down the Lycus and Maeander river valleys to Ephesus, which had been his base of missionary operations six or seven years before. The congregation in Ephesus was large and growing, and Paul assisted in installing as pastor there his most promising protégé, Timothy. Perhaps sometime during the year 60 A.D., Paul traveled on to Macedonia (1 Timothy 1:3), probably wanting to spend time with his friends and ministry supporters in Philippi (Philippians 1:25-28, 2:24).
From that city, many have speculated, Paul traveled on to Spain. This was certainly his plan a few years earlier, when he wrote to the church in Rome (Romans 15:24). Also, in 96 A.D., Clement of Rome (1 Clement 5:5-7) reflected on Paul’s travels to the “farthest bounds of the West,” a term used in the Roman Empire to designate Spain. There are other supportive references in the Muratorian Fragment, Chrysostom’s Tenth Homily on 2 Timothy, and Cyril of Jerusalem’s Lecture 17:26 of his Jerusalem Catecheses.
That kind of journey would have required at least a year or two. It was probably sometime during these travels, early in the decade of the 60s, that Paul wrote 1 Timothy. It is a warm and encouraging letter, filled with the advice of a mentor, and the seasoned reflections of a man who has observed the strengths and weaknesses of congregational life.
In the first half, Paul addresses Timothy primarily as a pastor, urging him to watch out for false teachers (1 Timothy 1), establish appropriate practices in worship gatherings (1 Timothy 2), and appoint spiritually mature persons as leaders within the congregation (1 Timothy 3). Woven throughout these instructions are a number of personal notes: Paul rues his early persecution of the church (1 Timothy 1:12-13) and uses God’s grace on his unworthy self as an illustration of the immeasurable quality of divine mercy (1 Timothy 1:14-17). Paul reminds Timothy of the prophecies that had once been spoken about the younger man in a public worship setting (1 Timothy 1:18), and how reflecting on this divine testimony can keep Timothy from making some of the same mistakes that have fallen on other leaders (1 Timothy 1:19-20). And Paul expresses his intended travel plans to visit Timothy soon (1 Timothy 3:14).
The second half of Paul’s letter is much more personal in its general contents. Paul gives wise counsel about how to deal with difficult members of the congregation, even though many consider Timothy too young to wield leadership authority (1Timothy 4). At the same time, Paul reminds Timothy to treat each person with respect, and suggests strategies for nurturing healthy pastoral care and wholesome congregational life (1 Timothy 5). Finally, in a very strongly worded warning, Paul cautions Timothy about the insidious leeching character of wealth. He uses this indictment to encourage Timothy to practice disciplines of restraint and moderation, advising others to do so as well for the sake of their spiritual health (1 Timothy 6).
Luke 16:19-31
There is a powerful scene in Shakespeare’s drama The Merchant of Venice. Portia is a beautiful, wealthy woman. Men come from all over the world begging to marry her. They have a goal in mind, but if they want to win her hand, they must first make a choice.
Portia knows that talk is often cheap, so she has had three large caskets created, and she uses them in a test of values. Whoever would win her hand must choose the casket that contains her portrait.
Each casket is very different from the others. One is made of silver, with an inscription that reads, “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” Those who are attracted to the shine of that fair vessel open it only to find the head of a fool. That, according to Portia, is what seekers of treasure deserve.
The second casket is even more spectacular than the first. It is gilded, and studded with baubles and gems. The inscription on this glittering icon reads, “Who chooseth me shall get what many men desire.” The suitors who nod for this prize open it to receive a dry and lifeless skull. Riches are dead. They have no life in them.
Of course, there is the third casket, but is rather ugly. It is only made of lead, and fashioned by a rather crude artisan. The message carved on the front is this: “Who chooseth me must give all and hazard all he hath.” It is, however, the one which contains Portia’s portrait.
This is the way it is on the narrow path to the Kingdom of God, as Jesus notes in today’s gospel reading. If you own this goal, then this goal must own you. There are no shortcuts. There are no detours or safety measures. That is why Jesus pictures the contrast between the rich man who lives in a gated mansion and Lazarus who, having nothing, begs unsuccessfully at his gate. During this existence, the lines between them are clearly drawn, not because one is wealthy and the other poor, but for the choices each makes within his little or big world. When the end comes for each, neither can take along any treasures or safety gear. Choosing the way of righteousness is a hazard. It’s all or nothing.
This is how each of us begins to determine our destiny. It is not so much a matter of achieving our own ends as it is that of choosing to risk everything for the sake of finding something that matters. When we think about who we are today, there are a number of things that make each of us unique. There are, of course, our physical characteristics. Each of us is built a little differently than the next. That’s what makes a community so interesting. It takes all kinds.
But our decisions are much more than our appearances. There is a self that is much deeper, much more internal. It has to do with the way we think, with the feelings that pump through us, with the facts we know, and the desires that drive us. These things, when all is said and done, are mostly the result of the choices we have made along the way in life.
Marriage, for instance, doesn’t happen overnight. You chose to get acquainted with someone. You chose to keep seeing him. You chose to commit yourself. You chose to plan a wedding. And every day you choose again to stay together.
The same is true of a career. You choose to stay in high school, even when your buddies dropped out. You chose to keep up your grades. You chose to apply to a variety of colleges. You chose courses that interested you. You chose a major. You put the money down each year. When it came time to graduate, you were at a different place in life than when you entered college, and the path you owned had begun to own you.
We choose our house. We choose our clothes, our friends, our work and play. Even when a tragedy comes our way, something unplanned and unexpected, like a death or an illness or a divorce, we still choose how we deal with it. We choose to turn it into something we can live with. And in those choices we find ourselves, until finally eternity collects us into the destinies that fit.
Application
Money is a power in our lives. We have all felt it feed our greed or suck like a leech at our souls. In our consumer-oriented society it has to be disarmed or it will consume us with credit card debt and gambling addictions. One family in our neighborhood is painfully climbing out of an over-buying hole. Another friend now spends more time at Gamblers’ Anonymous meetings than he does in church.
Jaques Ellul, the deeply religious French social critic, offered some hopeful suggestions in his book Money and Power (IVP, 1984). Ellul said that there are three ways we can learn to defuse the power of money in our lives.
First, in all the issues of life, said Ellul, we must choose to side with the human dimension rather than the economic. In other words, we have to refocus the glasses of our heart’s eyes to see persons before profits. Economic problems have to become, for us, human relations successes. People always matter more than the bottom line on bills.
Second, said Ellul, we must each make a willful decision not to love money. Jesus, in Matthew 6, called money a god directly in competition with the Creator. If we would find the true value of our lives, according to Ellul, we need to peg our hearts on God’s board, and deliberately refuse to be counted on money’s team.
Harvard economist John Kenneth Gailbraith developed the creed of North American life when he declared, as his major economic thesis, “prosperity is generated by desire.” If you want to gun for economic greatness you have to feed the flames of greed. Wealth is a perspective on life carved out of insatiable consumer madness.
Ellul’s third guideline for defusing the power of money was to give it away. It is not enough, he said, to take God’s path at the fork in the road. We must also divest ourselves of the very power of the other god in our lives. Just as alcoholics must renounce the bottle in order to survive, those who are smitten with the plague of greed have to get rid of the things that produce the cancerous disease. Some, in fact, as Jesus noted in the New Testament, may well have to get rid of every bit of money and goods, and take vows of poverty.
Even for those of us who may be able to survive with less drastic healing measures Ellul urges that we all need to give away much more money that is our current habit. Prosperity makes it easy to throw dimes and dollars this way and that without attacking our deep connection to material things. Recession, on the other hand, feeds our worry and robs us of both faith and generosity. To paraphrase the prayer in one of the Proverbs, “Lord, give me neither riches nor poverty; riches will make me self-sufficient and poverty will make me obsessive.”
Alternative Application (1 Timothy 6:6-19)
Leo Tolstoy wrote a brilliant little story about such desires and the quests they lead us on. He told of a man who had found favor with the governing powers of his society in a Russia now historied, and was allowed to select a parcel of ground as his own possession. The only limitation on this field’s size was the requirement that the man be able to plow a furrow around the property in a single day.
Early one morning he set out, drawn by the lure of free land and excited about the small farm he would stake out and claim as his own. He didn’t need much, of course — just enough to make a simple living for himself and his family.
By mid-morning he had moved a great distance. Still, when he looked back, the area seemed terribly small. So, since the day was still young, he decided to angle out a bit more. After all, a larger farm would make him a wealthy man. In his mind scenes flashed of his children, robust because of the fine meals they would take off this land. He could see his wife gliding at the ball adorned in a Parisian gown. Men would sidle up to him and seek his opinions; women would giggle with delight as he tipped his hat to them. He was becoming a person of importance!
As noon approached the plowman grew impatient with his slow progress. The circle of land now seemed much too insignificant. He must have more; so once again he widened the sweep of his plow.
Throughout the afternoon he fantasized of kings and princes calling him to court, and the fever for more acres burned in his soul. He plowed with a passion, forgetting to watch the sun as it slipped in the western skies.
Too late, he realized that he might not make it back to the starting stake by dusk. In panic he whipped his horse, pushing at the plow handles as the furrow began to zigzag madly. His heart pounded, his stomach churned and his muscles tightened in desperation. He must make it!
But his desire had overextended itself, and inches short of a complete circle he fell to the earth he so desperately coveted, dead of a heart attack. Ironically, wrote Tolstoy, the man was buried on all the land he really needed: a plot of ground three feet by six — a farm for the dead.
Economists sometimes talk about the “trickle-down” theory. It assumes that growing wealth at the top of a social system will “trickle down” through the ranks, till even the neediest beggar rejoices in increased abundance. It’s like rain falling on a mountaintop. Moisture feeds the timber and brush up there. But it does more. Water trickles down in rivulets and streams till every part of the valley below is fed.
Systems tend to work best in theory, though. Most of us realize that without some assistance, the wealth of the wealthy often stays right there on top of the mountain. Usually it fails to relieve the poverty of the poor.
There will always be a need for Robin Hoods in our cruel world to patrol the financial highways and byways. I remember a musical version of “Jack and the Beanstalk” that had the same message. Jack had climbed up to the Giant’s glittering castle in the clouds. Everyone cheered when he managed to sneak off with the giant’s goose that laid golden eggs. Jack left with this parting shot: “I’ll take much more before I’m through! You took it from my daddy, so I’ll take it back from you.” The audience was supposed to be pleased.
Our human economic theory, based on market-driven supply and demand, is often oiled with greed. It tends to leave us suspicious and jealous. We despise Robin Hood if we’re wealthy; we revere him if we’re poor.
And perhaps we even drop a few dollars at the lottery booth in a long shot at beating the system. Jesus’ economic theory in his parable for us this morning doesn’t necessarily change the systems of this world in dramatic ways. Nor does it significantly alter our needs, as Jeremiah’s story shows. But, as Paul admonishes Timothy, it does defuse our greed. After all, remember what Jesus said in another passage? “Seek first the kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things shall be yours as well.”
Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15
Jeremiah lived almost a century after Isaiah. By his time, Assyria had long ago destroyed Judah’s northern brother neighbor Israel (722 B.C.). Judah was itself only a tiny community now, limping along with diminishing resources, and constantly tossed around by the bigger nations of its world.
But things were changing rapidly on the international scene. Assyria was being beaten down in 612 B.C. by its eastern bully province, called Babylon. After snapping the backbone of Assyrian forces at Carchemish, and wrestling the capital city of Nineveh to the ground, Babylon immediately took over Palestine, the newer name for the old region of Canaan.
Judah was experiencing a rapid turnover of kings, many of whom were puppets of Babylon. For decades already, the country had been paying yearly tribute or security bribes to Babylon. Since 606 B.C., Judah had been forced to turn over some of its promising young men for propaganda retraining exile in the capital of the superpower, in anticipation that they would return to rule the nation as regents of Babylon.
For reasons like these, Egypt began to loom large in many minds as the only possible ally strong enough to withstand Babylon’s domination of the region. Even though Israel’s identity had been forged through a divine exit strategy from oppressive Egyptian mastery several centuries before, now a good number of voices were publicly suggesting that the remaining citizens of Jerusalem get out of town before a final Babylonian occupation, and find refuge in the safer haven of Egypt.
Into these times and circumstances Jeremiah was born. From his earliest thoughts he was aware of Yahweh’s special call on his life (1:4-10). This knowledge only made his prophetic ministry more gloomy, for it gave him no out in a game where the deck was stacked against him (chapters 12, 16). So he brooded through his life, deeply introspective. He fulfilled his role as gadfly to most of the kings who reigned during his adult years, even though it took eminent courage to do so. Although he lived an exemplary personal lifestyle, political officials constantly took offense at his theologically charged political commentaries, and regularly arrested him, treating him very badly. Jeremiah was passionately moral, never allowing compromise as a suitable temporary alternative in the shady waters of international relations, or amid the roiling quicksand of fading religious devotion. He remained pastorally sensitive, especially to the poor and oppressed in Jerusalem, weeping in anguish as families boiled sandals and old leather to find a few nutrients during Babylonian sieges, and especially when he saw mothers willing to cannibalize their dying babies in order to keep their other children alive. Above all, Jeremiah found the grace to be unshakably hopeful. He truly believed, to the very close of his life, that though Babylonian forces would raze Jerusalem and the Temple, Yahweh would keep covenant promises, and one day soon restore the fortunes of this wayward partner in the divine missional enterprise.
The last king of Judah was Zedekiah (597-586), who seems to have been spineless, placating all in sight, and making secret deals with everyone. In the end, he tried secretly to flee Jerusalem in order to save his own skin (chapters 21-22, 27-28). During these dark times Jeremiah wrote a letter to the people of Judah who had already been deported to Babylon (chapter 29), urging them to settle in. Although Yahweh would surely restore the nation in the future, said Jeremiah, the current generation had to suffer punishment for its sinfulness. At the same time, during the final siege of Jerusalem, when the entire economy and real estate market had collapsed, Jeremiah bought a field deemed worthless as a token of good faith that Yahweh would call the people back from exile to prosperity (today’s lectionary reading, chapter 32). But when Zedekiah got overly confident about his valued position as Babylon’s local appointee, Jeremiah warned him that the judgment of Yahweh was irreversible, and days of destruction were just around the corner (chapter 34).
The theme of the Sinai covenant is very prominent in Jeremiah’s prophecies. Most striking is his recognition that it governs both Israel’s success and its demise, and that one day soon Yahweh will have to find a way to renew that covenant in a manner which will keep the restored nation more faithful to its identity, and true to its mission.
1 Timothy 6:6-19
There are the strong bookends for dating the last decade of Paul’s life, of course: his release from prison in Rome in 59 A.D. and his death around 67 A.D. In between we have to arrange the pieces with the few clues ferreted out of Paul’s writings, buttressed by a number of hints from other early church testimonies.
Because of Paul’s promise to visit Philemon, made sometime during 59 A.D., along with our knowledge of the typical flow of traffic around the Mediterranean and the bits of travel reports that Paul makes to Timothy and Titus, it seems reasonable to assume that Paul traveled with Titus and Timothy from Rome to the island of Crete, soon after Paul’s release in 59 A.D. There he installed Titus as pastor, and then continued his journey to the mainland of Asia Minor. By late 59 A.D. Paul was likely enjoying the warm hospitality of his friends Philemon and Onesimus, just outside of Colossae.
Around the turn of the next year, Paul probably headed down the Lycus and Maeander river valleys to Ephesus, which had been his base of missionary operations six or seven years before. The congregation in Ephesus was large and growing, and Paul assisted in installing as pastor there his most promising protégé, Timothy. Perhaps sometime during the year 60 A.D., Paul traveled on to Macedonia (1 Timothy 1:3), probably wanting to spend time with his friends and ministry supporters in Philippi (Philippians 1:25-28, 2:24).
From that city, many have speculated, Paul traveled on to Spain. This was certainly his plan a few years earlier, when he wrote to the church in Rome (Romans 15:24). Also, in 96 A.D., Clement of Rome (1 Clement 5:5-7) reflected on Paul’s travels to the “farthest bounds of the West,” a term used in the Roman Empire to designate Spain. There are other supportive references in the Muratorian Fragment, Chrysostom’s Tenth Homily on 2 Timothy, and Cyril of Jerusalem’s Lecture 17:26 of his Jerusalem Catecheses.
That kind of journey would have required at least a year or two. It was probably sometime during these travels, early in the decade of the 60s, that Paul wrote 1 Timothy. It is a warm and encouraging letter, filled with the advice of a mentor, and the seasoned reflections of a man who has observed the strengths and weaknesses of congregational life.
In the first half, Paul addresses Timothy primarily as a pastor, urging him to watch out for false teachers (1 Timothy 1), establish appropriate practices in worship gatherings (1 Timothy 2), and appoint spiritually mature persons as leaders within the congregation (1 Timothy 3). Woven throughout these instructions are a number of personal notes: Paul rues his early persecution of the church (1 Timothy 1:12-13) and uses God’s grace on his unworthy self as an illustration of the immeasurable quality of divine mercy (1 Timothy 1:14-17). Paul reminds Timothy of the prophecies that had once been spoken about the younger man in a public worship setting (1 Timothy 1:18), and how reflecting on this divine testimony can keep Timothy from making some of the same mistakes that have fallen on other leaders (1 Timothy 1:19-20). And Paul expresses his intended travel plans to visit Timothy soon (1 Timothy 3:14).
The second half of Paul’s letter is much more personal in its general contents. Paul gives wise counsel about how to deal with difficult members of the congregation, even though many consider Timothy too young to wield leadership authority (1Timothy 4). At the same time, Paul reminds Timothy to treat each person with respect, and suggests strategies for nurturing healthy pastoral care and wholesome congregational life (1 Timothy 5). Finally, in a very strongly worded warning, Paul cautions Timothy about the insidious leeching character of wealth. He uses this indictment to encourage Timothy to practice disciplines of restraint and moderation, advising others to do so as well for the sake of their spiritual health (1 Timothy 6).
Luke 16:19-31
There is a powerful scene in Shakespeare’s drama The Merchant of Venice. Portia is a beautiful, wealthy woman. Men come from all over the world begging to marry her. They have a goal in mind, but if they want to win her hand, they must first make a choice.
Portia knows that talk is often cheap, so she has had three large caskets created, and she uses them in a test of values. Whoever would win her hand must choose the casket that contains her portrait.
Each casket is very different from the others. One is made of silver, with an inscription that reads, “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” Those who are attracted to the shine of that fair vessel open it only to find the head of a fool. That, according to Portia, is what seekers of treasure deserve.
The second casket is even more spectacular than the first. It is gilded, and studded with baubles and gems. The inscription on this glittering icon reads, “Who chooseth me shall get what many men desire.” The suitors who nod for this prize open it to receive a dry and lifeless skull. Riches are dead. They have no life in them.
Of course, there is the third casket, but is rather ugly. It is only made of lead, and fashioned by a rather crude artisan. The message carved on the front is this: “Who chooseth me must give all and hazard all he hath.” It is, however, the one which contains Portia’s portrait.
This is the way it is on the narrow path to the Kingdom of God, as Jesus notes in today’s gospel reading. If you own this goal, then this goal must own you. There are no shortcuts. There are no detours or safety measures. That is why Jesus pictures the contrast between the rich man who lives in a gated mansion and Lazarus who, having nothing, begs unsuccessfully at his gate. During this existence, the lines between them are clearly drawn, not because one is wealthy and the other poor, but for the choices each makes within his little or big world. When the end comes for each, neither can take along any treasures or safety gear. Choosing the way of righteousness is a hazard. It’s all or nothing.
This is how each of us begins to determine our destiny. It is not so much a matter of achieving our own ends as it is that of choosing to risk everything for the sake of finding something that matters. When we think about who we are today, there are a number of things that make each of us unique. There are, of course, our physical characteristics. Each of us is built a little differently than the next. That’s what makes a community so interesting. It takes all kinds.
But our decisions are much more than our appearances. There is a self that is much deeper, much more internal. It has to do with the way we think, with the feelings that pump through us, with the facts we know, and the desires that drive us. These things, when all is said and done, are mostly the result of the choices we have made along the way in life.
Marriage, for instance, doesn’t happen overnight. You chose to get acquainted with someone. You chose to keep seeing him. You chose to commit yourself. You chose to plan a wedding. And every day you choose again to stay together.
The same is true of a career. You choose to stay in high school, even when your buddies dropped out. You chose to keep up your grades. You chose to apply to a variety of colleges. You chose courses that interested you. You chose a major. You put the money down each year. When it came time to graduate, you were at a different place in life than when you entered college, and the path you owned had begun to own you.
We choose our house. We choose our clothes, our friends, our work and play. Even when a tragedy comes our way, something unplanned and unexpected, like a death or an illness or a divorce, we still choose how we deal with it. We choose to turn it into something we can live with. And in those choices we find ourselves, until finally eternity collects us into the destinies that fit.
Application
Money is a power in our lives. We have all felt it feed our greed or suck like a leech at our souls. In our consumer-oriented society it has to be disarmed or it will consume us with credit card debt and gambling addictions. One family in our neighborhood is painfully climbing out of an over-buying hole. Another friend now spends more time at Gamblers’ Anonymous meetings than he does in church.
Jaques Ellul, the deeply religious French social critic, offered some hopeful suggestions in his book Money and Power (IVP, 1984). Ellul said that there are three ways we can learn to defuse the power of money in our lives.
First, in all the issues of life, said Ellul, we must choose to side with the human dimension rather than the economic. In other words, we have to refocus the glasses of our heart’s eyes to see persons before profits. Economic problems have to become, for us, human relations successes. People always matter more than the bottom line on bills.
Second, said Ellul, we must each make a willful decision not to love money. Jesus, in Matthew 6, called money a god directly in competition with the Creator. If we would find the true value of our lives, according to Ellul, we need to peg our hearts on God’s board, and deliberately refuse to be counted on money’s team.
Harvard economist John Kenneth Gailbraith developed the creed of North American life when he declared, as his major economic thesis, “prosperity is generated by desire.” If you want to gun for economic greatness you have to feed the flames of greed. Wealth is a perspective on life carved out of insatiable consumer madness.
Ellul’s third guideline for defusing the power of money was to give it away. It is not enough, he said, to take God’s path at the fork in the road. We must also divest ourselves of the very power of the other god in our lives. Just as alcoholics must renounce the bottle in order to survive, those who are smitten with the plague of greed have to get rid of the things that produce the cancerous disease. Some, in fact, as Jesus noted in the New Testament, may well have to get rid of every bit of money and goods, and take vows of poverty.
Even for those of us who may be able to survive with less drastic healing measures Ellul urges that we all need to give away much more money that is our current habit. Prosperity makes it easy to throw dimes and dollars this way and that without attacking our deep connection to material things. Recession, on the other hand, feeds our worry and robs us of both faith and generosity. To paraphrase the prayer in one of the Proverbs, “Lord, give me neither riches nor poverty; riches will make me self-sufficient and poverty will make me obsessive.”
Alternative Application (1 Timothy 6:6-19)
Leo Tolstoy wrote a brilliant little story about such desires and the quests they lead us on. He told of a man who had found favor with the governing powers of his society in a Russia now historied, and was allowed to select a parcel of ground as his own possession. The only limitation on this field’s size was the requirement that the man be able to plow a furrow around the property in a single day.
Early one morning he set out, drawn by the lure of free land and excited about the small farm he would stake out and claim as his own. He didn’t need much, of course — just enough to make a simple living for himself and his family.
By mid-morning he had moved a great distance. Still, when he looked back, the area seemed terribly small. So, since the day was still young, he decided to angle out a bit more. After all, a larger farm would make him a wealthy man. In his mind scenes flashed of his children, robust because of the fine meals they would take off this land. He could see his wife gliding at the ball adorned in a Parisian gown. Men would sidle up to him and seek his opinions; women would giggle with delight as he tipped his hat to them. He was becoming a person of importance!
As noon approached the plowman grew impatient with his slow progress. The circle of land now seemed much too insignificant. He must have more; so once again he widened the sweep of his plow.
Throughout the afternoon he fantasized of kings and princes calling him to court, and the fever for more acres burned in his soul. He plowed with a passion, forgetting to watch the sun as it slipped in the western skies.
Too late, he realized that he might not make it back to the starting stake by dusk. In panic he whipped his horse, pushing at the plow handles as the furrow began to zigzag madly. His heart pounded, his stomach churned and his muscles tightened in desperation. He must make it!
But his desire had overextended itself, and inches short of a complete circle he fell to the earth he so desperately coveted, dead of a heart attack. Ironically, wrote Tolstoy, the man was buried on all the land he really needed: a plot of ground three feet by six — a farm for the dead.
