I want to begin by thanking everyone who is sitting here. You stuck around for the sermon even though you knew I was going to be preaching about your money. Usually, when preachers talk about your money they have something particular in mind for it: such as the church's capital campaign. They—we—I also love to preach guilt-inducing sermons against "materialism" and "consumerism." So you may already be feeling a little bit defensive. "Cheryl has some nerve," you may be thinking.... "she doesn't know how much money I have or how I spend it. Only my partner knows...well, except for that secret stash I refuse to tell her about because she goes ballistic when I buy a lotto ticket or treat myself to a nice lunch. And I suppose the government knows—except for that consulting fee I got last year which I really didn't need to declare because it wasn't that and it would only have gone for missile defense anyhow. Some of my friends know—the ones who have about the same amount that I do—though I do round down the figure when I tell them my salary. The important thing is that I know how much I have and how I spend it...except I haven't really looked at my bank statements for months because it makes me queasy. But I pay my pledge and donate to the food pantry and keep out of trouble so I'm not going to feel guilty!"
There may be no other subject that brings up as much excitement and shame, desire, defensiveness and guilt as money—money and the comforts, pleasures and stuff it can buy. We all know about desire: there are academic studies showing most of us fantasize all the time about things we would like to own or exotic vacations we would like to take—we don't need university professors to tell us about our mental wish-lists. We all know about shame: shame over the Visa bill that we may never pay off; the shame—if we're less fortunate—of not being able to buy new sneakers for our children; the shame of collecting unemployment of earning less than our friends. The shame—mixed with pride—in owning that new gas-guzzling SUV. And the guilt—the guilt that comes when we compare our stuff with the one room house, the few cooking pots, blankets and single pair of shoes that billions of people in the world feel lucky to own...especially when those same people that may have sewn our clothes or picked our coffee. And then the confusion and the defensiveness: should I feel guilty? Is it really so bad to want a nice sofa, to have extra socks in my sock drawer, to eat at Ernies with my friends? After all—if we all suddenly started spending less, wouldn't that throw the economy into a tailspin? Doesn't God want everyone to be comfortable, including me? Is it really Unchristian to go to bed with the IKEA catalogue at night?
But we keep these questions to ourself—especially in church. The subject is too loaded. But I'm going to do talk about it anyway—you money, my money, our stuff. I'm going to talk it because although we may be shy, Jesus talks about it quite a bit: and today's lesson is one of those times.
Let's start with the parable. A rich man's land produced abundantly, so abundantly that he didn't have enough room to store his crops. He says to himself, "I will do this. I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and goods. And I will say to my soul, 'Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.'" But God said to him, "You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?" "So it is," says Jesus, "with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God."
So it was: the man died unexpectedly in the middle of the night, and what did he have to show for his life? A very successful farm, grain and goods to last for years, and large, beautiful barns (or at least the blueprints). His neighbors may have been quite impressed: at the funeral they probably talked about how hardworking he was, how well he managed the farm. What foresight he had, building those new barns so he could store his crops for the future. And what a shame that he never had a chance to enjoy his early retirement: if anyone deserved it, he did. Well—they might have said over the coffee cake at the reception—at least his sons were well provided for.
God, however, is not impressed. The barns, the crops, the goods, his successful life: God calls him a fool, pointing out that he no longer owns all that stuff anyhow. But what should the man have done? Jesus doesn't spell it out...so we'll have to take some educated guesses.
Most of the rich man's neighbors would have been hungry—almost everyone lived hand to mouth in first century Palestine, only the fortunate few and the Roman overlords could count on having enough. He could have given food to his neighbors, he could have taken care of orphans and widows. He could have given a generous donation—many generous donations—to One Great Hour of Sharing or the Broadway Community Food Pantry. He could have remembered those in need.
In first century Palestine, much of the work on a rich man's farm would have been done by slaves or landless peasants, at near-starvation wages. There's nothing to suggest that the man was especially harsh or demanding of his workers, but with crops to store he could have paid them a living wage. Not the minimum wage of $--- an hour, but $10 or $12, with health coverage, something that would have allowed them dignity, a wage that might have given them freedom. He could have done justice.
Twelve hours a day, seven days a week, is a lot of time to eat, drink, and be merry. If he was going to retire early and live off that extra grain, he could've at least spent some time doing volunteer work. Lending a hand to his neighbors. Doing something to keep the heart and soul of the Jewish community together under the Roman occupation. If he was of a radical bent, he could've even joined one of those groups trying to do something about the Roman occupation—or at least given them money. He could have worked in a Homeless Shelter or gone to meetings of Upper Manhattan Together or Jubilee 2000. He could have marched—peacefully—in Seattle. He could have been working for liberation.
He could have spent more time with his family. He could have spent more time in the Temple, praising God—he could have pledged more. After all, it was God who made the land produce abundantly. He could have given thanks.
"Take care!" said Jesus, "Be on your guard against all kinds of greed, for your life does not consist of the abundance of possessions." Most of us who are rich by world-wide standards—if not American ones—have more in common with the rich man than we may care to admit. We may not pull down our barns and build bigger ones, but we sell our co-ops for ones with more closet space or "move up" when renting apartments. We lay up goods big time: microwaves and coffee grinders, TVs, VCRs, DVD players, sneakers, hiking boots, dishes, games, CDs...every single thing unremarkable, but adding up to a barnful. We covet good salaries so we can eat, drink, be merry, and go to the movies with our friends. We may not have enough to stop working, and we may not keep ALL of it to ourselves, but our choices—let's face it—are often those of the rich man's.
I believe we live with so much shame and guilt, confusion and denial around our money because it is the area in our lives where we live farthest from both the promise and the demands of the gospel. Far from the promise that our life and our worth does not consist in the abundance of our possessions—or the brands. Far from the promise that when our life is demanded of us God will not care how much money we have made, or how many things we have accumulated. And far from the demand that we guard against all kinds of greed. Far from the demand that our checkbook reflect our theology: that we use our money—and our lives—to help those in need, to do justice, to love others, to praise God.
What that means is not simple. In capitalism as we have it if we were all, suddenly, to become rich towards God, we might plunge into a recession...so we have to think and struggle together to see how we might rearrange things. And God knows that we need enough to eat, a safe home, care when we're sick—and a surely a few extra socks or a CD player doesn't hurt—so there's wiggle room when it comes to figuring out "enough." And we know from all the stories in the gospels that Jesus put eating, drinking, and being merry with his friends high on his list of things to do each day.
But it's also not that complicated. Jesus keeps insisting that our lives are being demanded of us right now. Be dressed for action, he says, and have your lamps lit. Sell your possessions and give alms. Be ready! Be ready to open the door when the bridegroom knocks. When we look at our money, and our lives, are we ready?