Boxes (sermon on Luke 12:13-21)

I have boxes in my basement that I haven't opened in years. I know what's in them, more or less, because I organized them. It's not stuff that I use or particularly need, but it's stuff that I want to keep, because it represents times in my life. A volleyball uniform from 5th grade, when I actually almost felt like a normal kid; a box full of notes that my friend Cherise passed to me during our 11th grade Western Civ. class; t-shirts from college events like Relay For Life and Klondike Derby. These boxes are not my life, but they contain memories of things that remind me of my life. When I'm old, I hope to look back and pull out those notes and laugh at the silly things we thought were funny, and remember the fun we had in college. It serves the purpose of reminding me of good times. Everybody has them—I'm sure you do too, and I think there's nothing wrong with having boxes full of memories.


We live at the speed of light some days. Day to day, it can seem slow, especially if you're alone. You get up, you make food, you work or do a hobby, maybe you talk to a few people, you go to sleep again. All the while, you know that time has flown by and you are getting older. You plan for what's coming—by keeping a 401K or other savings account, by writing a will, by planning your retirement, or saving for your son or daughter's future schooling, by eating healthy or exercising. We build our barns and silos and we store up for the future, and there's nothing wrong with that either. Stuff is important. Although lilies might not need to toil, humans do, at least a little bit. We can't live on a prayer like the singer Bon Jovi suggests, at least not literally. We need food and shelter and clothing. So it's a little confusing when Jesus tells a parable about a man who is described as “foolish” who does little more than what most of us are doing—saving up, building your business, keeping your stuff safe in boxes, preparing for the future. What's wrong with that?


Anybody who has ever moved in their life understands how stuff accumulates over time. Even if you don't buy much, somehow more and more stuff ends up in your house. It breeds, or gnomes put more in with the old stuff, or something, and we hang onto it because it's familiar and safe and maybe someday it will be useful. If you've moved a bunch of times, you know that the stuff that was in boxes once often stays in boxes, and it starts to become a burden that you can't let go of. It doesn't matter that you didn't like great aunt Joan, you inherited her dishes and by God you're going to keep them! This only seems sillier when you start thinking about what will happen to your stuff after you die. You didn't even like it, and now your kids or other relatives are saddled with it. Have you asked yourself lately what purpose it serves?


The rich man in Jesus' parable was avoiding doing just that. On the surface, it seems like what he was doing was just good business. I'm sure some of you folks have even done this on your farms. You have a good year, and you need more space, so you build bigger silos or you buy some more property. There's nothing wrong with that—but ask yourself, what purpose are you serving? This is the question the man in the parable wasn't asking. His thought was only on acquiring more stuff, filling up his barns and saving his grain for the future, ignoring the fact that there were starving, struggling peasants all around him. Ignoring the fact that he could have fed his excess to others, or given his workers better wages, or taken leisure time now that he was secure in order to be with his friends and family. The purpose that the farmer's wealth was serving was an unworthy one—he shoved his excess in a barn and let it sit there, where only he could benefit and enjoy it. It was serving him, but nobody else, and in the end, it was useless even to him because his life was demanded of him.


There's a great connection between the reading in Ecclesiastes and our gospel for today. Both are asking questions about the purpose of our lives. The philosopher writes that things go on and on, generations turn and the sun rises and sets, but that basically all the work we do is vapor or a chasing after the wind, depending on your goal. If the treasure is your goal, you will be disappointed, because eventually you'll die, and as they say, you never see a hearse pulling a U-haul. Working, even living, is pointless in the end, if what you expect is to win some sort of prize for collecting the most toys. It doesn't work that way, because regardless of our differences, the one thing every human being has in common is that we all die, and all that material stuff we worked for eventually goes away. So why do we do it?


I think Jesus is saying that the man was foolish not because he saved, but because his goal was the stuff, and that goal was born from a disconnection to reality of life around him—to the reality of need around him. There's nothing wrong with the stuff—we all need it, we all have it, most of us even like it. The man was foolish because the stuff was the point for him, while Jesus is standing here telling crowds of people about a kind of abundance that is greater and eternal. Rather than just existing in the midst of a world that's constantly moving on without us, Jesus is declaring that we are deeply connected to one another and to God because of who Christ is and who we are. To focus on the things as the goal instead of utilizing God's gifts as a way to more deeply connect is beyond foolishness—it's blasphemy against the one who gave the gifts because it rejects the giver. Our lives and the things we have weren't given as an ends, but as a means to live and be supported and to support other people. To toil and worry and labor for the things that don't last is to ignore the greater gift of the love that lays down its life for its friends.


We all have boxes in the attic or the basement or the closet, filled with memories and important things, but we also have boxes filled with unimportant things, with useless things or even harmful things. We have those things inside us too—anger, resentment, worry, fear. Some things are worth keeping, but much of what we hold onto is useless baggage that we grudgingly drag from house to house, day to day, year to year. Ask yourself what purpose that stuff you are carrying around serves—if it's not serving you right now and it's not serving anybody else, maybe it's time to let it go. Jesus has called you and named you beloved, connecting you to the greater things, to the Spirit, to God, to others, so that you can be free of the stuff—so you can leave the boxes and the emotional garbage—and instead live out your calling taking only what's helpful and restful and needful, free from everything that isn't serving God's purpose.