As I have said in the notes in the pewsheet today, of the four gospels, St Luke's is the one that puts the most emphasis on the whole issue of material wealth, and over the next two months or so he will keep bringing us back to the issue. He has the story of the rich young ruler told by Jesus to go and sell everything, and give the proceeds to the poor. He has the story of the rich man living in luxury in his house while ignoring the beggar at his gate. He has the somewhat strange story of the shrewd or dishonest servant who, losing his job for dishonesty, marks down the debts owed to his master, thereby winning the gratitude of the debtors. And he has today's story about the man whose harvest was too big for his barns.
And just in case we manage to wriggle out of these stories – convince ourselves that they don't really apply to us because we're not rich – he quotes Jesus saying this to the disciples: Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions and give to the poor. Provide purses for yourselves that will not wear out, a treasure in heaven that will not be exhausted, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
And he didn't say this to a lone rich guy or two – he said this to his disciples. If we wish to follow Christ we cannot evade this issue of material wealth, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us feel. So how do we deal with it?
Well, let's leave St Luke for a moment, and have a look at one of the most entertaining books in the whole of the Old Testament, the Book of Ecclesiastes from which our first lesson is taken this morning. With the possible exception of the Song of Songs, this is probably the most surprising book in the whole collection, because, although it does include the odd 'nod to God', it contains very little theology. Mostly it is a depressive rant that can be summed up in language worthy of any moody teenager: "Life sucks!"
It's some time since I recommended some reading for a wet Sunday, so try this book. Read the whole thing: It's only got 12 chapters, and it's followed by the Song of Songs, so if you need cheering up you can just keep going! The author is usually called the Teacher, with a capital 'T', although he claims to have been the wisest king ever to sit on the throne of Israel. He is a bitter and disillusioned man. He has tried everything life has to offer, and he has found them all essentially meaningless.
Here is a classic example of his many complaints: I denied myself nothing my eyes desired; I refused my heart no pleasure. My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labour. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after wind; nothing was gained under the sun.
Nothing made a real difference – nothing had lasting significance. And what is true of human life is equally true of the whole of creation. The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises. The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning to its course…. What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.
What do we make of all this? Do we find ourselves nodding sadly in agreement, or do we find the whole thing hugely funny? I ask that question because one of my happiest memories from a previous parish concerns one man's response to this book. We had a Disciple Bible study group there, and one of the attendees was a senior staffer in Treasury. When we got to this particular book, he had clearly never come across it before, and it delighted him. Usually a quiet, rather serious man, he frequently became convulsed with laughter as we worked through this text.
Apparently he was fantasising about using it to prepare replies to questions from his political masters. But the point is, I think, that he could see how completely the views of this book clashed with our cultural views today, at least in the circles in which he himself moved. What would happen to our national economy if we all embraced the point of view expressed by the Teacher in this book? Why work hard? Why increase productivity? Why train and re-train, study and up-skill? On the other hand, why spend all our time having fun, eating drinking and being merry? That, too, according to the Teacher, is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.
In short, there is no sensible way to lead our human lives. Nothing makes sense in itself. Retail therapy, coffee, sport, sex, etc., may temporarily ease the pain; but at the end of our lives, looking back, what will there be of any true significance? And where all this leaves Kiwi-Saver, only Michael Cullen knows!
Well, we could go on having fun with this amazing book, but I want to defend it on the basis that it provides a wonderful critique of modern secular thinking. Although he seems to believe in God, the Teacher is really showing us what a godless human existence is like. Leave God out of the equation and we have to find our deepest value in something else. But in what? In making money? In winning sports trophies?
And at the back of all this is the fundamental question: does life make sense in itself? Or must it lead somewhere – must it have a goal or a direction – if it is to mean anything to us? At the heart of the Teacher's complaint is mortality – the belief that death is final. We work hard all our lives, we accumulate nice things, then we die and those nice things pass on to the next generation who has not had to work for them Where's the justice in that? Where's the sense?
It's time to bring St Luke back into the picture, because the 'hero' in today's passage is on the same track as the one the Teacher has been railing against. This guy seems to be a grain farmer of some kind; and one season he reaps an enormous harvest. And, as always with St Luke, be on the look out for clever details. Here are two. He says the ground of a certain rich man produced a good crop. He didn't produce the good crop, the ground produced it; so we're talking about gift, grace, blessing, etc. And the man is already rich before he receives this good crop.
Far from being grateful, this man sees this great bounty as posing a problem. He hasn't got enough storage space. What can he do? And, of course, he decides to rush around, tear down his present barns and build bigger and better ones. Those barns have been adequate for his purposes in the past, so the new ones must be more than adequate. In other words, his grain supplies are more than adequate to meet his needs.
So what is his plan for the surplus? To finance his future, so that he can "take life easy, eat, drink and be merry". This is his version of superannuation – he is the first person to set up his own Kiwi-Saver scheme. But then he drops dead and God says to him, You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?" There's the very question that bothers the Teacher, and if the gospel passage had finished there we would be no further advanced. But it doesn't; there's a new sting in the tail. "This is how it will be with those who store up things for themselves but are not rich towards God."
Today we are berated for spending too much on our credit cards, and told that instead we should save more for our future. Economically and financially that may make sense. But both are essentially self-centred. Whether we spend more on ourselves or save more for ourselves, we are still being generous to ourselves. What these readings tell us is that spending or saving in this way still leaves God out of the equation. Spending and saving both assume that this life is all there is.
That is the danger of wealth. It can lure us into becoming focussed on ourselves. What is best for me and my family? How can I improve things for me and them, how can I secure my future and theirs? These teachings raise deep questions of a different kind. In the coming weeks St Luke will make sure we ponder those deeper questions some more.
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