I want to begin this morning with a story that feels like it should be made up but unfortunately, it’s not.
In 1923, a group of the most powerful businessmen in the world gathered at the Edgewater Beach Hotel in Chicago. It was the who’s who of global finance: the head of the biggest steel company, the top wheat speculator, the president of the New York Stock Exchange, a presidential cabinet member, the head of the world’s largest monopoly, and the president of the Bank for International Settlements. Between them, they controlled more wealth than the entire U.S. Treasury. Newspapers ran stories about them like they were American royalty, and these were the men young people were told to look up to.
Fast forward twenty-five years, and every single one of them had died broke, disgraced, imprisoned, or by suicide.
Now, I don’t tell that story to be morbid. I tell it because it asks a question that we all wrestle with, deep down, whether we admit it or not: Is this it? Is life just a matter of accumulating enough so that we can finally relax, finally feel secure, finally breathe a sigh of relief?
Our first reading from Ecclesiastes doesn’t hesitate to answer. “It’s all vanity,” the author says. “A chasing after the wind.” And Jesus doesn’t disagree. But he does go deeper.
In Luke’s Gospel today, Jesus is mid-teaching. He’s talking about the usual Jesusy stuff: justice, mercy, the kingdom of God. And someone in the crowd interrupts him with a very practical concern: “Tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.”
This isn’t a random, left-field request. Anyone who’s lived through family conflict around money or wills or property knows how raw it can get. But this man has missed the bigger picture.
Jesus gently redirects: “Friend, who set me to be a judge over your stuff?” And then he offers this line that I think could hang over every storage unit in America: “One’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”
And then Jesus tells a story. A rich man’s land produces abundantly. So abundantly that he runs out of room. So he does what any logical person would do: he expands. Bigger barns, more storage, more security. And finally, he says to himself: “You’ve got it made. It’s time to relax.”
But that night, his life is required of him. And all that he stored up? It goes to someone else.
It’s not that the man was foolish for planning. The foolishness was believing that having more would save him. That he could insulate his soul with surplus. That the abundance of stuff meant the abundance of life.
Now here’s where it gets close to home. Because while I don’t think any of us are out here building grain silos in Ypsilanti, although the water tower might be a good option while we’re thinking of it. I do think we’re all building something.
We build barns of control. We build barns of achievement. We build barns of approval. We build barns full of carefully curated collections of our worth.
And all it takes is one tremor, financial, physical, or emotional, and suddenly we realize: none of it can actually hold us. None of it can catch us when we fall.
It’s not just that barns are a bad investment. It’s that they’re designed to hold stuff; whereas God’s grace is the only thing that can hold our souls.
Which brings us to what Paul writes to the Colossians. He says, “You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.”
I actually really love that language because it’s cozy and safe. We’re hidden. Tucked in. Secure, not in your own ability to keep it together, but in the arms of Christ.
And then Paul says, “Put on the new self” the self that is becoming more and more like its creator. Not perform it, not earn it, just wear it. Like your favorite jacket. Like something that was picked out just for you, because it fits who you really are.
This isn’t about adding another thing to the to-do list. It’s about stepping into the life you’ve already been given. The life that’s hidden with Christ. The life that starts not when you get everything in order, but right now, in this breath, in this room, in this table we gather around together.
So friends, in the midst of all the things going on around us, I think sometimes we get just enough religion to make ourselves anxious. Just enough to know there are rules, expectations, standards but not far enough to know the joy. The freedom. The love.
There’s a kind of Christianity that stays at the surface, that measures your worth in behavior and image. But when you go deeper, when you go to the heart of it, you don’t find a score sheet or an inventory log. You find a relationship. A relationship with the One who chose you before you chose him. Who forgives you before you figured everything out. Who loves you just as you are: barns, baggage, and all.
That’s the abundance that we will reap forever. Not because it’s stored up in vaults, but poured out in mercy. Not because it’s measured by profit margins, but rooted in belovedness. Not because it’s something you have to chase, or earn. Just something you receive. And share. Amen.
Sermon for August 3, 2025
The Rev. Taylor Vines
I want to begin this morning with a story that feels like it should be made up but unfortunately, it’s not.
In 1923, a group of the most powerful businessmen in the world gathered at the Edgewater Beach Hotel in Chicago. It was the who’s who of global finance: the head of the biggest steel company, the top wheat speculator, the president of the New York Stock Exchange, a presidential cabinet member, the head of the world’s largest monopoly, and the president of the Bank for International Settlements. Between them, they controlled more wealth than the entire U.S. Treasury. Newspapers ran stories about them like they were American royalty, and these were the men young people were told to look up to.
Fast forward twenty-five years, and every single one of them had died broke, disgraced, imprisoned, or by suicide.
Now, I don’t tell that story to be morbid. I tell it because it asks a question that we all wrestle with, deep down, whether we admit it or not: Is this it? Is life just a matter of accumulating enough so that we can finally relax, finally feel secure, finally breathe a sigh of relief?
Our first reading from Ecclesiastes doesn’t hesitate to answer. “It’s all vanity,” the author says. “A chasing after the wind.” And Jesus doesn’t disagree. But he does go deeper.
In Luke’s Gospel today, Jesus is mid-teaching. He’s talking about the usual Jesusy stuff: justice, mercy, the kingdom of God. And someone in the crowd interrupts him with a very practical concern: “Tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.”
This isn’t a random, left-field request. Anyone who’s lived through family conflict around money or wills or property knows how raw it can get. But this man has missed the bigger picture.
Jesus gently redirects: “Friend, who set me to be a judge over your stuff?” And then he offers this line that I think could hang over every storage unit in America: “One’s life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”
And then Jesus tells a story. A rich man’s land produces abundantly. So abundantly that he runs out of room. So he does what any logical person would do: he expands. Bigger barns, more storage, more security. And finally, he says to himself: “You’ve got it made. It’s time to relax.”
But that night, his life is required of him. And all that he stored up? It goes to someone else.
It’s not that the man was foolish for planning. The foolishness was believing that having more would save him. That he could insulate his soul with surplus. That the abundance of stuff meant the abundance of life.
Now here’s where it gets close to home. Because while I don’t think any of us are out here building grain silos in Ypsilanti, although the water tower might be a good option while we’re thinking of it. I do think we’re all building something.
We build barns of control. We build barns of achievement. We build barns of approval. We build barns full of carefully curated collections of our worth.
And all it takes is one tremor, financial, physical, or emotional, and suddenly we realize: none of it can actually hold us. None of it can catch us when we fall.
It’s not just that barns are a bad investment. It’s that they’re designed to hold stuff; whereas God’s grace is the only thing that can hold our souls.
Which brings us to what Paul writes to the Colossians. He says, “You have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God.”
I actually really love that language because it’s cozy and safe. We’re hidden. Tucked in. Secure, not in your own ability to keep it together, but in the arms of Christ.
And then Paul says, “Put on the new self” the self that is becoming more and more like its creator. Not perform it, not earn it, just wear it. Like your favorite jacket. Like something that was picked out just for you, because it fits who you really are.
This isn’t about adding another thing to the to-do list. It’s about stepping into the life you’ve already been given. The life that’s hidden with Christ. The life that starts not when you get everything in order, but right now, in this breath, in this room, in this table we gather around together.
So friends, in the midst of all the things going on around us, I think sometimes we get just enough religion to make ourselves anxious. Just enough to know there are rules, expectations, standards but not far enough to know the joy. The freedom. The love.
There’s a kind of Christianity that stays at the surface, that measures your worth in behavior and image. But when you go deeper, when you go to the heart of it, you don’t find a score sheet or an inventory log. You find a relationship. A relationship with the One who chose you before you chose him. Who forgives you before you figured everything out. Who loves you just as you are: barns, baggage, and all.
That’s the abundance that we will reap forever. Not because it’s stored up in vaults, but poured out in mercy. Not because it’s measured by profit margins, but rooted in belovedness. Not because it’s something you have to chase, or earn. Just something you receive. And share. Amen.