Lying in a Field

And he thought to himself, “What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?” Then he said, “I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, ‘Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.’”[Luke 12:17-19].

About two weeks ago, as I wandered around one of my favorite Durham/Chapel Hill haunts, our new Wegman’s, I had one of my all-too-common senior moments. I spied a familiar face from my years at AICPA (2007-2014), but try as I might, I could not bring her name to mind. I recalled that we had worked together on several projects; alas, I couldn’t name them either. I only knew that I hadn’t seen her in eight years. And so, since I’m not shy, I just pushed my cart over to hers and said, “Miss, Miss.”

Not a little startled, she turned, but quickly said, “Tom Robinson, it’s been ages. How in the world are you?”

I told her, “Great, except that I’m so bad with names that I can’t remember yours.”

She chuckled, reintroduced herself, and then we stood between the eight varieties of fresh tomatoes and the Italian pasta dishes–freshly and suitably prepared for your supper—and talked about old times. She reminisced about several projects upon which we had been involved, particularly one involving a joint venture with the Brazilian national organization that represents the interests of Brazil’s professional accountants.

I remembered the Brazilians, of course. I’d even given them a tour of the Duke campus. They all fell in love with our beautiful, Gothic Chapel (who doesn’t?). Yet, as my friend and I stood in Wegman’s talking, I realized that my recollection of some of the finer points she was making was fuzzy and further, that the fuzziness had nothing to do with my age.

You see, with the benefit of hindsight (and a bit of scripture—upon this latter point I’ll endeavor to explain in a second), I recognized that I’d spent my years at AICPA like the rich man described in our Lord’s powerful, but biting parable found in the Gospel reading assigned for this upcoming Sunday [Luke 12:13-21, the Eighth Sunday after Pentecost, RCL, Year C]. During my AICPA days (and many of the 18 years before that when I worked at Duke), I’d kept myself busy tearing down barns and building larger ones and in doing so, I had missed many gifts of human interaction.

I’d been so busy planning for the future, crafting a post-Medicare scenario for Jane and me that would let me finally jettison the ever-present day-job, that would let me continue writing my boring, but relatively well-paying legal stuff, all the while being free also to play and write on the periphery of the local church, that I missed not a few gifts that came along during the process. Those gifts had often zoomed past me because, preoccupied as I was with my barns—i.e., our future—I often did not smell the roses that I’m certain had been offered to me by my co-workers, colleagues, and friends.

You remember the parable, of course. Jesus identifies a “rich” man. We know from other passages in Luke’s Gospel that whenever Jesus describes someone as rich, it usually isn’t a compliment. This rich man has a thriving farming business. His crop is so abundant that he hasn’t sufficient storage space in his barns. In a conversation held only with himself, the man announces with satisfaction that he will tear down his barns and build bigger ones. That plan will secure his future. In the years to come, he won’t need to cash out his life insurance; he won’t need to resort to one of those “reverse” mortgages that Tom Selleck advertises; he’ll have plenty of funds on hand for many years to come. Awash with good fortune, he’ll be able to enjoy his retirement years in the manner that he deserves.

Jesus says there’s only one problem with the rich farmer’s plans: Today is the farmer’s last day on this earth. “And the things you have prepared,” Jesus cautions, “whose will they be?” [Luke 12:20b].

“Jesus,” we might say, “What’s wrong with planning and saving for a rainy day?” Indeed, a year or so ago, I talked with an attorney/business owner colleague who told me that he felt “called” by God to make a lot of money. That way, he said he could give a significant segment of it back to the Lord. I’m pretty sure I made him mad when I asked him if he actually thought God needed his money. I could just as easily have said, “What color is your barn?” He, of course, could have appropriately retorted, “Red—what color’s yours?”

Getting back to our rich farmer, he does not give thanks to God for his abundance. He doesn’t tip his straw hat to his laborers who’ve likely done much of the work in producing his harvest. Nor does he give any thought to sharing his bounty with those nearby. After all, he has a future to worry about. He can’t enjoy the finest vintages if he does not construct his wine cellar now. If he doesn’t store his grain adequately, it will all hit the market at the same time and his price will be low.

Alas, the farmer is blind to the fact that his life is not really his. Like many in our day, he was thinking, “My body, my choice.” But his body—his life—like yours, like mine, like everyone’s, belongs to God. One day—for some of us that day is today—God will demand it back.

And yet, for many others of us, God won’t immediately demand the life that we think we own today. We’ll sleep tonight and awake tomorrow morning. For many of us, we will find that we have—we had—many years in this world. We have/had enough time to pursue that family we so desired, that career, and yes, perhaps even some sort of retirement. You see, it isn’t that the parable teaches that it’s wrong to plan; it’s that it teaches it’s wrong to think we can secure our own future.

And here’s where some of the true sadness comes: the parable also teaches that for those of us who spend our time supposing that we can secure our future, we will miss so much during our journey. In my case, for example, I encounter a forgotten friend in a grocery store, and I gaze back and I wonder what else I missed while I was busy calculating, running my “what ifs,” sketching out my various contingency plans—in short, tearing down my barns in order to build up bigger ones.

It is my sincere belief that God blesses us with these unanticipated, serendipitous moments of awareness. We see the simple beauty of casual talk with a former colleague, we experience the soft touch on the elbow by a spouse, or the grin of an effervescent grandchild. We feel the stirring in our heart as we sing that old, favorite hymn. We taste the unparalleled spiritual richness on our tongue when we dip the bread into the cup and bring it to our lips, and we know that, properly received, these are moments for deep, deep gratitude, even as we also know that over the years there must have been so many other blessings nearby, but we missed them because we were busy, or dozing—or planning.

What barns are you clearing away? What plans are you making? Do you harbor the notion that if you’re careful, if you’re mindful of the necessary details, if you husband your resources and remain diligent, you’ll be able to put yourself into a position where you will be safe and secure? Jesus’ parable is a stark warning that those suppositions are false. His parable reminds us that to the extent that we spend our time and our lives thinking like the rich farmer, in the end—and that end can come quickly or at some far, far distant moment—we will have been foolish. We will have been foolish because: (a) we cannot secure our futures, and (b) we will have missed so much joy and beauty around us. That is our Lord’s not-so-subtle warning.

And yet, His warning comes with a silver lining. We can be ever watchful for the blessings that God lavishes upon us in the form of family, friends, work colleagues, and Christian fellowship. We can begin now—not soon, but now—treasuring the richness that is ours when we are freed from worrying about our barns. Our lives are not “our” lives; they belong to God. And He who loves us will provide for us. Go ahead, don’t be bashful. Go for it. Lie down ….

Now pretend you’re a lily [Luke 12:27].