Sermon:
October 26, 1997

Scripture:
Luke 12:13-21

I don't know where I first saw it. But once I saw it, I never forgot it. I am talking about a pillow. A crocheted pillow. Not the kind of pillow you lay your head on in bed, but the kind of pillow you lay your eyes on, on the sofa. And while I have long since forgotten its coloring, I remember its lettering. Which read: "You Can Never Be Too Rich or Too Thin."

Which is at least partly wrong. For it appears that you can be too thin. People die from a preoccupation with thinness. I tell myself that each time we have donuts in the office. Yet this is no joking matter. I have had occasion to spend time in the company of anorexic and bulimic individuals. I have a friend whose son has struggled with this problem for several years. He has been in therapy. He has been hospitalized. And still the problem persists. Every meal is a struggle. Every mouthful is a victory. Every pound gained ... or not lost ... is a relief. But the problem remains, day after day. And always in the background is the realization that "thin" can take your life.

I suppose that "thin" can also sap your joy. Several years ago I performed a wedding ceremony for a bunny. Not the kind of bunny that hops through the forest. This bunny worked as a waitress in the Playboy Club. Yes, I took a second look. Yes, she fit the image. And yes, she was also a lovely lady. I married her to Bozo ... the clown. Literally. Don't ask me to explain. It would take too long. Kris and I went to the reception, which was a very small dinner party for Bozo and bunny, the members of the bridal party, and a few close friends. Halfway through the meal, Kris poked me in the ribs. When I leaned over in response, she whispered in my ear. "See," she said. "See what?" said I. "Look at her plate," Kris responded. "What about her plate?" I asked. "She doesn't eat," said Kris. And indeed she didn't ... or hadn't. I wouldn't want to be married to a non-eater, even though it would cut down on the grocery bill. I don't think life would be much fun. Which is another way of saying: "You can be too thin."

But can you ever be too rich? "No," say the financial advisors. You can never have too much. You can never be too certain. Those who plan best are those who continually insure themselves against the worst.

I know that not everybody in the "money business" talks that way. But a lot do. I think back to the days when Kris and I were first married. Everybody wanted to sell us insurance. We figured it was probably a good idea. I had a small policy, courtesy of the denomination. At the time it would have buried me, with little left over. So we were clear we needed more. Agents came to see us. Some of them were from my congregation. They were good people. They were peddling good products. The agents told me that we were in the same business. They assured me that they felt a spiritual calling to sell insurance. In their own way, they were convinced they were doing ministry. I thought that sounded nice, even when I heard it for the tenth time.

But I remember something else about those visits. Eventually, each visit would end up at the kitchen table. It would seem that life insurance sells best in the kitchen. Once we were comfortably seated, out would come "the Book." The Book was always a looseleaf. The pages were slick, even laminated. At least they seemed to be laminated. I could never tell for sure. That's because the client never touches "the Book." Only the agent touches "the Book," so as to control the speed by which the "pitch" proceeds through the pages.

The first couple of pages are filled with happy pictures. Pictures of a husband and wife. Pictures of a home and a fireplace (especially a fireplace). Pictures of a nice car. Pictures of little children. Pictures of older children, wearing caps and gowns and carrying diplomas. Pictures of a cabin in the woods or a boat by a dock. Pictures of a husband and wife waving from the deck of a cruise ship. These are the kind of pictures on pages one and two.

By the time you get to pages three and four, you are looking at pictures that are not so happy. Pictures of an ambulance ... a fire ... an accident. Pictures of somebody who appears to be permanently disabled. Pictures of a nursing home. Pictures that depict a grieving family. Pictures that depict children not being educated. Pictures of a spouse moving from the family home ... to a much smaller home ... with no shrubbery ... and crabgrass. I can't remember all the pictures. It's been too long now.

But the pictures made their impression. The appeal was straightforward and obvious. It was based upon a "worst-case scenario." The underlying question was: "Are you ready for this?" The implied answer: "Not yet ... but I will be, once I buy some insurance."

So I bought some insurance. And then I bought some more. And even more. Until Kris and I realized that our need for protection was changing, and that much of what was being sold as protection, was really investment. Finally, we began to ask whether it was wise to invest with our protectors. So we began to shift things around a bit.

About the same time, I began to notice that Jesus was rather hard on people who became preoccupied with protecting themselves. Apparently, Jesus never talked to a good agent. At least Jesus never sat down at the kitchen table and looked at "the Book." Jesus may have been "the Rock," but it doesn't appear that he ever owned a piece of "the rock." But, then, what did Jesus really have to lose?

One recalls his story about the talents. Remember how he castigates the one-talent man for burying his trust? It seems almost cruel, this criticism of Jesus. After all, the man doesn't have much. He is afraid of losing what he has. So he protects it. And loses it anyway. Then Jesus jumps on him. Somehow, it doesn't seem fair.

But I've spoken of this before. So I'm going to redirect you to another story. I'm going to tell you about the rich man in the 12^th chapter of Luke. He interests me because he is the one in the Bible who believes you can never be too rich.

This man is going to be prepared. He is both careful and astute. Call him a forward planner. The world applauds him. Because the world wants to be him. Failing in that objective, the world wants to hire him. But Jesus calls him a fool. I mean, you can't polarize things more sharply than that. Let me read you his story:

One of the multitudes said to him: "Teacher, bid my brother divide the inheritance with me." But Jesus said to him: "Man, who made me a judge or divider over you?" Then he said to them: "Take heed and beware of all covetousness, for a man's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions." Then he told them a parable, saying: "The land of a rich man brought forth plentifully. And the man thought to himself, `What shall I do, for I have nowhere to store my crops?' And he said: `I will do this. I will pull down my barns. I will build bigger ones.'

Which happens once a month in my neighborhood. Not with barns, but with houses. In fact, it happened just last week. On Wednesday, there was a $450,000 house down the block from me. By Thursday, the lot was clean. In a few weeks, we'll have one of those "big foot" houses for which our neighborhoods are becoming famous. It will be stunning. It will be huge. And it will cost $700,000 if it costs a dime. But back to the text.

`And there I will store all my grain and my goods. Then I will say to my soul ... soul, you have ample goods for many years ... take your ease ... eat ... drink ... be merry.' But God said to him: `Fool! This night your soul may be required of you; and these things you have prepared, whose will they be?'"

Concerning this man and his story, I would offer a trio of observations. First, there's a lot of ego here. There is no other story in the Bible which is so full of the words "I," "me," "my," and "mine." This man is very big, but he lives in a very small world. I suppose it is easy to become self-centered. All you have to do is put yourself in the center of the circle where you live. But when you are rich and successful, others will place you in the center of that circle. They will defer to you. They will back away from you. They will peripheralize themselves, reinforcing the idea that you must be in the middle ... therefore, very important. And maybe you are. But funny stuff begins to happen, once you begin to think that way.

Notice that the rich man never considers solving his storage problem by turning it into a distribution problem. One way of solving the problem of overabundance, is to share some of it. Which is also a very good way to solve an ego problem.

But in addition to an ego problem, this man has an anxiety problem. His preoccupation with barns and storage has much to do with worry and insecurity. He says to himself: "I am not happy now. I will be happier tomorrow. When my barns are full. And when I have enough barns."

Have you noticed that accumulating things is one way to prop up an insecure ego? I sense that tendency in myself. I sometimes find it hard to part with things. Not money. With money, I'm exceedingly open-handed. I bought the "tithing" idea thirty years ago. And it has served me well ever since. It may have even "saved" my life ... financially speaking. Because, apart from tithing, I might not know the meaning of perspective or prioritization. But "things" are a different story. I am a bit of a saver. Not a pack rat, mind you. You are a pack rat. I just save stuff.

Among the things I find hardest to part with are books. Sermons, too. I seldom give away a book. And I never throw away a sermon. Not because I plan to reread them all ... or repreach them all. But because my security is tied up in books and sermons. My self-image, too. If I give away too many books, maybe I won't be a scholar anymore. And if I throw away my old sermons, maybe I won't be a preacher anymore. And who will I be then? Silly, isn't it. But ever so real.

Our anxieties get all tied up in such things. In fact, you can learn to read your anxieties like a road map. They will direct you to the "soft spots" in your security system every time.

If I don't keep the big house, I may have to face the fact that my family no longer lives in it.

If I don't keep every piece of mama's china (all three sets), I may have to face the fact that mama is dead.

If I take the pink ribbon off of Joey's letters and throw them in the trash, I may have to face the fact that Joey is never coming back to rescue me from Eddie.

If I stop planning for tomorrow's rainy day, I might have to learn to enjoy whatever limited sunshine today may offer.

Remember (as I return, momentarily, to the one-talent man) that he stuck his "stake" in the ground because he was afraid. That's what he said. "I buried it because I was afraid."

But back to our text. We have a third thing to consider. Not only does our barn-builder have an ego problem and an anxiety problem, he also has a priority problem. Jesus sharpens the focus when he says: "Man, you are a fool. This very night it could all come to a screeching halt. And who will get all your stuff then?" Which pretty much cuts to the bottom line, doesn't it?

My friend Bob Morley talks about the number of times he has moved, and all of the stuff he has dragged from place to place. After awhile, his stuff started to take on an intrinsic value, simply because he had moved it so many times. The first time he moved, he decided to label the boxes containing those things he would need immediately at his new place ... things like dishes and towels, pots and pans, sheets and bedding. Out of the 38 boxes he moved, only eight were labeled. Of the remaining 30 boxes, most were still in the basement when his next move came along.

Then Bob writes:

The stuff multiplied. I had to spend more time and energy maintaining it. I needed a larger house in which to store it. I needed an alarm system so that no one could steal it. And I needed more insurance so that I could replace it. And the most valuable stuff, I put in a safe deposit box and had false stuff made to resemble it, just so people would know I had the real stuff somewhere.

I used to live in a neighborhood where I was burglarized every six months. The last time thieves broke in, they didn't take anything. I think they looked around and said: "Our stuff is better than his stuff." But now that I've moved to a safer neighborhood, my stuff is proliferating again.

But Bob's greatest concern is what will happen to his stuff when he dies. Not as to who gets it, but as to the possibility that he'll have to take it with him. When Bob thinks of the "last judgment," he pictures himself standing in a long line (like at the checkout stand at KMart). He sees hundreds of shopping carts with all the stuff he has accumulated during his lifetime. Then he has to get those shopping carts through the "judgment line." But every time he retreats to move some of his carts forward, somebody with fewer carts cuts in ahead of him. And that's not the worst part. Not only does he have to haul it all, he has to explain it all. When he finally reaches the angel at the turnstile, he is asked to explain every last item and justify having kept it.

The problem is, most of it won't justify. Because it isn't all that important. Not in the final scheme of things. Which brings me to Ruth Price. Ruth served as a part-time nanny to our kids when Kris and I accepted a preaching assignment in England for the summer of 1975. Whenever we needed to fulfill some evening obligation, Ruth would come to our house and watch our kids. Needless to say, we became quite close.

A couple of days before we were to leave for the States, she invited us to her little cottage. She showed us her garden ... her pictures ... her tea cups (all with obvious pride). She also showed a few pieces of Waterford crystal. Since Kris and I also love Waterford, we responded with genuine enthusiasm. Which made her strangely quiet. Then she told us of her once-marvelous Waterford collection, passed down to her by her mother. "What happened to it?" I blurted out without thinking. Which was when she told of the war, the German planes, and the way the bombing raids would strafe the Sussex coast before targeting in on London. No Waterford survived. Not one goblet. But then she said: "Better it than me." Which was not gallows humor, but a simple observation from a lady who knew the relative value of things. "Tonight," says Jesus, "it could all come a screeching halt. And these goblets ... whose will they be then?"

I've been reading Annie Dillard with my Tuesday morning group. Everybody should read Annie Dillard from time to time. Annie is a writer ... a professor ... a poet ... a naturalist of sorts ... and a passionate explorer of life. In her book, An American Childhood (the one we are reading on Tuesdays), she recalls the following:

One day father undertook to explain the mechanics of the stock market crash to Amy and me. We sat around the dining room table while he tried to explain why men on Wall Street had jumped from skyscrapers. We must not have understood to his satisfaction, because finally I heard him say: "Don't you see, they lost everything." But I still didn't understand. I thought to myself: "They only lost everything when they jumped."

Father went on to talk about bread lines ... the dust bowl ... entire families seeking work ... proud men begging on city streets. He told us of city families living in cars, even as farm families left their land to come to the cities. Why? Because everybody realized at once, on the same morning, that paper money was only paper. What terrible fools. What did they think it was?

Don't dismiss her as naïve. She knows as much about economics as you and I do. And especially don't dismiss her observation that people only lose everything when they jump. For this is why Jesus called the rich man "a fool" ... for allowing issues of storage to overshadow issues of life.

But the world is full of fools. David Buttrick recalls an off-Broadway play featuring a young couple in a very upscale apartment in the city. Deep pile carpeting on the floor. Designer furniture around the room. Designer gadgets in the kitchen. All at once the couple hears a Salvation Army band on the street below their window. Complete with trumpets, trombones and tambourines, the band is playing some very loud Jesus music. Whereupon the husband gets up, walks to the window, slams it shut, turns to his wife, and says: "I really don't see what Jesus can do for us."

And the sad thing is, if he doesn't know, I'm not sure I can tell him. But I have to try, don't I? I mean, I have to try.

My friends, let me close with a very honest confession. I've been rich. And I've been poor. And let me tell you: rich is better. But ever so dangerous. Because, if you let it, "rich" can screw up your thinking ... your believing ... your living ... your giving ... even your loving. Especially your loving.

* * * * *

Note: My friends in the insurance business tell me that the "pitch" is pretty much the same as I remember it from 30 years ago, but the methodology has changed. Instead of "the Book," the agent controls the "laptop." But, as one agent was quick to clarify, "the client never touches the laptop."

The David Buttrick story comes from Brian Bauknight, through Eric Ritz. The Annie Dillard quote comes from An American Childhood. Bob Morley's recollections come from his book, Aerobics for the Spirit.