Fannin Terrace Baptist Church
Jan 18, 2025
  • The Lion And The Lamb
  • Raise a Hallelujah
  • Holy Forever
  • Blessed Assurance
  • Song

      • Luke 12:13-15CSB

      • Luke 12:16-18CSB

      • Luke 12:19-21CSB

  • Let me start with something that most of us understand instinctively.
    We don’t want to be rich. We want to feel safe.
    We want a little margin. A little buffer. Something set aside ‘just in case.’ We want to know that when things tighten—when the economy shifts, a job changes, or life blindsides us—we’ll be okay.
    And in a place like Midland, that instinct makes sense. We’ve seen cycles. We’ve watched booms and downturns. Some of us have watched neighbors move away. Some of us have seen contracts change, commissions dry up, hours get cut, prices jump. We’ve learned—sometimes the hard way—that stability can feel fragile. So we plan. We prepare. We try to stay ahead.
    And none of that sounds sinful, does it? It sounds responsible. Wise. Level 10 adulting.
    We don’t say, “I want more money.” We say, “I just want to be prepared.”
    We don’t say, “I’m afraid.” We say, “I’m being realistic.”
    We don’t say, “I don’t trust God.” We say, “I just want to make sure my family is okay.”
    And slowly—very quietly—security starts to feel like the goal. And when security becomes the goal, it starts to feel like the way our life counts. Not extravagance. Not indulgence. Just enough to breathe.
    But here’s the subtle shift most of us don’t notice until much later: At some point, what began as wisdom can turn into reassurance. And reassurance can start to feel like life itself.
    We start to believe—without ever saying it out loud—that if the numbers are right, then we’ll be okay. If the savings is there. If the plans are solid. If only the future felt padded.
    And when that happens, possessions stop being tools. They start becoming definitions.
    This is where Jesus meets us in Luke 12. Not with a lecture about budgeting. Not with a warning about enjoying good things. But with a statement so simple—and so disruptive—that it reframes everything:
    Luke 12:15 CSB
    … one’s life is not in the abundance of his possessions.
    That’s not a command. It’s a definition. And definitions always expose what we’ve been assuming.
    Luke tells us that Jesus is teaching when a man interrupts him with what sounds like a reasonable request:
    Luke 12:13 CSB
    “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.”
    This isn’t greed in obvious form. It’s fairness. It’s justice. It’s what’s owed.
    But Jesus doesn’t answer the question the man asks. He answers the question underneath it.
    Instead of stepping into the dispute, Jesus steps back and says:
    “Watch out and be on guard against all greed.”
    That word—greed—lands a little strangely here. Because the man doesn’t sound greedy. He sounds practical.
    Which tells us something important: Greed doesn’t always look like excess.
    Sometimes it looks like entitlement. Sometimes it looks like planning. Sometimes it looks like security. Sometimes it looks like ‘we’ve got to stay ahead no matter what.’
    Jesus sees what the man can’t yet see—that the issue isn’t inheritance. It’s definition.
    What does this man believe life consists of?
    And that’s the question that presses toward us as well.
    At what point does provision stop being a gift and start being a guarantee? When does planning quietly become control? When does saving turn into self-assurance?
    Because the danger Jesus names is not having possessions—it’s letting possessions tell us what life is.
    And here’s the tension we have to sit with before the parable even begins: What if the very thing we’re counting on to make life feel secure is slowly redefining what life means?
    What if we’re building barns—not because we’re greedy—but because we’re afraid?
    Jesus tells this story not to shame us for having resources, but to ask us something far more unsettling:

    What are you trusting—really trusting—to hold your life together?

    And once that question is on the table, the parable can finally do its work.

    Greed Is Not Just Wanting More, but Letting Possessions Define Life

    Once Jesus names the issue of greed, he doesn’t immediately tell a story. He first reframes reality.
    Luke tells us that after the interruption, Jesus says this:
    Luke 12:15 “Watch out and be on guard against all greed, because one’s life is not in the abundance of possessions.”
    That sentence is doing far more work than we might realize.
    Jesus doesn’t say, “Greed is bad—don’t do it.” He says, “Be careful what you let define life.”
    Because greed, as Jesus understands it, is not simply about wanting more things. It’s about letting things take on a role they were never meant to play.
    The word Jesus uses here—pleonexia—doesn’t just mean excess. It means grasping. Reaching. Holding on tightly because something feels fragile.
    Greed shows up when life feels uncertain. Which is why this matters so much: the man who interrupts Jesus doesn’t sound greedy at all. He sounds reasonable. Fair-minded. Practical.
    Luke 12:13 “Tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.”
    That’s not extravagance. That’s equity. That’s what’s owed. And yet Jesus refuses to arbitrate.
    Why?
    Because Jesus is not primarily interested in resolving disputes over stuff—he’s interested in forming hearts. Jesus is interested in forming your heart.
    This is not about fairness. It’s about formation.
    Jesus recognizes that underneath this request is an assumption the man may not even be aware of: that life—real life, secure life—can be secured by possessions rightly distributed.
    And that’s why Jesus responds the way he does.
    Luke 12:15a “Watch out.” Not just for greed—but for all kinds of greed. Subtle greed. Respectable greed. Sensible-sounding greed.
    The kind that doesn’t announce itself as excess, but disguises itself as preparation.
    And then Jesus gives us the key line—the one that reframes everything:
    Luke 12:15b “Life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”
    That’s not a command. It’s a definition.
    Jesus is telling us what life is not—so that we don’t spend our lives chasing the wrong thing.
    Life is not the sum total of what you have.
    Life is not secured by padding the future.
    Life is not something you can stockpile.
    And this is where we need to be very clear, because Jesus is not condemning possessions themselves.
    He’s exposing their function.
    Greed is not measured by how much you own. Greed is measured by what your possessions do for you.
    What do they tell you about safety?
    What do they promise you about rest?
    What do they whisper to you about worth?
    At what point does provision stop being a gift—and start becoming a guarantee?
    This is why greed can live comfortably in very ordinary lives.
    You don’t have to be wealthy to be greedy. You don’t have to be extravagant to be consumed. You just have to start letting possessions define what “okay” feels like.
    And when that happens, something subtle but serious shifts. Possessions stop being tools—and start becoming definitions.
    They begin to answer questions they were never meant to answer:
    Am I safe?
    Am I secure?
    Will I be okay?
    Does my life matter?
    And that’s where this truth connects directly to the series we’re in.
    Ecclesiastes told us that effort cannot give meaning. Babel showed us that achievement cannot secure identity. And now Jesus tells us plainly: possessions cannot guarantee life.
    Different strategies. Same longing.
    The longing to matter. The longing to be secure. The longing to know that our lives add up to something solid.
    And Jesus doesn’t shame that longing. But he does redirect it.
    Because when we let possessions define life, we ask them to carry weight they cannot sustain. And the danger is not that they’ll fail financially—but that they’ll fail spiritually.
    Which is why Jesus doesn’t stop with a warning. Once the definition is clear—once the lens is set—Jesus tells a parable. Not to exaggerate the problem, but to reveal where this definition leads when it goes unchallenged.
    And that’s where the story of the rich man begins. Because when life is defined by possessions, it doesn’t just distort priorities—it slowly shrinks the soul.
    And that’s the next truth Jesus wants us to see.

    The Rich Man Expands His Storage but Shrinks His Soul

    After Jesus defines the issue—after he tells us that life does not consist in possessions—he tells a story. And the story begins the way many success stories do.
    Luke 12:16 “The land of a rich man was very productive.”
    That line matters. Jesus doesn’t begin by criticizing the man’s work ethic. He doesn’t suggest dishonesty or exploitation. The man is already rich, and now his land produces even more.
    This is abundance. This is blessing. This is success by any reasonable standard.
    And what the man does next makes perfect sense.
    Luke 12:17 “He thought to himself, ‘What should I do, since I don’t have anywhere to store my crops?’”
    Notice the scene: the man is alone with his thoughts. There’s no conversation with God. No mention of neighbor. No concern for generosity or responsibility beyond himself.
    The problem isn’t what he’s thinking—it’s who he’s thinking with.
    Then comes the plan: Luke 12:18 “I will do this: I’ll tear down my barns and build bigger ones and store all my grain and my goods there.”
    Everything about this sounds prudent. He identifies a limitation. He upgrades capacity. He prepares for the future.
    This is not extravagance—it’s expansion. Not indulgence—but efficiency.
    But Luke wants us to notice something deeper, and he makes it unmistakable through repetition.
    Listen to the language: My crops. My barns. My grain. My goods. Four times: mine.
    The man’s world is shrinking—even as his storage grows.
    There is no God in his vocabulary. No neighbor in his imagination. No purpose beyond preservation.
    And then the man speaks to the most revealing audience of all—his own soul.
    Luke 12:19 “Then I’ll say to my soul, ‘You have many goods stored up for many years. Take it easy, eat, drink, and enjoy yourself.’”
    This is the emotional heart of the parable. The man believes his abundance has finally earned him rest. Rest is a gift from God—but he’s trying to purchase it.
    But notice what he feeds his soul. He feeds it stuff.
    He assumes that if the external environment is secure enough, the internal rest will follow.
    And Jesus is showing us something crucial here: the man doesn’t have a storage problem—he has a soul problem.
    The tragedy is not abundance. The tragedy is reduction.
    A life once open to God’s purposes has narrowed to consumption. A soul meant for communion has been reduced to comfort.
    This is what inward collapse looks like. And this is where the parable begins to feel uncomfortably close.
    Because many of us don’t dream of luxury—we dream of relief.
    Relief from uncertainty. Relief from pressure. Relief from the fear that something might go wrong.
    So we expand storage.
    Not always barns—but savings. Not always grain—but space. Not always land—but margin.
    We upgrade storage units. We widen closets. We pad accounts.
    And none of that is sinful in itself. But here’s the question Jesus is quietly asking:

    Are we widening our purpose—or just expanding our capacity to consume?

    It’s possible to gain margin materially while losing margin spiritually.
    More room for stuff. Less room for God.
    More insulation from risk. Less openness to dependence.
    More confidence in what we’ve saved. Less attentiveness to what our souls actually need.
    The rich man believes that bigger barns will finally allow him to stop striving. But Jesus shows us that when life is defined by consumption, striving never actually ends—it just changes shape.
    The soul was never meant to live on surplus alone. And when we reduce life to consumption—even refined, responsible consumption—we end up with a smaller life than God intended.
    That’s the quiet warning embedded here. The man expands his storage. But his soul contracts. And Jesus lets us sit with that long enough to feel its weight.
    Because the real danger is not that we’ll have too much. The real danger is that we’ll slowly become too small.
    And that sets us up for the third truth—the moment when God speaks, interrupts the illusion, and tells us what was true all along.

    God’s Verdict Reveals What Was True All Along

    Up to this point in the parable, everything has happened inside the rich man’s world.
    He talks to himself. He plans with himself. He reassures himself.
    The story is filled with internal dialogue and self-reference. My barns. My grain. My goods. My soul.
    And then, without warning, another voice speaks.
    Luke 12:20a “But God said to him…” That phrase changes the story entirely.
    Until now, the man has been narrating his own life. He has been defining success, security, and rest on his own terms. But now God speaks—and God does not comment on the barns at all.
    He addresses the man.
    Luke 12:20b “You fool! This very night your life is demanded of you.”
    That word—fool—is startling, not because it’s harsh, but because it doesn’t fit our expectations.
    This man has not been reckless. He has not been immoral. He has not been wasteful or dishonest.
    He has been careful. Thoughtful. Strategic. And yet God calls him a fool.
    In Scripture, foolishness is not about intelligence—it’s about orientation. A fool is someone who lives as though God is not ultimately decisive. And that’s what this man has done.
    Notice Jesus’ wording: ‘your life is demanded of you.’ It’s a reminder that life is not ultimately in our hands. So, life is being reclaimed.
    The man assumed his life was his possession—something he could manage, extend, and secure. But God reminds him of what was always true: life is not owned. It is entrusted.
    The barns didn’t fail.
    The crops didn’t spoil.
    The plan didn’t collapse.
    What failed was the definition of life itself.
    And then God asks a question that echoes through the parable like a hollow sound:
    Luke 12:20c “And the things you have prepared—whose will they be?”
    This is not a logistical question. It’s a theological one. All the careful planning in the world can’t make you the owner of tomorrow.
    Everything the man built was aimed at his future. But the future was never his to control.
    This is where the illusion finally breaks.
    The man believed his surplus guaranteed time. God reveals that time was never part of the contract.
    He believed careful planning could secure his life. God reveals that life answers to a greater claim.
    And notice what God does not say.
    He does not say, “You were greedy.” He does not say, “You were unjust.” He does not say, “You harmed others.”
    He says, in effect, “You were mistaken.”
    You were rich toward yourself—but poor toward God.
    That phrase is Jesus’ final diagnosis.
    To be “rich toward self” is to orient life inward—to let accumulation, comfort, and control define what matters.
    To be “rich toward God” is to live with God as the reference point—for meaning, security, and future.
    And this man, for all his abundance, had quietly lived as though God were unnecessary to the good life. That’s why this parable is so sobering.
    Because Jesus is not warning us about rare moral failure—he is exposing common misdirection. The man planned carefully for a future he would never live.
    And that line should stop us. Not because we’re irresponsible planners—but because we often assume tomorrow belongs to us.
    We assume there will be time to reorient later. Time to loosen our grip later. Time to be generous later. Time to trust more deeply later.
    But Jesus refuses to let us postpone the question of meaning.
    God’s verdict does not come as punishment for wrongdoing—it comes as revelation. It reveals what was true all along: a life built on possessions alone cannot withstand the weight of eternity.
    And that’s where Jesus leaves us.
    Not with an answer to fix. Not with a command to simplify. But with clarity.
    The parable ends without resolution because Jesus wants the question to linger:
    If life does not consist in possessions—what does it consist in?
    That question is not meant to be answered quickly. It’s meant to unsettle us just enough to reorient us.
    And that prepares us for these final moments—not toward easy assurance, but toward honest response before God.
    Jesus does not end this parable by telling us what to sell, where to give, or how to reorganize our finances.
    He ends it by telling us the truth. And that means the first response is not action—it’s honesty.
    The temptation after a message like this is to rush toward fixes. To start making mental lists. To say, “Okay, I need to adjust this… reduce that… rebalance something.”
    But Jesus doesn’t invite us to change behavior yet. He invites us to name trust.
    So the application this morning is not to tear anything down. It’s simply to identify the barns. Not barns as in money alone—but barns as in whatever we’ve been asking to make us feel okay.
    Where have I equated security with accumulation?
    What am I calling “wise” that may actually be fear-driven?
    What part of my life quietly assumes God is unnecessary?
    For some of us, the barn is financial. Not extravagance—but insulation. The belief that if the numbers are right, then the anxiety can finally settle.
    For others, the barn is stability. A job. A routine. A lifestyle. Something that, if threatened, would leave us feeling exposed and unsafe.
    For others, the barn is planning itself. The belief that if we can anticipate enough outcomes, we won’t have to trust anyone but ourselves.
    And here’s the key: naming the barn is not the same as condemning it.
    Jesus does not shame the man for having barns. He exposes what the barns were being asked to do.
    So the question is not, “Do you have barns?” The question is, “What are they for?”
    Because the moment possessions stop being provision and start becoming definition, they become too heavy to carry.
    And that’s where confession begins—not in panic, but in truth.
    Let me say the bottom line clearly here, because it helps us tell the truth without exaggeration or denial:

    More barns don’t mean more life.

    That’s not an accusation. It’s a reality check.
    At first glance, God’s verdict in this parable can feel harsh.
    “This very night your life is demanded of you.”
    But Jesus does not tell this story to terrify us. He tells it to wake us up. God’s interruption is not cruelty—it is mercy spoken before it’s too late.
    The man is not struck down for wrongdoing. He is confronted with reality.
    Reality says: life was never yours to secure.
    Reality says: time was always a gift.
    Reality says: you were living as though accumulation could do what only God can do.
    And the reason God speaks is not to humiliate—but to expose the lie before it hardens.
    That’s been the pattern of this whole series.
    In Ecclesiastes, God exposed effort without meaning. At Babel, God exposed achievement without trust. And here, Jesus exposes security without God.
    Not because God delights in tearing things down—but because he refuses to let us build our lives on something that cannot hold.
    And that’s actually hopeful.
    Because it means God is paying attention. It means God is intervening before the collapse becomes complete. It means the discomfort we feel right now is not abandonment—it’s invitation.
    Invitation to a life that doesn’t have to be padded to feel safe. Invitation to a life where meaning isn’t stockpiled, but received. Invitation to be rich toward God—not later, but now.
    But that invitation doesn’t come with instructions yet. It comes with space.
    So how do we respond to a message like this?
    Not with strategies. Not with promises we can’t keep.
    We respond with confession.
    The posture Jesus invites us into is quiet honesty before God.
    So the action this week is intentionally simple—and intentionally uncomfortable.
    Resist the urge to fix this quickly. Resist the instinct to spiritualize it away. Resist the temptation to prove that you’re not “that kind of person.”
    Instead, sit with the questions.
    What am I building right now?
    What am I afraid would happen if it fell apart?
    Where have I been asking possessions, planning, or security to give me something only God can give?
    When that discomfort surfaces, don’t numb it. Don’t rush past it. Bring it to God.
    Because confession is not about punishment—it’s about release.
    It’s about laying down the burden of self-made security and admitting, “This was never meant to carry my life.”
    Let me say the bottom line one more time—because this is what we’re carrying with us:

    More barns don’t mean more life.

    And the grace of God is this: he loves us too much to let us confuse the two forever.
    So as we respond in song, let this be a moment of quiet repentance. No pressure to sing loudly. No pressure to feel resolved. No pressure to leave with answers.
    Just space to admit, before God:
    “I’ve been trusting the wrong thing.”
    “I’ve been trying to secure myself.”
    “I’ve been asking too much from what I can store.”
    And to trust—perhaps slowly, perhaps imperfectly—that the God who tells us the truth about life is the same God who offers us life itself.
    (transition to music)
    Prayer
    Gracious Father, You know how easily we look for life in what we can store, save, and secure. We confess that we often ask too much of what we possess—and not enough of you.
    Thank you for loving us enough to tell us the truth: that life does not consist in the abundance of possessions, and that what we build cannot carry the weight of our souls.
    In this moment, slow us down. Quiet our need to justify, to fix, or to prove anything. Give us the courage to name what we’ve been trusting and the humility to place our lives back into your hands.
    Teach us to be rich toward you— to receive life as a gift, to trust you with our future, and to rest in your care.
    We ask this in the name of Jesus, who is our life and our treasure. Amen.

      • Luke 12:15CSB

      • Luke 12:13CSB

      • Luke 12CSB

Fannin Terrace Baptist Church
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