Homilies & Thoughts

It is striking how often isolation masquerades as independence. We live in a culture saturated by messages urging us to secure our futures—to plan diligently, save meticulously, and safeguard our comforts. These are not evil aspirations, but when detached from gratitude and divorced from relationship, they become a perilous illusion.

A voice in the Gospel today pleads with Jesus to mediate an inheritance dispute. Jesus answers, gently but firmly, and then warns: “Take care to guard against all greed, for though one may be rich, one’s life does not consist of possessions.” This line is not just cautionary advice about wealth—it is a piercing revelation about the true nature of life itself. The parable Jesus shares features a successful farmer whose land yields an abundant harvest. His immediate instinct is not gratitude to God or generosity toward neighbors. Instead, his thoughts revolve solely around storing more for himself, building bigger barns, and celebrating his self-contained abundance. His critical error is not merely financial prudence or planning for future security; rather, his folly is believing himself utterly alone. He stands isolated, sealed off from God and neighbor, trapped within the solitary echo of his own desires.

On a clear morning, Abraham stood upon a hillside, his eyes straining through tears toward the place he loved. Smoke rose in tragic columns, a stark reminder of devastation—of loss. Abraham, who once saved Sodom with sword and valor, could now only watch in sorrow as flames consumed it.

This moment, this heartbreaking moment, captures the intersection of God’s justice and the tender mercy sought by human hearts. Abraham did not merely mourn the destruction of buildings and land; he grieved a place deeply woven into his life story—home to his nephew Lot, land of battles won, place of divine blessing through the priest Melchizedek. His prayers to spare the city were not transactions; they were not desperate bargaining. Rather, Abraham stood humbly before the divine justice of God, pleading solely from a place of love: “Will you sweep away the innocent with the guilty?”

Why fuss over dishes and tidiness when the Son of God is seated in your living room? At first glance, today’s Gospel story seems to nudge us towards such simplicity. But pause and listen closely—this is not merely about choosing Jesus over chores. It is about recognizing eternity amidst the fleeting, stability amidst decay.

Consider this truth: every house we build, every effort we pour into this passing world, is destined to crumble. Our bodies age, buildings collapse, memories fade. All around us is a relentless reminder of impermanence. Martha’s anxious heart mirrors our own. Her worry is not just about serving dinner—it is an existential dread that nothing we do will outlast the pull of decay and death.