Idea from Ironbutterfly
There was a man.
We don’t know his name. Yeshua didn’t give him one. He didn’t have a backstory, no tribe, no location, no lineage. That should tell you something right away: this parable isn’t about one specific person in the crowd, it’s about all of them. And all of us.
The land of a certain rich man brought forth abundantly. And he thought to himself, “What shall I do?”
It always starts there, with a question. But not a question for God. Not a prayer. Not a cry of thanks or even curiosity. Just a quiet, inward turn to the self. What shall I do?
That’s the first crack in the soul. Because no matter how many blessings you’ve got, if your first instinct is to pull in instead of looking up, you’re already off course.
He said, “I have no room to store all my crops.”
Let’s pause there. What a problem to have. No room for all his crops? That’s not famine. That’s not hardship. That’s surplus. And not just a little, this is an overflow. In Hebrew thinking, this is the stuff of Deuteronomy 28 blessing, pressed down, shaken together, and running over. But there’s not a whisper of thankfulness here. Not a hint of acknowledging the Giver. Just a man with a full harvest and a full heart, but his heart is full of himself.
He doesn’t ask, “Who can I bless?” or “What will honor YHWH with this increase?” or even “What’s the righteous use of this abundance?” He doesn’t seek a prophet. Doesn’t remember the poor. Doesn’t consider the widow or the orphan. Doesn’t fear Elohim. Just, “What shall I do with my crops?”
And so he answers himself.
“I will tear down my barns, and build bigger ones.”
Now hold up. Not “I’ll build more barns,” not “I’ll open the ones I have.” He wants to tear down the old ones. Why?
Because they’re not big enough to contain his greed. It’s not about storage. It’s about control.
The Hebrew understanding of barns, אָסָם(asam), was never about just preserving goods. Barns were connected to covenant responsibility. You left the corners of your field unharvested so the poor could glean (Leviticus 19:9-10). You brought the firstfruits into the Temple, into the storehouse (Deut 26). You acknowledged the harvest came from YHWH.
But this man? He wants to erase all that. Tear down what already holds provision, because it’s not big enough for him anymore.
This is the spirit of empire. Babel. Babylon. Always tearing down what was sufficient so something bigger, taller, flashier can take its place. It’s the same spirit that looked at the land flowing with milk and honey and said, “But can we take it without God?”
Now listen to what he says next. This is the center of the whole parable:
“And I will say to my soul: Soul, you have many goods laid up for many years. Take your ease. Eat. Drink. Be merry.”
Stop!
This man just started preaching a sermon to himself. To his soul, his nefesh, the breath that YHWH gave him in the first place. That word “soul” is not just personality. It’s life. It’s the spark of being. It’s what separates the living from the dead.
And this man is speaking to it like it’s a servant in his house.
He says, “You’ve got many goods laid up for many years.” In other words, “Relax, you’ve got time.” He’s assuming longevity. Assuming that tomorrow is guaranteed. That the storehouse of heaven has a stamp with his name and expiration date on it.
But it doesn’t.
Then he says: “Take your ease.” Rest. Do nothing. Retire early. Live soft.
Then: “Eat.” Feed yourself.
“Drink.” Indulge yourself.
“Be merry.” Entertain yourself.
This is the secular gospel. The counterfeit promise of peace through possessions. And it has never once, in all of human history, delivered on its claims.
What did the Psalmist say?
“You open Your hand, and satisfy the desire of every living thing.” (Psalm 145:16)
But this man is trying to satisfy himself without ever opening his own hands.
And that’s when YHWH speaks.
It’s not a messenger. Not an angel. Not a prophet. This is Elohim Himself breaking through the quiet self-talk of a foolish man.
“Fool.”
That’s the first word. Fool. Ἄφρων (Aphrōn) in Greek. כְּסִיל (Kesil) in Hebrew. Not just someone who doesn’t know. It’s someone who refuses to learn. One who spurns wisdom. Who mocks correction. The kind of person Proverbs warns about over and over.
“This night your soul is required of you.”
And that word, required, in Greek is ἀπαιτοῦσιν (apaitousin), third person plural. They are demanding it from you. It’s legal language. Like a debt collector coming with a notice in hand. That soul you thought you owned? It was on loan. And now the lease is up.
Who are “they”? The watchers? The messengers? The court of heaven? It doesn’t say. But it doesn’t matter. The command is final. Heaven has spoken. And it’s time to settle accounts.
“Then whose will those things be which you have prepared?”
See, the man had been preparing, but not for death. Not for eternity. Not for judgment. Not for YHWH. He had built his barns, counted his grain, stacked his goods. But he never once asked: What happens when my breath leaves me?
In Hebrew, the breath, נְשָׁמָה(neshamah), is from YHWH and returns to Him. And this man didn’t prepare to give it back.
And now his abundance is inherited by someone else. Maybe someone righteous. Maybe someone just as foolish. But it won’t help him either way. Because he’s gone.
And Yeshua finishes it like this:
“So is the one who stores up treasure for himself and is not rich toward God.”
There it is. The sword in the belly. The twist of truth that exposes every selfish corner. Yeshua’s not condemning wealth. He’s not rebuking planning. He’s not anti-savings or against wisdom. He’s cutting down the heart that plans without reverence. That stores without generosity. That receives without giving thanks.
To be rich toward God means this:
To hold nothing back.
To treat every breath like a gift.
To pour out what He’s poured in.
To view every grain of increase as a tool for Kingdom work, not personal ease.
And to live as if your soul could be required tonight.
You can’t preach this halfway. You can’t soften it. This is Yeshua confronting the crowd, and confronting us, with a truth that should haunt and free us at the same time:
We are not owners. We are stewards.
The breath in our lungs? Borrowed.
The food on our table? Given.
The strength in our bodies? Lent to us.
The days of our lives? Numbered.
And the barns we build? Temporary.
The rich fool never once thought of eternity. Never once thought of the poor. Never once thought of YHWH. And now, he’s gone. And all he’s left with is regret.
Contrast that with another story Yeshua told.
There was another man, unnamed again, who sold all he had and bought the field with the treasure in it. There was a merchant who gave everything for one pearl. There was a widow who put in two tiny coins and was praised by Heaven for giving more than the wealthy. Those are the ones who are rich toward God.
This parable isn’t about how much is in your account. It’s about where your treasure is going. What direction is your increase flowing? Into a spiritual dead-end? Or into eternity?
He was rich, but toward himself. His storehouses were full, but his heart was empty. He had fields that yielded, but a soul that starved.
And the question that hangs over this parable like a blade:
What if tonight… your soul is required?
That’s the truth Yeshua doesn’t blink to say. That’s the warning He speaks in love, not because He delights in the loss of the wicked, but because He wants us to live with clear eyes, and hearts set like flint toward the Kingdom.
So ask yourself. Are your barns bigger than your prayers?
Is your plan for the next ten years more detailed than your obedience for today?
Is your security in storage or in surrender?
Because the truth is this: the only thing that will survive the fire of the Day of YHWH is what was offered back to Him in the first place.
Time.
Treasure.
Talent.
Tears.
Worship.
Obedience.
That’s the stuff that doesn’t rot.
That’s the wealth that doesn’t get passed to strangers but stored in Heaven.
That’s what it means to be rich toward God.
And that’s the message of the Master.
And THAT is…
