A Sermon for the Eighth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 13C)
August 3, 2025
Text: Luke 12: 13-21
Now, O Lord, take my lips, and speak through them. Take our minds, and think through them. Take our hearts, and set them on fire. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
A few weeks ago, I did something that may not seem like a big deal—but it’s had a profound impact on my life. I shared a little about it in the newsletter recently.
I decided to delete Facebook and Instagram from my phone.
Now, I didn’t delete my accounts. I can still log in from my computer if I need to, especially for church-related things. And I didn’t do it because I think social media is bad or wrong.
There’s a lot I really like about it—sweet family updates, funny videos, thoughtful reflections. Social media can be a real gift when it helps us stay connected to the people we love and care about.
But I removed the apps from my phone because I realized I was spending way too much time with my head down, staring at a screen.
It was automatic. Every quiet moment—waking up in the morning, standing in line at the store, waiting for the coffee to brew—I’d reach for my phone and open one of those apps without even thinking about it.
And it wasn’t just the time I was spending. It was also the weight of it all.
So much negativity. So much division. So much bad news.
And behind all of that, this constant, subtle pressure to compare my life to someone else’s. Their vacation, their success, their church, their home. I’d start to wonder if I was doing enough or if I even was enough.
Little by little, it started to wear on my spirit. I felt more anxious, more discouraged—like the world was too broken, and I was too small to make any difference.
So, I deleted the apps.
And what surprised me most was what happened after that.
I felt peace. I don’t mean just a little relief—but an overwhelming sense of peace and freedom. I felt less anxious. More clearheaded. More present. More like myself.
And I started to wonder: how much space had all that noise been taking up in my heart?
And—maybe more to the point—what was it all for?
That question—“what is all of this for?”—stopped me in my tracks. It’s the same question Jesus invites us to ask in today’s Gospel.
In our story from Luke, Jesus tells the crowd a parable about a rich man whose land produces an abundance of grain—so much that he runs out of room to store it all.
So, he comes up with a solution: tear down his old barns and build bigger ones. That way, he thinks, he’ll be safe and secure secure. He’ll have more than enough to just relax and enjoy life for years to come.
But just as he’s patting himself on the back, God speaks.
“You fool,” God says, “This very night your life will be demanded of you. And the things you’ve prepared—whose will they be?”
Then Jesus ends with this line: “So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God.”
In other words—it’s foolish to pour all our energy into securing and storing up things for ourselves, while ignoring the things that matter most to God.
Now, to be fair, the man in the parable isn’t portrayed as evil or cruel. He doesn’t hurt anyone. He doesn’t cheat or steal. He’s not greedy in the way we might expect.
But here’s the problem: he thinks his life can be secured by what he stores up.
He thinks he can protect himself from the unknown by building bigger barns.
In one way or another, we all do that.
We all build barns—not literal barns full of grain, but spiritual ones. Internal ones. Ways of trying to keep ourselves safe, in control, or just a little more secure.
Some of us build barns with money. Not because we’re selfish, but because we’re afraid. We think, “If I can just get a little more saved up, if I can stay a little more ahead, then I’ll be okay.”
There’s nothing wrong with planning or saving. But sometimes our barns become walls—walls that keep us from being generous, or trusting that God will provide.
Some of us build barns with busyness. We fill every hour of every day—work, school, errands, ballgames, meetings, care-taking. Even good and noble things, like volunteering at church.
But sometimes, busyness becomes a barn we hide in—a way to avoid the deeper parts of our hearts that are longing for rest or healing.
Some of us build barns out of achievements. We believe that if we’re successful enough, productive enough, capable enough—then we’ll be worthy of love.
But the bar keeps moving. There’s always something more to fix, more to prove, more to achieve.
Some of us build barns out of screens. We scroll endlessly. We compare our real lives to someone else’s highlight reel. We let the world shout at us through every device we own.
And instead of feeling connected, we feel lonelier. Instead of clarity, we feel overwhelmed. Instead of peace, we carry noise.
Some of us build barns out of grudges or regret. We store up old wounds like they’re treasure. We replay past mistakes over and over again.
And instead of offering those to God for healing, we box them up, tuck them away, and carry them around with us.
And some of us build barns out of worry. We worry about our children, our future, our health, our church, our world. Worry becomes the barn we live in—always bracing for what’s next, always trying to stay in control.
But here’s the hard truth about the barns we build:
None of them can hold what we really need.
They may give the illusion of security or success or comfort. But they can’t give us peace. They can’t give us joy. They can’t teach us how to love, or help us live the kind of life that God wants us to live.
Jesus tells this parable not to shame us—but to set us free.
To say: “Your life does not consist in the abundance of possessions.”
Your life—your real, meaningful, holy, God-given life—isn’t measured by what you accumulate or how well you perform.
It’s measured by how much room you make for the things that last:
Grace.
Gratitude.
Generosity.
Relationship.
Trust.
Love.
That’s what it means to be “rich toward God.”
To be rich toward God means we don’t store up everything for ourselves. We open our hands. We make space. We notice others. We trust that what we have—what we are—is already enough.
When I deleted those social media apps, I didn’t expect to feel so free.
But it was like tearing down a little barn I didn’t even know I’d built. A barn full of comparison, distraction, pressure, and fear.
And in the quiet that followed, I heard God’s voice more clearly. I started praying more. I noticed beauty around me. I felt more present. More grounded. More at peace.
I remembered: God isn’t interested in how much we collect or achieve.
God is interested in how much we love.
How much we trust.
How much we’re willing to be present—to others and to God.
Jesus ends his parable with a challenge—but also an invitation.
Tear down the barns that are holding you back.
Tear down the idea that you’re only as valuable as what you own, or what you do, or what you look like.
Tear down the busyness, the fear, the comparison, the distraction.
And make space for something better.
Because the truth is, none of us is guaranteed tomorrow.
Our lives are short, but they can be full.
Not full of noise or distractions. But full of God.
So today, maybe Jesus is inviting you to name one barn you’ve built.
Maybe it’s a schedule that’s too full.
Maybe it’s a grudge you’ve been holding on to for a long time.
Maybe it’s a voice in your head that tells you you’re not enough.
Or, maybe it’s a screen that’s keeping you distracted from your own life.
Whatever it is, name it—and tear it down.
Because on the other side of that barn, there is freedom.
There is peace.
And there is more life than you can imagine.
Not because of what you store up—but because of what God pours out.
Amen.
The Rev. Eric Mancil 