Reflection on Luke 12:13-21 -
The Rich Fool
There's something unsettling about this parable that
hits close to home. Here's a guy who, by all our modern standards, did
everything right. He worked hard, his business flourished, and he was smart
enough to plan ahead. He wasn't gambling away his earnings or living
recklessly; he was literally just upgrading his storage to accommodate his
success. So why does God call him a fool? It's jarring because if we're honest,
most of us are trying to do exactly what this man did: build security, a retirement plan, and make sure we're covered. The uncomfortable truth is that Jesus
isn't condemning financial planning itself; He's exposing something far more
dangerous lurking beneath it: the quiet delusion that we're actually in control
of our lives. No matter how much we accumulate, no matter how many countries we
visit or how lavishly we spend, no matter how successfully we climb the ladder
of worldly success, death is the great equalizer. We will all stand alone before
God, and in that moment, He won't ask about our bank account or our
achievements. He'll ask about the two greatest commandments: Did you love Me
with your whole heart? And did you love your neighbor as yourself?
What makes this man a fool isn't his bank account;
it's his pronouns. Count them in the parable: "my crops," "my
barns," "my grain," "my goods," "my soul."
Everything centers on "I" and "me" and "mine."
There's no room for God, no thought of neighbor, no whisper of gratitude. He's
become the sun in his own small solar system, and everything revolves around
him. This is what's so deeply sad about this story: here's a man so blinded by
his pride and success that nothing meant more to him than what he himself accomplished
and had. He couldn't see past his own reflection to notice God or anyone else.
This is the spiritual trap that wealth can set, not that having money is evil,
but that it can create a dangerous illusion of self-sufficiency. When we have
enough (or more than enough), we can start believing the lie that we're the
authors of our own security, that we've earned and secured our place in the
world through our own cleverness and hard work. We forget that every breath is
a gift, every harvest a grace, every day borrowed time. And if we live this
way, selfishly focused on ourselves while others suffer around us, we will have
to answer to God for it in eternity.
The genius of Catholic teaching is that it doesn't
ask us to despise material things or pretend money doesn't matter; it asks us to
see everything rightly. The Church calls us to be stewards, not owners.
Everything we have is on loan from God: our talents, our time, our treasure,
our very lives. This might sound like a burden, like God is some cosmic
landlord breathing down our necks. But actually, it's incredibly freeing. If
nothing is truly "mine" to protect and hoard, then I can hold it all with
open hands. I can share without resentment, give without counting the cost, and
trust that God who gave me today will handle tomorrow. The rich fool's tragedy
wasn't that he planned for the future; it was that he forgot he had no future to
plan. None of us do, not really. We only have this moment, this day, and the
choice of what to do with it. This is where devotion to the rosary becomes so
powerful. When we meditate on the mysteries of Jesus' life, death, and
resurrection, we're constantly reminded of what actually matters. The rosary
keeps us focused on Jesus and Mary's example of complete surrender to God's
will, of choosing love over comfort, of giving everything for others. It's a
daily reset button that helps us see through the fog of materialism and remember
we're made for eternity, not for bigger barns.
Here's what really stings about this parable: it
forces us to ask what we're actually building. Are we constructing bigger
barns, bigger houses, bigger portfolios, bigger comfort zones, or are we building
the Kingdom of God? Jesus isn't subtle about this. Right after the parable, He
tells us to sell our possessions, give to the poor, and store up treasure in
heaven. That's not poetry; it's a prescription. The Catholic tradition has
always understood that our salvation isn't just about what we believe, it's about
what we do with what we've been given. Faith without works is dead, James tells
us. How we treat the hungry, the stranger, the naked, the imprisoned, that's how
we treat Christ Himself. You can travel the world in first class, throw money
around without a care, flaunt your success, and live like you're
untouchable, but there will come a day of reckoning. Every dollar we hoard is a
dollar not feeding someone. Every resource stockpiled is a resource not
building God's kingdom. When we live with complete disregard for everyone
around us, ignoring the suffering of others, no matter who they are, we're
storing up something far worse than treasure on earth; we're storing up judgment
for ourselves in eternity. We can't take it with us, so the only question that
matters is: what are we doing with it now?
So here's the invitation hidden in this harsh
parable: to live awake. To remember every single day that our lives are on
loan, that this isn't a dress rehearsal, that God can call us home at any
moment. That sounds morbid, but it's actually the path to freedom and joy. When
we really grasp that all is gift and nothing is guaranteed, generosity becomes
easy. Love becomes urgent. Forgiveness can't wait. We stop postponing life,
waiting for some future moment when we finally have enough to feel secure, and
we start actually living, giving, loving, serving, right now. The rich fool died
with full barns and an empty soul, having lived entirely for himself while
others likely went hungry around him. God's invitation to us is to die with
empty barns and a soul overflowing with love, having spent everything we were
given on the only thing that lasts: loving God with our whole heart, mind, and
soul, and loving our neighbor as ourselves. Because when we stand before
God, and we will all stand before Him, these are the only two things He'll care
about. Everything else is just noise.
©2025 James Dacey, Jr., OFS
