Today, our Gospel comes to us from Luke, chapter 12, verses 13 to 21, a passage we commonly known as the Parable of the Rich Fool.

The scene opens with a man in the crowd, interrupting Jesus’ teaching. What’s on his mind? Not a profound spiritual question, but a family dispute over money. “Teacher,” he says, almost demanding, “tell my brother to divide the inheritance with me.” Think about that for a moment. How often do we, too, approach God with our earthly concerns, our material desires, before we ever truly consider what He might genuinely desire for us?

Jesus, in His infinite wisdom, sees past the immediate request to the deeper spiritual complaint. He wisely refuses to be drawn into a worldly squabble, reminding the man, and us, “Man, who appointed me a judge or an arbiter between you?” Then, pivoting from that specific incident to a universal truth, He delivers a profound warning: “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; life does not consist in an abundance of possessions.”

This isn’t merely a warning against outright materialism, against being a collector. It’s caution against a far more subtle and pervasive mindset. It’s a call to vigilance, to be on our guard against the sinister creep of materialism that can subtly, almost invisibly, reorder our priorities. Here in 2025, we are immersed in a culture that incessantly whispers, and often shouts, the exact opposite message: “Life does consist in an abundance of possessions. Happiness is found in more, in newer, in shinier things.”

To truly drive this point home, Jesus tells the parable of the rich man. His land yields an abundant harvest—a clear blessing from God, let’s be clear. But how does this rich man respond to such a gift? His first thought, and indeed his only thought in the parable, is entirely self-centered: “What shall I do? I have no place to store my crops.” His solution is simple, logical, and entirely focused on one thing: accumulation. Tear down the old barns, build bigger ones, store all his surplus grain. And then comes the chilling self-congratulation, spoken to himself: “You have plenty of grain laid up for many years. Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry.”

Think about this man for a moment. He’s not depicted as overtly evil. He hasn’t stolen or defrauded anyone. He’s just a man who worked his land, and it prospered. Yet, Jesus calls him a “fool.” Why? Because in all his meticulous planning, in all his foresight regarding his earthly goods, he has completely forgotten the ultimate reality: the brevity and fragility of life, and the ultimate accountability to God. (I have never seen a U-Haul behind a hearse) He makes no mention of sharing his abundance, of using his blessing for the good of others, or even of acknowledging the divine source of his prosperity. His entire universe revolves around “I” and “my.”

In our own time, we see this played out in countless ways. The relentless pursuit of career advancement at all costs, the accumulation of designer goods, the pressure to always have the latest technology, the constant striving for a larger house or a more impressive car. We meticulously plan our retirements, our investments, our vacations – and to a degree, this is prudent. But like the rich fool, do we sometimes plan as if life on this earth is an end in itself? Do we accumulate, genuinely believing that our security and happiness can be found solely in what we possess?

Then comes the stark revelation, the punch that cuts through all his grand plans: “But God said to him, ‘You fool! This very night your life will be demanded from you. Then who will get what you have prepared for yourself?’” All his careful planning, all his grand intentions for a life of ease, are instantly, utterly, rendered meaningless. His wealth, so painstakingly gathered, is now utterly useless to him.

This, my friends, is the timeless truth that cuts through the noise of 2025. We live in an age of unprecedented material comfort for many, yet puzzlingly, also an age of profound anxiety. We are constantly bombarded with messages that equate our worth with our net worth, our happiness with our possessions. But Jesus reminds us, with uncompromising clarity, that this is a dangerous illusion. Our lives are not our own; our time on this earth is a gift, and it is finite.

The parable concludes with the Lord’s powerful summary: “This is how it will be with whoever stores up things for themselves but is not rich toward God.”

So, what does it mean, then, to be “rich toward God”? It means understanding that true wealth isn’t measured in earthly currency, but in spiritual currency. It means recognizing that everything we have—our talents, our resources, our time—is a gift to be stewarded, not hoarded. It means using our blessings to serve God and neighbor, to truly build up His kingdom here on earth. It means prioritizing compassion over consumption, generosity over greed, and eternal values over ephemeral trends.

As Dominicans, we are called to contemplate the truth and to preach it. The truth revealed in this parable is challenging, yes, but profoundly liberating. It frees us from the tyranny of endless acquisition and the gnawing fear of not having enough. It calls us, each one of us, to examine our hearts: What are we truly building our lives upon? Is it the shifting sands of material possessions, or the firm foundation of faith and good works?

Let us pray, then, for the grace to be truly rich toward God. To use the gifts, He has so abundantly given us, not for our own selfish indulgence, but for His glory and for the good of our brothers and sisters. For in so doing, we lay up treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in and steal. And that, my friends, is the only true and lasting security.

Amen.