The funeral was over. The food was put away. Only quiet remained in the house.
Maggie sat at her grandmother’s table, thumbing the worn pages of an old Bible. The edges were frayed, the notes in the margins faded with time and the oils of passing fingers. Her grandmother had lived in this small house for over fifty years, and according to most, she hadn't owned much. No retirement savings. No stocks, no vacation homes. Just mismatched dishes, threadbare furniture, and that garden out back that somehow grew the sweetest tomatoes in the county.
And yet, as Maggie flipped to the place marked by a faded bookmark—a page creased more than all the others—her eyes welled with tears. The passage was underlined three times:
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21, NIV)
Her grandmother had built a treasure chest that didn’t rust, couldn’t be stolen, and wasn’t tied up in interest rates. But it was full—overflowing, even. Maggie had seen it written across her life: every hand-sewn quilt given away, every casserole baked for the neighbor going through divorce, every quiet prayer whispered behind closed doors.
Somewhere along the way, we began to confuse the words of Jesus with the cravings of our culture. We recast Him as a starched, well-groomed accountant, primarily concerned with our financial portfolios. But Jesus—gentle, radical Jesus—was never vague about money. He said things like: "You cannot serve both God and money" (Luke 16:13), and “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor...Then come, follow me.” (Mark 10:21)
Now, don’t misunderstand—He never condemned wealth itself. It wasn’t coins or property that burdened the heart; it was love of them. The danger lies not in the possession, but in the position of those possessions in our hearts. Jesus wasn’t warning us away from having money. He was warning us away from being owned by it.
The story of the rich man who walked away from Jesus when asked to give it all up? That story isn’t just about a man long ago. It’s about us. About what we can’t let go of. About what we think we must grip tightly to be safe, valuable, whole.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the quiet panic when the checking account dips too low, or the shame when your generosity feels small. But Jesus doesn’t measure generosity in amounts—He measures it in freedom. He sees the widow’s coin, the heart behind the giving, the weight once shackled and then let go. And a heart that trusts Him more than it trusts in balance sheets—that’s a heart free to follow.
In Jewish culture, having wealth was often seen as a sign of God’s blessing. So when Jesus said it’s “easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God,” jaws dropped. He was flipping assumptions. It stunned His disciples then, and it should still startle us now.
Because grace isn’t bought. Heaven isn’t earned with great giving but is entered through great surrender.
I remember once sitting in a restaurant with a friend who had just received a promotion that came with everything she’d wanted—title, salary, recognition. She seemed... dimmed. “It’s funny,” she said, stirring her coffee, “I’ve waited years for this. And now that I have it, I just feel empty.”
Jesus knew. He knew that the deepest hunger in us would not be filled by earning more, acquiring more, climbing higher. That hunger—holy and aching—was placed in us by Him and can only be satisfied through Him.
The real question isn’t how much you have. It’s this: what has your heart?
Your bank account can’t claim you. Your retirement fund doesn’t carry your eternity. The sleek neighborhood with the granite countertops cannot heal a lonely soul.
But release? Generosity? Trust? These are treasures stored in places moths cannot reach.
Maybe your treasure looks like laughter shared over chipped coffee mugs in a cramped kitchen. Maybe it’s babysitting the neighbor’s kids so she can rest. Maybe—just maybe—it’s deciding, once and for all, that your worth will never be measured in net worth.
Jesus wasn’t against treasure. He just wants us to know where to find the kind that lasts.
And that kind? That kind is still available. Still waiting.
Still worth everything.
Because where your treasure is... there your heart will be also.
The funeral was over. The food was put away. Only quiet remained in the house.
Maggie sat at her grandmother’s table, thumbing the worn pages of an old Bible. The edges were frayed, the notes in the margins faded with time and the oils of passing fingers. Her grandmother had lived in this small house for over fifty years, and according to most, she hadn't owned much. No retirement savings. No stocks, no vacation homes. Just mismatched dishes, threadbare furniture, and that garden out back that somehow grew the sweetest tomatoes in the county.
And yet, as Maggie flipped to the place marked by a faded bookmark—a page creased more than all the others—her eyes welled with tears. The passage was underlined three times:
“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth… But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven… For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” (Matthew 6:19-21, NIV)
Her grandmother had built a treasure chest that didn’t rust, couldn’t be stolen, and wasn’t tied up in interest rates. But it was full—overflowing, even. Maggie had seen it written across her life: every hand-sewn quilt given away, every casserole baked for the neighbor going through divorce, every quiet prayer whispered behind closed doors.
Somewhere along the way, we began to confuse the words of Jesus with the cravings of our culture. We recast Him as a starched, well-groomed accountant, primarily concerned with our financial portfolios. But Jesus—gentle, radical Jesus—was never vague about money. He said things like: "You cannot serve both God and money" (Luke 16:13), and “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor...Then come, follow me.” (Mark 10:21)
Now, don’t misunderstand—He never condemned wealth itself. It wasn’t coins or property that burdened the heart; it was love of them. The danger lies not in the possession, but in the position of those possessions in our hearts. Jesus wasn’t warning us away from having money. He was warning us away from being owned by it.
The story of the rich man who walked away from Jesus when asked to give it all up? That story isn’t just about a man long ago. It’s about us. About what we can’t let go of. About what we think we must grip tightly to be safe, valuable, whole.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the quiet panic when the checking account dips too low, or the shame when your generosity feels small. But Jesus doesn’t measure generosity in amounts—He measures it in freedom. He sees the widow’s coin, the heart behind the giving, the weight once shackled and then let go. And a heart that trusts Him more than it trusts in balance sheets—that’s a heart free to follow.
In Jewish culture, having wealth was often seen as a sign of God’s blessing. So when Jesus said it’s “easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God,” jaws dropped. He was flipping assumptions. It stunned His disciples then, and it should still startle us now.
Because grace isn’t bought. Heaven isn’t earned with great giving but is entered through great surrender.
I remember once sitting in a restaurant with a friend who had just received a promotion that came with everything she’d wanted—title, salary, recognition. She seemed... dimmed. “It’s funny,” she said, stirring her coffee, “I’ve waited years for this. And now that I have it, I just feel empty.”
Jesus knew. He knew that the deepest hunger in us would not be filled by earning more, acquiring more, climbing higher. That hunger—holy and aching—was placed in us by Him and can only be satisfied through Him.
The real question isn’t how much you have. It’s this: what has your heart?
Your bank account can’t claim you. Your retirement fund doesn’t carry your eternity. The sleek neighborhood with the granite countertops cannot heal a lonely soul.
But release? Generosity? Trust? These are treasures stored in places moths cannot reach.
Maybe your treasure looks like laughter shared over chipped coffee mugs in a cramped kitchen. Maybe it’s babysitting the neighbor’s kids so she can rest. Maybe—just maybe—it’s deciding, once and for all, that your worth will never be measured in net worth.
Jesus wasn’t against treasure. He just wants us to know where to find the kind that lasts.
And that kind? That kind is still available. Still waiting.
Still worth everything.
Because where your treasure is... there your heart will be also.
