I’ve Been Doing It Wrong. Again!

Fighting Back Against the Story the World Tells Us to Live

What happens when you begin to realize you’ve been living inside a story you no longer believe—but don’t yet know how to escape?

I think that’s part of what’s happening to me as I revisit the parables I wrote about a year ago.

I’m in week two of revisiting these reflections, and what’s fascinating to me is how much the lens I bring into a story changes what I see.

That’s the power of a good parable.

Ten people in ten different places in life can wrestle with the same story in ten different ways.

Or one person in different seasons can do the same.

A year ago, I read these parables through one set of eyes. Today, I’m reading them through another.

Same story.

Different lens.

(If you missed last week’s reflection on the Pharisee and the Tax Collector, you can find it here.)

This week, I’m sitting with the parable of the rich fool — the man who wanted bigger barns.

(If you’re curious what caught my attention a year ago, you can read my original reflection here.)

The obvious takeaway is about greed. Protect against wanting more. Understand that enough will never be enough. Realize that all we truly need is Jesus.

And while all of that’s true, it’s not what caught my eye this week.

For me, this story feels less like a lesson and more like a mirror.

I’m not exactly in the market for bigger barns right now, but I’m surrounded by metaphorical ones.

Like the farmer, I suspect the problem isn’t just what’s in the barn, but what’s driving the need for a bigger one.

I’ll spare my loyal readers the list of what is currently filling up my metaphorical barns, but let’s just say there is plenty.

Enough to keep my hands full and my mind racing.

The question for me is no longer:

What do I need bigger barns for?

The question is:

How do I stop the cycle?

Because what strikes me about this parable is not just what the man does.

It’s what he never even considers.

The land produces abundantly and his immediate instinct is not generosity, gratitude, or curiosity.

He doesn’t stop to wonder:

Who might need this?

Who could I bless?

What is all of this for?

Giving doesn’t even occur to him.

His instinct is storage.

Protection.

Preservation.

Build bigger barns.

And if I’m honest, that feels painfully familiar.

I firmly believe everyone is being discipled by something or someone.

And maybe my need for bigger barns reveals that the world has a bigger hold on me than I’d like to admit.

Because the world has been preaching the same message for a very long time:

Hold tightly.

Protect yourself.

Move faster.

Secure more.

Don’t let go.

It will never be enough.

And after a while, we stop noticing the story we’re living inside.

We call it wisdom.

Responsibility.

Planning.

Maturity.

But maybe we’ve simply been discipled into hurry and scarcity.

The more I sat with this parable, the more I wondered if my metaphorical barns weren’t just filled with things, but with pace.

I was talking with a colleague recently about a book we both enjoyed about slowing down and living a less hurried life.

A life built around the rhythms Jesus embraced: sabbath, prayer, community, intentionality.

She said she introduced it to a Sunday school class and the people laughed.

The idea of slowing down felt unrealistic.

Naive.

Impossible.

And I get it.

It sounds unrealistic to me too.

But what if that reaction says more about the world we’ve adapted to than the way we were meant to live?

What if the pace we’ve normalized is backwards?

What if exhaustion isn’t faithfulness?

What if hurry isn’t wisdom?

What if bigger barns are simply what we build when we’re scared there won’t be enough?

That we won’t have enough.

That we won’t be enough.

Maybe that’s why this image keeps coming back to me.

It’s me approaching God with clenched fists, asking for the life I desperately want and wondering why I’m unable to receive it.

If I step back, I can almost laugh at how ridiculous I look.

My hands are overflowing with things I’ve convinced myself I need, while asking God for things I no longer have the capacity to hold.

Peace.

Rest.

Joy.

Trust.

An unhurried life.

And that’s the real problem.

Not that God isn’t giving.

But that I’m unable to receive.

I wish I could end this reflection by telling you I finally figured it out.

That I’ve stopped drawing up blueprints for bigger barns.

That I’m no longer clenching my fists desperately holding on to idols.

That slowing down no longer feels risky.

But I’m still wrestling.

I know what I’m supposed to do and somehow struggle to do it.

I feel the pull of a world telling me to hurry, accumulate, secure, and hold tightly.

And that’s why this parable feels less like a story and more like a mirror.

The question I’m left with is no longer, “What are my bigger barns?”

The question now is:

How do I stop the cycle?

How do I come to Jesus with unclenched fists?

Ready to receive a life I keep asking for, but somehow struggle to make room for.

I don’t know the answer.

But waking up each morning and asking the question feels like a good start.

Grateful for you,

Jason (The Grati-Dude)