Wealth To Death

He stood beside the bed, where his father lay, gripping the bed frame, staring at his dying eyes, as the old man was breathing slowly. He stared at his father intently, with his eyes open wide, as if awaiting something to happen. The sound of his father’s quiet wheezing was accompanied by the sound of a weeping woman coming from outside the room.

Though the man by the bed didn’t seem too troubled by what he was seeing on the bed of his father, but rather excited, as if listening to a traveller’s tale and awaiting the end of it.

Then the old man slowly turned his head to the side, where the companion sat.

“Son,…” he spoke in a weak voice. “Are you still here?”

“I am, father.” the man replied, subduing his excitement.

The dying man lifted his hand a bit, reaching for the direction of his son’s voice.

“Please,… give me your hand.” he wheezed.

His son grabbed it gently, as his eyes stared at his father’s still.

Then the old man spoke.

“You… are my son… the seed… of my body… my flesh… and blood…”

The old man was interrupted by his cough, which his son dodged, moving aside, not letting go of his father’s hand.

“And according to the Law…” his father continued, “you are heir… of my property.”

His son leaned in closer to hear him better.

“All these years…” his father spoke, “you have been working so hard,… and I know… that you… above all my servants… were the hardest worker…”

His son nodded with impatience in his heart.

“And I… am about to go… where all men go…” his father proceeded, “and as you… are my only… son,… it is only right… that you… take over…”

A smile crept across his son’s face, as he said it.

“Just… make sure… your mother stays well…”

A silent chuckle left his son’s mouth.

“That’s no laughing matter, son,” his father said in a more stern voice, “you know how she cared… for your wellbeing,… when I was away,… and when you were only a lad.”

The dying man coughed harder than before.

“I apologise, father.” his son replied, “It was not my intention.”

As soon as the old man stopped coughing, he relaxed and sighed.

“My son…” he went on, “you know that I loved you… so much…”

“Yes, father,” his son said, “I know that.”

“And as a father,” the old man spoke, “I bestow to you… all my property,… all my household,… and my whole… field…”

His son’s eyes grew wide.

“Son…” the old man said, as he raised his head a bit, “Call… your mother in…”

The young man left his father’s hand and ran to the door, calling for his mother.

“My father wanted you to come to him,” he said, as he rushed back to the bed where his father lay and kneeled as before.

His mother walked in slowly, with her face all soaked in tears, shaking from holding back her sobbing. Her face expressed deep sorrow for her passing love.

Her son was already by the bed, by the moment she walked in and stared at her dying husband. He could not see her, but as he heard her walk in and stand far from his bed, he smiled.

“Abigail,…” he wheezed, “please… come closer…”

She walked slowly to the bed with hesitation, as if approaching the fire. She quietly sobbed, covering her mouth so as not to cry in the last moment she speaks to her beloved. By the time she came to his bed and kneeled on her son’s right, close to his head, he slowly turned his face into the direction of her sobbing.

“Abigail,…” he whispered to her in a raspy way, “you know… how our son… was a hard… worker?”

“Yes…” she whispered back, nodding speedily in short motions and panting in sorrow.

“Well,…” the dying man replied, “you are my second… witness… to the passing… of my property… to my son… Jakeem…”

She looked at her son with her eyes willed with surprised and grief, but her son didn’t move his eyes away from his father. He stared at him with slight remorse in his eyes, hiding his elation from her.

She then turned back to her husband, and said, holding her breath from tears: “I am your witness, my love.”

Her husband smiled.

“May… my son… be blessed,… great,… and pros-… per-… ous…”

He then slowly turned his head toward the ceiling and breathed his last, as his smile slightly faded away.

Abigail slowly reached for his hand, leaned over the edge of the bed, and held him tightly, as her mourning slowly began to rise louder and louder. Her son, though, only remained kneeled by the bed, staring at the body of his dead father with no emotion.

“Now it is mine,” he thought.

It was on an autumn day, when the last harvest has just been finished, and the grain stored in the barn, that his father died.

As the years went on, the young man increased in his wealth, as he kept selling what his servants would gather from the field. He gained more and more, and he even increased his field ten times, with the number of his servants growing, and the increase of his wheat never ceased to stop.

His mother died three years after his father, and before she died, she noticed something in her son, which she didn’t find pleasing. She noticed hunger in his eyes, whenever he looked at his field, his possessions, and the money he would count day after day. It troubled her deeply.

On her deathbed, she informed her son right before she passed: “Son… please… don’t let your wealth… become… your… god…”

Those words faded away in a matter of days, as the man stared at his increased field with pride in his heart, knowing that a day will come when he will never have to worry about running out of food. And as if he had to share it with anybody. He was already rich, he didn’t need to think about anything else, except the fact that his life is completely secured.

Though it happened, that as the day was slowly ending, two of his servants approached him, while he was sitting at the porch of his house. They had troubling news.

“The barns has been filled up to the last corner with this year’s increase. We cannot bring any more in.”

He looked at them with a confused look, and slowly rose.

“Can’t you pour it in from the tops?” he asked. “There must be more room in the barns that you overlooked.”

“There is none,” one of them replied. “We tried everything, but the grain keeps pouring back out.”

“Don’t waste the grain!” he yelled at them. “Every grain must be kept!”

His servants took a step back out of surprise at their master’s outburst.

The man then took at deep breath to calm himself, and then looked at them with a calmer look.

“Is there no way to make a bigger one?” he asked.

“There is,” the other servant said, “but for that, we’d have to tear down the old ones.”

“Well, go ahead!” their master answered. “Tear these ones down and make a bigger one!”

His two servants bowed their heads in confirmation and walked back to the others.

The owner of the field sat back down with a crooked smile on his face and looked towards his field, which he got as his inheritance.

“What shall I do,” he said to himself in a mocking tone. “because I do not have where I will collect my fruit?”

He leaned back on his chair and laughed to himself.

“This I will do: I will take down my barns and a greater one will I build, and will collect there all my produce and the goods.”

The rich man then stood up, patted his own belly with a proud chuckle, and continued:

“And I will speak to my soul: ‘Soul, you have many goods laid up for many years! Rest! Eat! Imbibe! Be merry!”

The day was close to its end.

And as the man was giving his last glance at his field, a strong wind arose, blowing in the direction of the field. Its owner was surprised at the wind’s sudden appearance. He was about to rush back into the house, but as he turned for the door, lightning flashed from behind him with a very loud roar of thunder.

The man turned back, and to his horror, he watched as his field was suddenly lit on fire!  The flames rose quickly and spread across the visible horizon of the field. It was devastating to watch. He stared, as all his work was burning away right before his eyes, and the image of great poverty flooded his mind, making him tremble and grab his own heart.

Then, as the flames shone upon the whole place, the man heard a thundering voice from above, saying to him: “Fool!”

The devastated man looked up at the rushing dark clouds above the blazing field. He was shivering at the sound of the deafening voice from above.

The voice said: “This night, your soul is demanded back from you!”

Lightning strikes surrounded the landowner’s house, making the man spin his head toward every new echo of their thundering roars.

“Now what you prepared,” the voice continued, making the man look back up, “to whom will it be?”

The last thing the man saw was light descending toward him at full speed.

The servants saw one more lightning strike right at the front of the house where they saw their master last, before it began raining, quenching the fire in the field. They rushed over to the porch of the house to find their master, lying down on the ground with a stiff face of terror. They checked his chest to see if he was still breathing.

“He’s dead!” they exclaimed.

***

And once the parable was finished, Jesus spoke these words: “In this way is the one storing up for himself, and not being rich to God.”