“When the Pharisees, a money-obsessed bunch, heard him say these things, they rolled their eyes, dismissing him as hopelessly out of touch. So Jesus spoke to them: ‘You are masters at making yourselves look good in front of others, but God knows what’s behind the appearance.’” ~ Luke 16:14-15

Nobody likes a preacher who talks about money. It’s too close to home, too personal. And, frankly, it’s nobody’s business, certainly not a preacher’s. Jesus didn’t care that his words ruffled their fine feathers. He talked about money anyway, saying things like …

“Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much.”

And …

“No servant can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money.”

What does he know? the Pharisees scoffed with a roll of their self-righteous eyes. He’s out of touch, outdated, clearly uneducated on what life requires. God wants me to be happy.

It’s easy for me to look at Pharisees from a removed point of view. I’m not like them. I don’t mock the Christ the way they did. I don’t walk with religious airs. I don’t judge lesser Christians like they did. I’m different. I give a tithe. I donate garbage bags full of clothes and toys. I’m not a Pharisee at all. Look how generous I am.

But then I think about the hold money has on my life. The way I’m always worry about bills and my stuff. My compulsiveness to stockpile and hoard, afraid it will never be enough. The ease with which I buy multiple cups of coffee, and yet have difficulty releasing cash for various needs outside my home. My desire to buy a new car, even though the one I have works just fine. I think about the sleep I lose when my own finances seem insecure, and yet how easily I sleep when a friend is struggling financially. And the way I give only within the bounds of my comfort, but never to the point it’s a true sacrifice.

I’m a Pharisee trying to serve two masters. And one of those masters–the greater of the two–is saying, “You’re a master at keeping up a good appearance, but God knows how much you love money, how much you’re depending on it. He sees, and He wants to set you free.”

Jesus was/is far more in touch than anyone gave him credit for. Like my religious predecessors, I’m a person who gives away just enough to make myself look “Christian,” but who secretly finds her safety in the house and car and pile of paper security in the bank.

I need a different master, a less fickle one. And I need to become a better master at stocking up all my future security in an eternal place.

As I sat on the bed wrapped in the white motel towel, my wet hair dripping down my back, the tears started to fall.  Had my life really come to this?  Alone? Hungry?  Tired? Sleeping in an old motel room with a view of the interstate? What had I done?

The walls felt as though they were closing in.  I climbed under the covers to get warm, but nothing would warm the chill in my body.  I felt my eyes grow heavy.

I must have slept for several hours because when I woke the hunger was unbearable.  I reached for my purse only to find a dollar and some change.  But there was a granola bar that I had managed to slip in my purse unnoticed at the neighboring convenience store.  I ate that and drank some water from the tap.   I can’t say a steak dinner with all the fixings would have cured the pain of emptiness inside me.

I slowly pulled on the grey sweatpants and baggy black sweatshirt.  They had certainly seen better days.  I glanced in the bathroom mirror and splashed some cold water on my face.  How hideous, I thought.  To think I used to not leave the house without make-up.  Now make-up seemed like a luxury, but certainly not the cure for the broken face staring back at me.

I don’t know what caused me to do it, but I suddenly felt drawn to the small night table by the bed.  I opened the drawer and there it was—a Bible.  I chuckled at the thought of the last time I’d picked up one of those books.  It must have been over a year.

A year ago I was happily married, working the job of my dreams, and you couldn’t have kept me away from church.  I sang in the choir, organized church events, and sat in the front row every Sunday, pouring over the pastor’s sermons.  The tears started to fall again.  This time sobs followed—heavy sobs.

I curled up on the bed again and started reading through one of the Gospels.  It talked about repentance and how the lost are found.  It spoke of heaven rejoicing at one sinner’s repentance.  Was this me the scriptures were describing?

Pulling the covers off, I slowly climbed out of bed.  I knelt down, folded my hands and dropped my head to the floor.  I felt shame—so much shame.  I cried out to God, “I’m sorry Lord.  I’m sorry for all the horrible things I’ve done and the people that I’ve hurt.  I’m sorry I was so selfish and sought the pleasures of this sinful world rather than seeking you.  Show me what to do, Lord.  Show me.”

A loud truck horn broke through my thoughts.  I went and peered through the window and found one massive traffic jam.  And then I saw it, right in front of the motel was a semi-truck with the words, “Come Home” plastered in red ink on the dirty white background.  I couldn’t tell you what company was advertising, but I knew those words were for me.  Was this the answer the Lord was giving me?  Would God really take me back?

“I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your (daughter); So (she) got up and went to (her) father. ”But while (she) was still a long way off, (her) father saw (her) and was filled with compassion for (her); he ran to his (daughter), threw his arms around (her) and kissed (her).” Luke 15: 18-20

When God ran.