“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also” (Matthew 6:21, NKJV).
Yes, Saeculum. The end of the line, the last of its kind, no more. That’s what John Smithers is, the last of his family. He was an only child. He had no children. His wife died four years ago. He had an aunt, but she died childless, too. He made the mistake. He thought the goal was to get ahead, to gather all you could while on earth, to get ahead of the next guy.
What’s wrong with making money?
Nothing. Life requires it. It’s not the what, not the when, not even the where. It is somewhat the how. There are bad ways, of course. And neither is it how much. The problem is in the doing. John Smithers kept it for himself, spent it on himself. He forgot he was going to die. He forgot what he knew when he was a young man when his life knew only the love his family shared, the friends who shared all those times together just for fun, when life was carefree. He forgot every life lives into another, for another. Some for good. Some not.
And what of his wealth?
Most of it will be returned to the Treasury. Ironic because he spent so much effort avoiding taxes. I’ve heard a rumor, though. The story says he moved much of his assets into gold and silver, put it in a chest and hid it. I understand there are no clues and no map. This means time will claim it, but no one else. History is all consuming. God is, too. The choice is ours.
Did he believe in God?
What does it matter? His belief, if he had it, was no more than his money. He did nothing with it but keep it for himself. It, too, will end up like the gold and silver, buried for eternity. Nothing will come of it. He left no traces. Old Smitty, as folks called him behind his back, didn’t know faith was like investing money. You have to let it grow into something more. He missed the point—God’s will required his will. That’s what eternity is, living into God and others. It’s called love. So many fail to realize this because they fret and worry. Old Smitty worried about all kinds of things, mostly someone calling him Old Smitty. He just withered in the prison built by his hand. That’s what happens to people when they fail to see what’s really important.
Don’t we have to plan for contingencies?
Yes, and be diligent in the endeavor. But be anxious? No.
Why did you bring me here?
I wanted you to see. To see is to know. This is all Smitty ended up with, this small plot of land with a tombstone. What’s written on it?
Now you know.
“Arise, O Lord, exalt Thy grace. Increase the number still of those who in Thy word believe, and do Thy holy will.” Moravian Daily Texts