The Only Thing (I think)

There’s a truth in scripture that I admittedly don’t fully understand.

Or maybe I want to say I don’t fully understand it, because then I’d be responsible for it.

Do you ever think about that? How you’re responsible for the things you understand?

So maybe you pretend not to. Maybe you avoid clarity so you can avoid accountability.

It’s a classic move.

“I didn’t know I couldn’t do that.”
“I didn’t know you wanted me to do that.”

When you’re young, that kind of denial might earn you a time-out. When you’re grown, it can ruin your life.

I think I’ve been pretending not to understand this truth because I know what it would demand of me. A life I’m not sure I’m ready to live.

It’s this:

“The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and hid again; and from joy over it he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.”
— Matthew 13:44

It’s one verse. But it’s everything.

It’s about the only thing that really matters… the kingdom of God.

It’s about giving everything you have to obtain it. About treating it like the most beautiful treasure in the world. So good you’d sell everything else to have it.

And not because you’re told to. Because you want to.

That’s what gets me.

The man was so full of joy that selling everything wasn’t a burden. It was a thrill.

But I don’t live like that. I don’t know anyone who does.

I’ve been too busy stacking my own treasures just in case AI replaces us all and we end up living on Universal Basic Income, eating Soylent Green, and wondering what we did to ourselves.

Meanwhile, this verse keeps whispering about sacrifice. And I keep pretending not to hear.

Because the truth is, I haven’t sacrificed much lately.

It’s not a sacrifice to go to church once a week. It’s not a sacrifice to read my Bible in the morning. It’s not a sacrifice to pray for a few minutes before work.

Those things cost me nothing.

And there’s a pull in my soul to do more. To be more. But I know what that would mean.

It would mean not working late, and maybe seeming less excellent to my boss.
It would mean making less money, and not having as much tucked away for retirement.
It would mean waking up earlier, and giving up time at the gym.
It would mean being more generous, and trusting that God will fill what I give away.

I like the idea of faith. Just not the risk of it.

Because joy exposes what you really love.

And if I’m honest, I find joy in worldly things.
Consistency at the gym.
Money in the bank.
Ease.
Comfort.

But I don’t find joy in God’s kingdom, not like that man in the parable did. For him, it wasn’t obligation. It was obsession.

And that’s what connects this to my mom.

Because I think she stopped finding joy in life long before she died. The light went out slowly. Quietly.

And when joy disappears, obedience becomes duty. Duty becomes exhaustion. Exhaustion becomes despair.

That’s how people die in chairs.

Not in a single night, but over years of quiet surrender, when joy slips away and survival takes its place.

The man in the parable didn’t sell everything because he had to. He sold everything because he wanted to.

He had found something better.

Something that made every other possession, every other comfort, look worthless.

That’s what I want. Not to perform faith… but to want God like that.

To want Him more than promotion.More than approval. More than the illusion of control.

Because the field isn’t really about money or sacrifice. It’s about joy.

It’s about seeing the kingdom for what it truly is, the only thing that lasts.

Maybe that’s the invitation for those of us trying not to die in chairs. Not to sell everything overnight. But to ask God to make us want to.

To restore the joy that makes obedience possible.

Because the truth is, the only thing worth having is the only thing that can’t be taken away.

The treasure in the field. The kingdom of God. The only thing.