But consider how that outlook changes if we substitute one word. Instead of asking, "what do mortals get from all the toil and strain with which they toil under the sun," let us ask ourselves "what do mortals give from all that toil under the sun." And that brings us to the gospel, and a story.

Mr. Lemon was in his early eighties when I first met him. He had a round face that looked perpetually pensive and his demeanor suggested a deep, but silent, wisdom. He was slightly stooped, but still spry. When he smiled you felt graced with affection, and, affirmed in your value as a human being. He was in his eighties, but he was wise beyond his years.

Mr. Lemon was leaning over, but he was standing stock still on the wide chestnut planks of the barn floor. His hand rested on the door handle of a woodstove. The smell of long gone hay still lingered in dark corners while dust motes and ash busied themselves with dancing in the shaft of light that surrounded him. Mr. Lemon looked like the star of a one-man play caught in the spotlight in the moment just before the opening soliloquy. The light was shooting down from an upper window of the barn, passing through the raft of chairs that hung from hooks, stood on shelves, dangled from rafters and lay in piles like four legged cordwood on much of the floor.

The barn was the antique pickers' equivalent of an elephant graveyard. It looked as though chairs from several states had found their way to the barn to die. Venerable Sheraton fiddle back chairs from the formal dining rooms of fine families leaned lifelessly against the peeling paint of anonymous chairs too battered for even the Appalachian kitchens that had rejected them. The chairs that had been so different in their stations in life were now strikingly similar. Mr. Lemon traveled far and wide to estate sales, auctions at abandoned farms and county sales in which dour sheriffs emptied the attics of people who had died intestate and alone. "These were the hardest, "Mr. Lemon said, "these poor souls seemed to have managed to alienate not only their relatives but anyone who came within 5 miles of them." When I would visit, Mr. Lemon would tell me some of the stories, but the chairs were always mute. They had been gathered into his barn, striped of their context, and shriven from their stories. They were devolving from prized possessions into anonymous bits of wood.

A pile of disparate parts in the corner made this conclusion unmistakable- broken legs and individual spindles lay in waiting next to the open door of the woodstove. Mr. Lemon let go of the stove door handle, grabbed a handful of dried out furniture parts, and chucked them into the fire. He closed the door and the crackling flames began to take the chill off the early morning air that moved in and out of his barn at will.

Interior designers came from Baltimore, Philadelphia and Washington D.C. to stand on the planks in Mr. Lemon's barn and to look for treasure among the piles of chairs. The designers were not there for stories of the grandeur or wellbeing of past owners. They did not care about the families from whom the chairs had come. They were there to buy low and sell high. Broken parts would be replaced or repaired. Finishes would be restored to expose the fiery figure of exotic veneers. Brasses would be polished and lacquered. All traces of the earlier owners lives would be eradicated and, of course, no mention would be made of Mr. Lemon's barn.

Visitors to the designers' showrooms in three states would see only the hand-lettered, fine parchment price tags that proclaimed the high value of the once again beautiful chairs. Well-focused display lighting and sumptuous surroundings would whisper: "Of course, it is worth this large amount of money. Think how good it will look in the house. You deserve to have this."

And leather wallets would come out of expensive pants and coach handbags and the chairs would pass into the possession of other people; new families gathering fine things for their houses the size of barns.

The wealth of a nation can be stored in such houses just as Joseph stockpiled corn in barns in ancient Egypt, except that the wealth under Joseph's care fed a nation for seven years and even the hungriest person cannot eat an antique chair.

Accumulation is not a bad thing in and of itself. Things do not have moral character. But people do. One has to ask what am I gathering and why? To whom does it actually belong and is this the best use of this wealth? Joseph had great answers to these kinds of questions. But we have to face the same questions in our own lives and, hopefully, find answers that will be as pleasing to God as Joseph's faithful responses were.

Although one can find antique chairs that are hundreds of years old, their owners will all pass away. The great-grandchildren of Mr. Lemon, and others like him, will appear at our houses in the years to come. The chairs, and everything else we have collected will be stripped of their context and meaning. Some of what we have accumulated will be given away as directed by our wills. But there will be the inevitable raft of things that hang from hooks, stand on shelves, dangle from rafters and lie in piles that will seem to others to have little value. In time, no one will remember that it was us who collected all these things, and even if they knew they will probably not care.

This is why Jesus called the man who built even bigger barns and stuffed them full, a fool. Our true worth has nothing to do with what is in our barns or even on our balance sheet. Our 401(k) may provide for our retirement but it will not save our souls. Nor will our automatic investment plans guarantee our longevity. We may not be here tomorrow to enjoy the things we accumulate today.

We dwell in the midst of stuff, but we live in relationships. It is important to keep the main thing, the main thing. In a hundred different ways, Jesus is always coming back to the same two points: Love God first, and, love your neighbor as yourself. Whether Jesus is talking about barns (as He is this week), or birds (as He will next week), or pearls, or mustard seeds- it all comes down to focusing on the main thing.

It is more important for us to set aside time and attention for God than it is to take up another hobby, add another class, or attend another investment seminar. All our attempts at self-improvement do not change the basic reality that God loved us yesterday just as we were, loves us today in spite of our foibles, and will love us tomorrow, no matter what. Spending time with God will help us truly believe this. And that belief will help us to be less anxious about trying to prove our value, or defend our worth, to God and to others.

It is more important to have a real conversation with our children, our parents or our friends, than to balance our checkbooks. It is of greater worth to furnish our lives with meaning and usefulness than to accumulate another chair, a better rug, or a bigger house. In fact by letting go, giving more of our money and possessions away, and downsizing our houses and our lifestyle, we will discover greater freedom.

A key concept for spiritual growth and holy living is to discern the difference between what we want and what we need. There are a million things we desire and whole industries dedicated to making us want even more.

But what do we actually need? Very little, if we think about: daily bread; shelter from the elements; clean water; sufficient clothes to cover and protect us; occasional medical care; the companionship of others; opportunities to be of service; things to do that give meaning to our lives; and a sense of god's presence with us, and love for us.

I want to suggest that this last one is the one we often leave for last and sometimes never get to, but it is the font from which the others flow. As the author of the letter to the Colossians tells us, when the word of Christ dwells in us we are rich with wisdom and full of gratitude. And when the work of our hands and the meditations of our hearts serve the will of God and not simply our appetites, the multitudes get fed. This is not just a spiritual platitude it is a physical reality. When you or I share with another, both people then have more of what they actually need. It is as simple and as challenging as that.

Let us begin by looking at altar and considering what will be shared from there. Think of Jesus, the Son of God and what he gave for us, but not for us only. Remember the plight of those who cannot fend for themselves. Consider the work of the church.

Then let us resolve to one another that we will look at our bank statements, our basements and barns and consider the parable Jesus told. Let us remember the light that fell in Mr. Lemon's barn, and, the darkness that will come for us all. Then let us resolve to move deeper into God's vineyard, seeking to be fruitful in our relationships and rich towards God, while there is light of day. AMEN