Wealth, Apocalypse, and Christ’s Nativity: A Reflection on 1 Timothy 6:17-21 and Luke 21:28-33
Paul writes to Timothy about those who are rich in this present world: As for the rich in this world, charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on uncertain riches but on God who richly furnishes us with everything to enjoy. They are to do good, to be rich in good deeds, liberal and generous, thus laying up for themselves a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of the life which is life indeed. And Luke records Christ’s teaching about the end of all things: Now when these things begin to take place, look up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near… Truly, I say to you, this generation will not pass away till all has taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.
Read these passages side by side during Advent, as we prepare to celebrate the Nativity, and something essential emerges: The same stance that prepares us to receive Christ’s first coming prepares us to receive His final coming—and both comings are about refusing to cling to what cannot hold us.
The Terror Beneath Possession
Paul’s warning about riches isn’t moralism about money. It’s pointing to something deeper—the way we use material security to avoid facing our terror of impermanence. When Paul says charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on uncertain riches, he’s naming what happens when we organize our entire lives around what cannot ultimately save us. We accumulate—money, status, control, certainty—because underneath, we’re terrified. Terrified of losing what we have. Terrified of discovering we’re not enough. Terrified of the bottomless need inside that no possession can ever fill.
This is the childhood wound underneath all grasping: the feeling that we are fundamentally unsafe, that we must secure ourselves, that if we stop controlling everything it will all fall apart. And so we white-knuckle our way through life, holding tight to uncertain riches while calling it prudence, clutching our securities while calling it responsibility. We’re not enjoying God’s gifts—we’re using them as armor against our own terror.
But Advent comes every year to unmake this delusion. The liturgical season itself enacts what Paul and Christ are both teaching: that the only proper stance toward reality is open hands, watchful presence, and joyful expectation of what we cannot control. This is what it means to set hopes on God who richly furnishes us with everything to enjoy. Not hoarding against catastrophe, but receiving with gratitude, using with generosity, and holding lightly because we know the Giver is infinitely more than the gifts.
The Apocalypse as Gift
Now look at what Christ says in Luke: When these things begin to take place, look up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near. The cosmic signs—distress of nations, roaring of the sea, people fainting with fear—aren’t threats to those who have learned the Advent posture. They’re invitations to stop clinging and start receiving.
Christ doesn’t say, “When the world collapses, panic and try to save yourselves.” He says, “Look up. Raise your heads. Your redemption is near.” The same apocalyptic moment that destroys those clinging to uncertain riches liberates those who have learned to live with open hands. Why? Because when heaven and earth pass away, when every earthly security dissolves, when the structures we’ve been clutching crumble—those who’ve already let go discover they’re standing on the only foundation that never moves: my words will not pass away.
This is the cosmic dimension of what Paul’s teaching personally. When you learn to stop setting your hope on uncertain riches—when you face the terror underneath, bring compassion to the wounded child who believes she must secure herself, and choose to trust the God who furnishes everything—you’re not just achieving personal psychological health. You’re participating in the pattern by which the entire universe is being transfigured. The same movement that heals your grasping heart is the movement by which creation itself is liberated from futility and brought into the freedom of God’s children.
The Nativity Pattern
Now bring this into Advent. Why does God enter the world as a helpless infant born to a peasant girl in an occupied backwater? Because the Incarnation itself enacts the posture Paul and Christ are both teaching. God doesn’t arrive with armies, doesn’t secure Himself with political power, doesn’t grasp at the certainty and control we spend our lives pursuing. He comes vulnerable, poor, dependent—everything we’re terrified of being.
Mary’s fiat—”let it be to me according to your word”—is the Advent posture perfected. She doesn’t grasp, doesn’t demand certainty, doesn’t try to control the outcome. She receives. She opens her hands, her body, her entire life to what she cannot predict or manage. And in that receptivity, the Word becomes flesh. Advent teaches us that the way Mary received Christ’s first coming is the way we receive every manifestation of divine presence: by letting go of our death-grip on uncertain riches and learning to live with open hands.
The Christ-child in the manger doesn’t arrive to those who’ve secured themselves. He comes to shepherds keeping watch (vigilant, awake, not controlling), to magi who abandon their kingdoms to follow a star (wealthy men who hold riches lightly enough to leave everything), to a girl who said yes without knowing how the story would unfold. The Nativity reveals what Paul names directly: God richly furnishes us with everything to enjoy—not to hoard, not to secure ourselves with, not to grasp—but to enjoy, to use generously, to share liberally, precisely because we know the Giver and the gifts are not the same.
Laying Up Foundation for the Future
Paul’s language is startling: laying up for themselves a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of the life which is life indeed. What is this foundation? Not investments, not retirement accounts, not even good works performed to earn security. The foundation is learning to live now the way you will live in the Kingdom—generously, joyfully, without grasping, trusting that God furnishes everything.
This connects directly to Christ’s teaching: Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. When the structures of this present age dissolve (personally in death, cosmically in the final transformation), what remains? Only what participated in divine life—only the reality that was already eternal showing itself. The “good foundation” Paul speaks of isn’t something separate from present life. It’s the same life lived in communion with God, rich in good deeds, generous and liberal because already participating in the abundance that cannot be taken away.
You are laying up foundation now not by securing yourself but by practicing receptivity. Every time you choose generosity over grasping, every time you face the terror underneath your need to control, every time you hold your securities lightly enough to share them—you’re participating in the life which is life indeed. The life that doesn’t pass away when heaven and earth pass away. The life that will be revealed fully when your redemption draws near.
The Advent Summons
So Advent comes again, and the liturgical season asks the question these passages pose together: Are you living with clenched fists or open hands? Are you setting your hope on uncertain riches or on God who furnishes everything? When the apocalyptic moment comes—personally in suffering and death, cosmically in the final transformation—will you be clutching what cannot save you, or standing with head raised, watching for redemption?
The preparation isn’t frantic securing. It’s learning receptivity. It’s practicing the inner movement from grasping to receiving. It’s facing the childhood terror that tells you you’re unsafe unless you control everything, and bringing compassion to that frightened part while choosing trust anyway. It’s noticing when you’re holding tight to uncertain riches—not just money but certainty, control, reputation, the feeling of having it figured out—and asking: “What would it mean to hold this lightly? To use it generously? To enjoy it without clutching it?”
St. Maximos the Confessor teaches that our natural will—the will that flows from our nature as image-bearers—already inclines toward God, toward communion, toward the generous abundance Paul describes. It’s the gnomic will—the personal mode of deliberation and choice where fear has entered—that clenches and grasps and hoards. The spiritual work of Advent is letting the gnomic will be healed and realigned with the natural will. And this happens not through self-improvement projects but through theurgic encounter: “Lord Jesus Christ, show me, broken and grasping, Your abundance. Teach me to live with open hands.”
This is the prayer of Advent. Not “help me secure myself better” but “teach me receptivity.” Not “give me certainty” but “help me trust Your furnishing.” Not “let me control the outcome” but “let it be to me according to Your word.”
When you pray this way—when you practice generosity even when it feels risky, when you hold your securities lightly even when terror rises, when you open your hands even when the impulse is to clench—you’re not just preparing psychologically for Christmas. You’re participating in the cosmic pattern by which God entered the world as vulnerable infant and by which He will return to transfigure all things. The Nativity and the Apocalypse are the same movement: God making all things new by entering what we’ve been clutching and teaching us to let go.
Look up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near. The posture is already liturgical, already the stance we take before the Christ-child: heads raised, eyes open, hands ready to receive what we cannot control or predict or secure. This is how we celebrate Advent. This is how we prepare for both comings. And this is how we take hold of the life which is life indeed—not by grasping but by learning, at last, to receive.
The Greater Horizon 