Covetous, Christians

“The Measure of a Man”

In the heart of Pine Hollow, a town stitched together by gospel hymns and barbecue smoke, Pastor Elijah Moore stood behind the pulpit of New Hope Baptist Church. His voice, rich and steady, rolled through the sanctuary like a river smoothing stones.

“Thou shalt not covet,” he preached, eyes scanning the congregation. “Not your neighbor’s house, nor his wife, nor his ox, nor his Cadillac Escalade.”

A few chuckles rippled through the pews, but Elijah didn’t smile. He knew the disease of desire had crept into the bones of his flock. It wasn’t just about cars or clothes—it was deeper. A hunger for status. For applause. For the illusion of being blessed.

Sister Geraldine, seated in the second pew, wore a hat so wide it blocked the view of three saints behind her. She’d recently remodeled her kitchen and made sure every visitor knew about the marble countertops and imported backsplash. Brother Terrence, who ran the local auto shop, had started wearing designer suits to Sunday service, even though his shop was barely breaking even.

Elijah had seen it all before. Covetousness dressed up in church clothes. Envy baptized in scripture. He remembered what his grandmother used to say: “The devil don’t mind you going to church, long as you bring your pride with you.”

After service, Elijah lingered in the fellowship hall, sipping lukewarm coffee. That’s when Deacon Harris approached, his face tight with concern.

“Pastor, you got a minute?”

“Always.”

Harris leaned in. “It’s about the building fund. We’re short again. Folks pledged, but the money ain’t coming in.”

Elijah nodded slowly. “I’ll speak on it next Sunday.”

But he knew the problem wasn’t money. It was motive. People gave when they thought they’d get something back—a blessing, a breakthrough, a better reputation. They didn’t give from love. They gave from lack.

That night, Elijah sat on his porch, watching the stars blink above the pine trees. He thought about the early church, how they shared everything, how no one claimed anything as their own. He thought about Jesus, who had no place to lay His head, yet gave everything.

Then he thought about himself.

He wasn’t immune. He’d felt the sting of comparison when Pastor Reggie down the road got invited to preach on national television. He’d wondered why his own ministry hadn’t grown beyond Pine Hollow. He’d even considered upgrading his car, just to “keep up appearances.”

Covetousness was a quiet thief. It didn’t kick down the door—it whispered through the keyhole.

The next morning, Elijah stood in front of the mirror, tying his tie. He looked himself in the eye and prayed, “Lord, strip me of every desire that ain’t from You. Teach me to want what You want.”

That Sunday, he preached a different kind of sermon.

“Covetousness,” he said, “isn’t just wanting what someone else has. It’s forgetting what you already have. It’s trading gratitude for greed. It’s measuring your worth by someone else’s blessings.”

He paused, letting the silence settle.

“Some of us are chasing things God never promised. We’re building altars to envy. We’re worshiping at the feet of comparison. But the cross doesn’t compete—it completes.”

The sanctuary was still. Even Sister Geraldine’s hat seemed to shrink.Elijah stepped down from the pulpit and walked among the pews.

“I’m not preaching at you,” he said gently. “I’m preaching with you. Because I’ve felt it too. That ache to be seen. That hunger to be admired. But I’ve learned that the only applause that matters is the one from heaven.”

He returned to the pulpit and closed his Bible.

“Let’s be a church that celebrates, not competes. That gives, not grasps. That remembers we’re already rich—in mercy, in grace, in love.”

After service, no one rushed to the fellowship hall. They lingered in the sanctuary, some weeping, some hugging, some silently repenting.

And Elijah? He sat on the front pew, heart light, soul full. That week, the building fund overflowed—not because of guilt, but because of grace. People gave what they could, and some gave more than they’d ever dared. Not to impress, but to invest. In each other. In eternity.

Covetousness didn’t vanish overnight. But it lost its grip. Because when Christians remember who they are and whose they are, they stop chasing shadows and start walking in light.

The church began to change—not just in finances, but in spirit. Testimonies flowed like spring water. Families reconciled. Pride gave way to prayer. People stopped measuring blessings by bank accounts and started counting joy in moments of mercy. Sister Geraldine invited folks into her home, not to show off her kitchen, but to share meals seasoned with love. Brother Terrence gave free tune-ups to single mothers, saying, “God’s been good to me—I just want to pass it on.” And Elijah? He kept preaching truth, not to be admired, but to awaken hearts. Pine Hollow was no longer chasing the world. It was chasing heaven.