The Lord I Didn't Know I Was Serving

There’s a moment in Mark 10 that I can’t stop thinking about.

A man runs up to Jesus, falls on his knees, and asks what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus lists the commandments. The man says he’s kept them all since he was a boy. And then Mark records something you don’t always notice:

“Looking at him, Jesus loved him and said to him, ‘You lack one thing: Go, sell all you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.’” — Mark 10:21 (CSB)

Jesus loved him. And then told him the one thing that would cost him everything.

“He was dismayed by this demand, and he went away grieving, because he had many possessions.” — Mark 10:22 (CSB)

He walked away. Not because he was a bad person. Not because he didn’t want eternal life. He walked away because when it came down to it, his money was his real lord — and Jesus just made that undeniable.

I read that and it lands somewhere uncomfortable every time. Because I know that man. I am that man. I’m working on it — but I am still that man.

What Mammon Actually Is

Jesus uses a specific word in Matthew 6 that most translations just render as “money” — but the original word is mammon. And mammon isn’t just money. It’s money as master. The thing you trust for security. The thing you sacrifice for. The thing you quietly organize your life around.

“No one can serve two masters, since either he will hate one and love the other, or he will be devoted to one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money.” — Matthew 6:24 (CSB)

And this isn’t Paul writing to a church. This isn’t a prophet. This is Jesus himself saying it’s impossible. Not difficult. Not unlikely. Impossible. There’s always one that’s actually winning.

The terrifying thing about mammon is that it doesn’t announce itself. The rich young ruler didn’t think he was serving money. He thought he was a righteous man. He’d kept the commandments. He came to Jesus on his knees. But the moment sacrifice was required — the real lord revealed itself.

Sacrifice always exposes your true lord.

My Story With Money

I grew up in a family with money. Not in a way I thought about or was grateful for — it was just the water I swam in. And when I moved out and my parents stopped covering my life, I wasn’t prepared for what I’d do to maintain the feeling of that.

I got into credit card debt. Not for needs. For lifestyle. For image. And if I’m being completely honest — it wasn’t even really about impressing other people. It was about impressing Maddy. The woman who loves me for me — and I was going into debt performing for her anyway. That’s how deep the vanity runs.

What I didn’t realize was that I’d just traded one form of mammon worship for another. Growing up, money meant abundance and I spent freely, never thinking. Then I moved out, got into debt, and money became a consuming obsession — constant budget checking, anxiety, justifying every decision. I even cherry-picked scripture to justify it. Proverbs has a lot to say about financial diligence, and I leaned on those verses hard — using them to make my budget-worship look like faithfulness.

I told myself it was responsibility. It was discipline. It was stewardship.

But I was hoarding. Seeking security in a number. I had just shifted from spending money compulsively to controlling money compulsively — and both are mammon. Both are the same lord wearing different clothes.

Getting Out of Debt Showed Me How Much Power It Had

Last month I paid off my credit card debt. Pulled from savings, went genuinely frugal, cleared it.

And instead of feeling free — I felt how much it had owned me.

That’s when this sermon on the rich young ruler hit different. (Shoutout to Pastor Jordan at Oasis City — consistently some of the most biblically grounded, well-delivered preaching I’ve heard. If you’re in Boise, go.) I realized I had spent years with money as my functional lord while calling myself a Christian. Not loudly. Not obviously. Just quietly, every financial decision running through the filter of what does this do for me, my security, my image, my future.

“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” — Matthew 6:21 (CSB)

I don’t always like what my treasure says about my heart.

The Generous Heart Satan Corrupted

I have always been a generous person. Genuinely. My whole life I’ve been the guy who picks up the tab, gives freely, wants to take care of the people around him. In high school that got exploited badly — friends would order, walk away, assume I’d cover it. And I would. Over and over.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand: God gave me a generous heart. That’s real. That’s from Him. Satan cannot create anything — he can only corrupt what God made. And what he did with my generosity was twist it just enough that it became about image. About feeling needed. About getting something back — even if just an ego hit.

The gift is real. The corruption was subtle. And I’m only now starting to see it clearly.

And it hurt. Getting used by people I genuinely cared about — people I gave freely to, covered for, showed up for — and realizing they were never really there for me, that stings in a way that doesn’t just go away. It made me distrust my own generosity for a while. Made me question whether being this way was even worth it. That’s exactly what Satan wants. He can’t take a good thing God put in you, so he corrupts it just enough that you want to get rid of it yourself. He uses your own gift to wound you into shutting it down.

So now I’m actively trying to ask different questions before I give. Not should I be generous — the answer is always yes. But why am I being generous right now? Who is this actually for? Is this worship or performance?

My friends today fight me for who gets to pay. That’s new. That’s true love in friendship — and honestly it makes my heart so full I can barely explain it. The difference between that and what I grew up with is staggering, and I don’t take it for granted for a single second.

The Tithing Conversation I Kept Avoiding

I don’t tithe. And I’ve had a theological reason ready for years — the tithe is OT law, the NT doesn’t prescribe a percentage, we’re under grace not law. I still think that’s technically accurate.

But I know I’ve been using it as cover.

The NT doesn’t say tithe — it says give sacrificially. And the honest question I kept avoiding was: am I doing that? Not the right percentage. Am I giving in a way that costs me something? That requires trust? That puts God above my financial security?

The answer is still mostly no — and I’m sitting with that.

Recently I gave my entire retirement contribution for the month to our church. Just handed it over. And something shifted in me that all the budget diligence never touched. It felt like worship in a way nothing financial ever had before.

A close friend who tithes talked with me about it recently and I felt genuinely convicted. Not condemned — convicted. There’s a difference. And I think tithing, whatever the exact theology, is at its core an act of saying: God is above this. He is my security. Not the number in my account.

I’m not fully there yet. I’m actively wrestling with it. But I’m closer than I’ve ever been, and I’m done pretending my hesitation is purely theological.

What the Rich Young Ruler Is Actually About

I used to read that story and think it was about wealth — Jesus calling out rich people specifically. But I don’t think that’s it.

Jesus isn’t saying money is evil. He’s saying whatever you won’t surrender is your real lord. For that man it was possessions. For someone else it might be comfort, reputation, or control. The point is the moment of exposure — when Jesus asked him to give it up, the man finally had to see what he’d actually been serving all along.

And Jesus loved him. Looked at him, loved him, and told him the truth anyway. Didn’t chase him. Didn’t soften the ask. Let him walk away with full knowledge of what he was choosing. Because real love doesn’t lie to you about your lords.

I am that man. I’m working on it — but I am still that man. Still walking away grieving, telling myself it’s wisdom or stewardship or responsibility. Still holding tighter and calling it something else.

But I’m actively learning to open my hands. And that’s different than where I was.

And what I’ve found is that every time I do — every time I loosen the grip even a little — God fills that space with something better. Not necessarily more money. More peace. More joy. Deeper relationships. A closeness with Him that the hoarding never produced. The fruits I was actually starving for were never going to come from a savings account. They come from open hands.

Thanks for reading. Appreciate you all.

— Raiden