The Root of All Evil

You've heard it said that money is the root of all evil. This actually comes straight from the Bible, but it's a fundamental misreading of the text. The actual verse, found in 1 Timothy 6:10, says this:

"For the love of money is a root of all sorts of evil, and some by longing for it have wandered away from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs."

The operative word there is love.

"Phew," you say, relieved. "I don't love money. I'm not one of those greedy Wall Street types. I mean, I love my house, my new car, and the yearly trip to Disney World with the kids, but that's not the same thing as loving money...is it?"

Perhaps not. I'm not here to excavate the deepest caverns of your heart. When Jesus told his disciples that it would be easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven, his disciples were astonished.

You see, in those days, being rich was seen as a direct sign of God's divine favor. The poor, the lepers — they were the accursed. If a wealthy nobleman couldn't get into heaven, who stood a chance?

It's as relevant a question today as it was then.

Consider Jeffrey Epstein — a man with so much money he could buy his own private island miles from any prying eye. He believed his enormous wealth made him untouchable, and for many years, he was right.

A chilling example of this hubris: he named his plane the Lolita Express — a not-so-subtle nod to the 1955 novel Lolita, a story in which a 37-year-old man becomes obsessed with a twelve-year-old girl to the point of stalking, kidnapping, and subjecting her to all manner of unspeakable abuse.

"What does it profit a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?" — Mark 8:36

Let me be clear: I'm not saying money itself was the cause of Epstein's demise; those fantasies were likely incubating in his mind long before he made his millions. But I do believe money was the key that opened the door from fantasy to reality.

What about the rest of us?

Most of us will never have a private island. But we don't need one — we've got smaller versions of the same thing.

A car is just a tiny island. Something about being insulated in a moving metal bubble makes a person feel untouchable, removed from the rest of the world. People behave differently behind the wheel. You wouldn't flip off a stranger for being in your way at the grocery store, but with a layer of steel between you and someone else, it feels like permission to let that little lizard brain out of its cage — to unleash centuries of caveman fury on anyone who might threaten your place at the center of the universe.

I would know. Sometimes it feels like I live in mine. Driving a highway full of strangers is a character study in human nature — everyone's got somewhere to go, and they need to be there at now o'clock, which means no matter how fast you are going, you are always in the way.

Money itself isn't the problem. Paul wasn't writing to a room full of millionaires when he warned them off the love of it — most of us have to chase it. Groceries. Rent. The kids' shoes. He who does not work, shall not eat didn't come from a man with a private island.

The trouble starts somewhere else. It starts when paying for groceries becomes paying for the perfect life — the beautiful house, the new car, the vacation, the next renovation, the version of yourself that finally feels arrived. Not greed in the cartoon sense. Aspiration. The thing every advertisement in America has been selling you since you were old enough to want.

What we're up against is older than money itself.

"He was a liar from the beginning, and the father of lies." — John 8:44

The times have changed. The lie hasn't.

In the garden, it was eat this fruit and you will be like God. Now it's earn this much and you'll be untouchable. Same offer, different fruit. The serpent has a marketing budget now.

And there it is — the root.

It's not fortune, or fame, or aneurysm-inducing traffic jams. It's the original lie from the garden: the belief that we can be masters of our own destiny.

Money is just a means to an end. In and of itself, it's worthless — the promise it makes is what we're really paying for. A life of abundance, luxury, and absolute freedom: the cursed fruit, plucked from the garden and still being eaten today.

But not by everyone.

Meanwhile, somewhere a fisherman in Uruguay is mending his net before dinner, and he is more arrived than the man with the island ever was. He knows what he needs. He knows it isn't him.