Part 1 – Earth’s Economy
They tell me gold passed four thousand dollars an ounce last week.
The financial networks lit up like Christmas trees—investors smiling, anchors breathless, everyone announcing, “Buy gold before it’s too late!”
It happens every time the world feels a little shaky: we all run back to the oldest form of security we know—gold.
But there’s something almost comic about it. The same voices that were warning us yesterday now swear they’ve found the one safe investment today. And people start feeding their piggy banks again, one frantic handful of coins at a time, as if heaven itself runs on Wall Street’s ticker.
Then you have crypto.
Digital gold, they call it—wealth you can’t hold, stored in cyberspace, glowing with promise until one tweet, one rumor, one market hiccup makes it vanish like smoke.
You can’t touch it, you can’t smell it, and if you lose the password, it’s gone forever.
That’s our world’s economy: shiny, unstable, temporary.
It promises peace but delivers heartburn.
Every time humanity gets anxious, it stuffs another coin through the slot, hoping the sound of clinking metal will drown out the sound of fear.
And somewhere in the background you can almost hear it—the piggy bank burps.
That tiny echo of spiritual indigestion that says, “I’m full, but I’m still not satisfied.”
Because gold can buy comfort but never contentment.
Crypto can create wealth but not worth.
Even religion can turn into currency—works, rituals, sacraments—if we use it to purchase peace instead of receiving grace.
The book of Hebrews steps right into that confusion and says, “Every priest stands daily at his service… but this Man, after He had offered one sacrifice for sins forever, sat down.”
In other words, heaven doesn’t trade in performance.
Its currency has already been minted in blood.
So while the markets quake and the headlines boast, God whispers something altogether different:
“Stop feeding the pig. I’ve already filled the vault.”
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When the Piggy Bank Burped
The piggy bank always burps when we’ve been feeding it too much of the wrong thing.
That burp is the sound of a soul that’s stuffed but not satisfied.
It’s what happens when human beings—good, well-intentioned, religious human beings—try to fill eternal hunger with temporary currency.
We feed our fears with metal, our guilt with ritual, our anxiety with performance, and then wonder why nothing tastes right.
That’s what religion often does when it loses sight of grace.
It starts printing its own money.
It calls them sacraments, ceremonies, holy orders, and claims each one is another installment on the balance of salvation.
But the writer of Hebrews looks straight through the smokescreen and says:
> “Every priest stands daily ministering and offering time after time the same sacrifices, which can never take away sins.
But He, having offered one sacrifice for sins for all time, sat down at the right hand of God.” (Hebrews 10:11-12)
Do you hear the contrast?
The priests stand because their work is never finished.
Jesus sits because His work will never need to be done again.
That’s the sound of heaven’s economy changing forever.
No more deposits required. No more payments pending.
The account is settled, the debt forgiven, the books closed.
But people still keep feeding the pig.
They feed it gold when they crave control.
They feed it crypto when they crave novelty.
They feed it good works when they crave reassurance.
And each time, the world grows louder with the sound of spiritual indigestion.
Here’s the truth: you can’t buy peace with effort, and you can’t bribe grace with ritual.
The only tender heaven recognizes is the finished work of Christ.
He didn’t make a down payment on your forgiveness; He purchased it outright.
So when life feels uncertain and the markets tremble, remember this:
Faith doesn’t feed the pig—it trusts the Provider.
Grace isn’t earned—it’s received.
And the next time you hear the world burp, you can smile and whisper, “Mine’s already full—Jesus paid it all.”
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Heaven’s Financial Section
If you listen hard enough, you can almost hear the celestial newsroom breaking the story:
> Breaking News from the Heaven Times
Heaven announces system upgrade to handle Final Judgment traffic; grace servers under maintenance until further notice.
Apparently omnipotence has a bandwidth problem.
Cherubim are recalibrating eternity’s algorithms,
and Gabriel’s trying to reboot the cloud before the connection times out.
Poor Jesus — He’s waiting on Musk and Starlink to boost the signal so He can open the Books of Life in real time.
That’s funny, but it’s also revealing.
Because that’s exactly how it sounds when we start to believe heaven needs human help—
when we act as though grace must be processed through our rituals,
or as though the cross still has pending transactions.
Friend, nothing ever buffers in heaven.
The blood doesn’t crash.
The resurrection doesn’t require a firmware update.
The Holy Spirit never drops a call.
When Jesus said “It is finished,” He didn’t mean “stand by for confirmation.”
He meant done.
And that word has never been revised, patched, or rescinded.
The veil tore once; it has never been sewn back together.
The account was reconciled once; it has never slipped back into the red.
The line between heaven and earth has been open ever since.
So if heaven’s system never fails, why do we keep trying to upgrade it?
Why do we imagine that more ceremonies, more efforts, more spiritual spending will somehow make grace run faster?
Maybe because the world has trained us to believe that everything valuable requires maintenance.
But grace doesn’t.
Grace runs on the unchanging power of the cross—no subscription, no update, no renewal needed.
Heaven doesn’t depend on Starlink.
It depends on a Savior.
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The Finished Ledger
There’s a line in Hebrews 10 : 14 that deserves to be underlined, circled, and written across every anxious heart:
> “For by one offering He has perfected forever those who are being sanctified.”
That sentence is heaven’s accounting statement.
It means the books are closed. The debt is cleared. The ledger is balanced.
No audit will ever reopen the case.
The Old-Testament priests had to keep standing because their work was never done.
Every new sunrise meant another lamb, another offering, another reminder that sin still stood between God and His people.
But when Jesus, the Lamb of God, went to the cross, He didn’t leave an unpaid balance.
He didn’t make a down payment on mercy.
He stamped the account with one word in Greek: tetelestai — “Paid in full.”
The moment He said it, the great temple curtain split from top to bottom.
That wasn’t an accident of nature; it was a declaration from heaven.
The dividing wall between guilt and grace collapsed, and the Most Holy Place stood open to anyone willing to walk in under the banner of the blood.
That’s why Hebrews says He sat down.
No priest in the old system ever sat; their work never stopped.
But Christ sat — not from fatigue, but from finality.
He sat because there’s nothing left to do.
That’s the good news:
You don’t owe heaven another coin, another confession, another performance.
Grace isn’t on layaway; it’s prepaid for eternity.
And here’s the wonder of it — once you realize the account is settled, you’re finally free to live generously.
You stop clutching at worth. You stop hoarding approval.
You can spend grace freely because you know you’ll never run out.
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The Overflow
So where does all this take us?
If heaven’s ledger is closed and grace has already over-flowed the margins, then the only thing left for us to do is live out of that abundance. No more scrambling to top off an empty account, no more trying to prove credit-worthiness to a God who already stamped our record paid in full.
Stop feeding the piggy bank of performance. Stop buying the world’s lie that your worth rises and falls with your balance, your job title, or your résumé of good works. You don’t have to make another deposit; you get to live on the dividends of mercy.
That’s why Jesus turned His last command into an invitation, not a transaction:
> “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them … teaching them to observe everything I have commanded you.” (Matthew 28 : 19 – 20)
That’s the new economy of grace. You don’t sell it, trade it, or hoard it — you share it.
Bring ’em. Dunk ’em. Teach ’em. Not to earn favor, but because favor already found you.
When you finally believe that, generosity becomes second nature. Forgiveness flows easier. Worship turns from duty to delight. You stop counting coins and start counting blessings.
The piggy bank burped — and heaven smiled.
Grace spilled over the edges of eternity, and it hasn’t stopped flowing since.
So leave the slot unguarded. Let mercy overflow. And walk out today knowing:
the books are balanced,
the vault is open,
and your name is written in the only account that never closes.
