Success makes a terrible god. It demands constant sacrifice yet provides temporary satisfaction. We build impressive external lives—careers advancing, bank accounts growing, social media followers multiplying—while something essential remains undeveloped within us. This imbalance isn’t a modern invention. The ancient prophet Haggai addressed it some 2,500 years ago, speaking to people who had mastered a certain kind of achievement while neglecting their deeper foundations.
“Is it time for you, O ye, to dwell in your cieled houses, and this house lie waste?” (Haggai 1:4, KJV). The returned exiles had constructed comfortable homes with paneled walls—a sign of prosperity and status—while the temple remained rubble. Their priorities were visible in their building projects.
What we build first reveals what we value most.
The people’s external success was real enough. They had homes, livelihoods, and a measure of stability after years of displacement. But Haggai points to a peculiar emptiness accompanying their achievements: “Ye have sown much, and bring in little; ye eat, but ye have not enough; ye drink, but ye are not filled with drink; ye clothe you, but there is none warm; and he that earneth wages earneth wages to put it into a bag with holes” (1:6).
This passage describes the strange poverty that often accompanies misaligned success—the “not enough” feeling that persists despite apparent prosperity. They had created the outward structures of well-being without the internal architecture to support genuine fulfillment.
It’s a condition familiar to our age. We pursue external metrics—promotions, purchases, popularity—then wonder why satisfaction remains elusive. We mistake scaffolding for the building itself.
The prophet’s diagnosis was straightforward: “Consider your ways” (1:5). This wasn’t a call to abandon their houses or careers but to examine the relationship between their external and internal building projects. The temple symbolized their spiritual center, their connection to meaning and purpose beyond material comfort. Its neglected state reflected a deeper neglect.
When we prioritize external success over internal substance, we create lives that look better than they feel.
This imbalance produces tangible consequences. Haggai connects their misaligned priorities with actual hardship: “Therefore the heaven over you is stayed from dew, and the earth is stayed from her fruit. And I called for a drought upon the land” (1:10-11). While we might not interpret modern difficulties as direct divine punishment, there’s wisdom in recognizing how external success without internal substance creates its own kind of drought.
The careers built without ethical foundations eventually collapse. Relationships cultivated for appearance rather than connection ultimately leave us isolated. Knowledge accumulated without wisdom becomes mere information without transformation.
Haggai’s message prompted action: “Then Zerubbabel the son of Shealtiel, and Joshua the son of Josedech, the high priest, with all the remnant of the people, obeyed the voice of the LORD their God” (1:12). They began rebuilding the temple—reconstructing their foundational priorities. The response wasn’t about abandoning their houses but about restoring proper balance.
Yet the work revealed another challenge. Some elders remembered Solomon’s magnificent temple and “wept with a loud voice” (Ezra 3:12) seeing the modest foundation of the new one. External standards of success haunted even their spiritual reconstruction.
To this, Haggai offers remarkable perspective: “The glory of this latter house shall be greater than of the former” (2:9). True substance often lacks the immediate impressiveness of superficial success. The temple being built wouldn’t match the former’s gold and grandeur, but would ultimately serve a greater purpose.
This speaks directly to our modern obsession with measurable outcomes and visible achievements. The most significant developments in our internal landscapes—growth in wisdom, depth of character, capacity for genuine connection—rarely look impressive in early stages. They don’t photograph well for social media. Their value reveals itself gradually, often invisibly.
When we build what matters, the results rarely match our culture’s definition of success.
Haggai’s message culminates with this promise: “From this day will I bless you” (2:19). The turning point wasn’t the temple’s completion but the reordering of priorities—the decision to invest in foundations before facades, substance before success.
The prophet offers one final insight worth considering. In the closing verses, God speaks to Zerubbabel: “I will make thee as a signet: for I have chosen thee” (2:23). Beyond the buildings they constructed lay this deeper reality: through the building process, the builders themselves were being formed into something valuable.
Perhaps that’s the essential point. When we prioritize internal substance over external success, we’re not just creating more meaningful lives—we’re becoming people of substance ourselves. We’re developing the depth of character that no achievement can provide and no failure can remove.
The tension between external success and internal substance remains unresolved in most lives. We continue building paneled houses while neglecting temples. But Haggai’s ancient wisdom offers a way forward: consider your ways, reorder your building projects, invest in foundations that can support something lasting.
After all, what profit is there in constructing an impressive life that you cannot genuinely inhabit?