October 13, 2024 - The Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost
My friends, I speak to you today in the name of one God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen. Please be seated.
Well, good morning, Epiphany. We’re back in the regular rhythm of church services this morning; no pet blessings, no canon or bishop visits, just a regular Sunday morning, and still you show up. I might be led to ask why, why do we show up in this place on such a consistent basis, on gray mornings, and maybe you ask yourself that question every now and then. But I think I know why... in part it’s the music, in part it’s the people, in part it’s the preaching (maybe), in part it’s the eucharist, in part it’s the tradition of it all, in part it’s the brunch... in whole, it’s because you, we, are the church. We’re going to circle around this “why” here this morning as we look at the Gospel of Mark, where a man encounters this Jesus that we’ve been talking about for a few weeks in a row now, and then the man is shocked and goes away grieving. That’s not exactly the response a preacher or teacher hopes to have, but I do wonder if it’s more common than we think.
But first, a quick story. Back in the golden years of 2002 to 2006, when Facebook was just starting up and our cell phones didn’t have internet or video screens, I went to a small, Christian university connected with a small, Wesleyan-holiness denomination just south of Chicago. Olivet Nazarene University had about 2,500 students in total when I went there, and it had two mandatory chapel services every week, closed dorms dividing boys and girls, and rules prohibiting alcohol, earrings, tattoos, and even shorts before 3 pm. Though it was just a bit more restrictive than your average college campus, I really did thrive there, coming out of the shell of an awkward math nerd on an academic scholarship to making friends, going on semesters abroad, and eventually becoming class president senior year. One evening that final year, probably in October or November of 2005, I remember driving off campus in the rain to our local Mexican restaurant, Burrito Loco, with one of my friends. He was somewhat famous on campus for being busted for trying to sneak a girl into our room junior year when we were roommates, and he loved the cheese fries at Burrito Loco. He was/is definitely a larger-than-life character. That night in his large for the time SUV, we were talking about our faith, which wasn’t our usual topic of conversation, I promise.
What I remember now of that 20-year-old conversation between two 20-year-olds was a question of apologetics, or maybe even epistemology, though that might be a stretch: why did my friend believe in Jesus, why was he a Christian, why did he go to church every Sunday? His answer struck me as wrong or misguided even then, 20 years ago, though I know it is an incredibly common one in much of American Christianity in particular: my friend said he believed in Jesus because it was “better to be safe than sorry.” See, my friend was worried about where he was going after he died, he didn’t want to burn in a lake of fire for all eternity, and so, he better believe in Jesus in this life and try to be good, just in case. It was, as the critique of this sort of faith goes, a simple matter of having eternal fire insurance. I still vividly remember him saying, “If I wasn’t going to go to hell otherwise, I would never be a Christian.” I tried to push back a bit with my political science degree in hand, the world needed Christians, you know, social justice and shalom and all that... but he wouldn’t hear it, that night at least. I honestly don’t know if he’s changed his mind since. I do hope that he has found a church like this one.
Now, that’s not a fun travel story as some of my recent sermons have started with, but I was reminded of this friend and this conversation when I read the gospel story this week. Here, in Mark chapter ten, we have the story of a man who has a similar concern, though the idea of eternal fire insurance wasn’t yet a distortion of the Christian faith in the first century; Christianity itself wasn’t exactly a thing quite yet. This man, named the rich young ruler in another gospel, seems to be doing pretty well in his life and in his walk with God. He is labeled as very wealthy in the Gospel of Luke, and he comes to this teacher Jesus and proudly says he has kept all the commandments since his youth. He hasn’t murdered anyone, nor committed adultery, nor stolen, nor lied, nor defrauded anyone, and he honors his parents. His boxes are all checked, he’s living the righteous life, and his faithfulness to the commandments has been rewarded, even Mark writes that “he had many possessions.” Prosperity gospel preachers would have loved this guy; he did all the right things and God had blessed him abundantly; he’s living his best life now.
The man is unsatisfied though, and he asks Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Eternal life, it seems, was another goal for him, another checkbox, another possession that this young man needed, to achieve, to check off, and to obtain for himself. He was trying to be faithful, he was doing his best, he was running his race with confidence, he was a winner, he thought like a warrior, he was successful... what ultimate self-centered goal was left to him but to inherit eternal life?
Jesus, however, (of course), sees through the young man’s motivations, his selfishness and his self-centeredness, and asks him instead for a life of sacrifice. It does say first that “Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said,” and I think that “loved him” part is subtle but pretty important. Jesus knew, though, that this request would be difficult for the man: “Go, sell what you own, give money to the poor, and then come follow me.” The man leaves, shocked and grieving, because this, this unselfishness was too much to ask.
Now, there are probably a dozen sermons that could come out of that paragraph alone, you’ve probably heard some or preached some yourself. Because we live in America in the twenty-first century though, I’m going to doubt that you’ve heard any sermons tell you to sell everything you have and give it to the poor. I’m not preaching that this morning, though some monastics throughout church history certainly would have, because money can make us all so, so self-focused. “Give it away, then come follow me.”
Instead, this morning, I have personally been left wondering what “one thing” Jesus would say we ourselves “lack” in our pursuit of him, in our pursuit of God, in our pursuit of what is actually abundant and eternal life. What “one thing” would Jesus say we lack? I say “we” there because I am certainly not immune to this question, nor is anyone; Abbey and I discussed this passage for an hour or two on our drive to a wedding in Ohio on Friday and I know there are plenty of things that I lack, that keep me from following Jesus as well as I want to. There are plenty of things that I turn to for rest instead of turning to prayer, as an example, screens most often that usually don’t give me the rest I’m looking for, things that don’t actually help me follow Jesus at all, that are mindless distractions. What one thing would Jesus look at you and say, “You’re doing great, and I love you deeply, now do this one thing, let this one thing go, and then come follow me.”
Now this could easily be a sermon that turns into guilt or shame either from my mouth or in your own head, you might have already gone there now, but please don’t! Guilt is never the point. Some preachers would say that if there is one roadblock keeping you from being a really good Christian, then you need to destroy it! But that’s not the point either, I’m not that kind of preacher, and that’s not what Jesus does either, that’s not the point of this passage. Jesus looks at this rich young ruler and loves him, as deeply as Jesus can, and the man is the one that goes away grieving. Jesus never rejects him, he just wants something better for him.
See, there’s a great sense of grace in this passage too, if we take the time to find it. The disciples, as usual, don’t understand Jesus; again, they are perplexed at his words. Jesus says it is “more difficult for the rich to enter the kingdom of God than for a camel to go through the eye of a needle,” and then he also says, “how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God,” for everyone. Who then can be saved? You’re asking too much of this young man, Jesus, you’re asking too much of all of us. As it turns out, no one can be saved, Jesus answers, but not for God; see, for God, all things are possible. It is only with help that we can actually follow, that we can give up those things that might keep us from the life meant for us. And Jesus really wants us to have that abundant life, so he’ll help us along, if we try, if we commit, if we ask. It’s impossible to follow him without him.
Here in the gospel today, we see someone so committed to living the commandments, to achieving the goal, he’s sooo close, but he’s doing so for his own selfish reasons. Jesus calls out that selfishness itself, and says, “Give that part up, man, that motivation to live for yourself alone, the façade that makes you look good on the outside but that is leaving you empty and wanting more. I’ll help you find the abundant, eternal life. You’ll be so much better for it. Just let go and follow me.”
I would argue, and strongly, that the best way to do that today, to give up your “one thing” and to follow Jesus and to let God do the impossible in us, the best way is to be a connected and committed part of your local church. Now, I strongly doubt many of you considered coming this morning simply to stave off eternal damnation, to hold onto any sense of eternal fire insurance. Instead, we believe at the Episcopal Church of the Epiphany that we are formed by being together in loving community, that our selfishness, if we struggle with it, will be worked out of us by being in contact with each other, that our motivations right themselves first by taking the bread and the cup each week, by singing songs of praise to a God far bigger than ourselves, by passing the peace to one another, and by being dismissed with the charge to go and serve the Lord.
I’d ask you this morning that if there is any one thing you lack, as Jesus puts it here, any one thing that may be keeping you from living that abundant life God intends for us (or maybe even two or three things!), that you commit yourself here to this church, that you keep coming to Epiphany on Sunday mornings and then that you stay in loving community throughout the week to work those things out, that you don’t go away grieving, but that you let God use these people and this place to show that, for God, all things are possible. By doing so, you too might inherit abundant life today and every day. Amen.
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