Sermon — October 13, 2024
The Rev. Greg Johnston
So, I have a confession to make, although you’ve probably realized by now. I am a bit of know-it-all. Whatever the subject, whatever the topic, I have always yearned to be the smartest kid in the class.
I remember one day in seventh-grade biology class when there was a quiz that I was rushing through as fast as I could because I wanted to be the first one to hand it in. And I brought it up to the teacher, and I remember he just looked at me, and he looked at the paper, and he said, “Are you sure you’re done? You’ve got some time. Go check it over and come back.” He knew what was up. I didn’t just want to know it all. I wanted to look like I knew it all. And while he wasn’t going to dock me points for showing off, he was going to send me back to my chair, with that quiz still in my hand, because there were no bonus point for finishing a thirty-minute quiz in ten.
I’m not bitter about it. That would be crazy, right? …But I’m reminded of this story when I think about how Jesus responds when he’s confronted on the road with a question from this rich young man.
Jesus is heading out for the day, and a man runs up to him, and falls down on his knees—this doesn’t often happen to me, thank God—and says, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Mark 10:18) Now, you might think that this is exactly the sort of question that Jesus is there to answer. You might think that religion is about how to get to heaven, and so on, and so you might think that Jesus will have something to say. Jesus is a wise and thoughtful teacher, after all. If there’s something we need to know, some wisdom from on high, surely he can give it to us.
What Jesus says instead is a little strange. “Good Teacher,” the man calls Jesus, and Jesus replies, first: “Why do you call me good?” And then, “You know the commandments” already, he lists them off. They aren’t hard to learn. Murder, adultery, theft, perjury, fraud; dishonoring your parents. You call me “Good Teacher,” Jesus says, but no one is good but God, and I have nothing to teach you but things you already know. There’s no secret knowledge you need; just go do it.
And the man says, “Well yeah, I mean, I’ve done all those things.” But he seems to want something more. And Jesus looks at him, and loves him, and says, “Okay, then… there’s just one thing that you lack: it’s to give up everything you have.” “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor…. Then come, follow me.” (Mark 10:21)
And the man is shocked, and goes away grieving, for he has many possessions. (10:22)
It’s easy to misinterpret these words, in one direction or the other. On the one hand, there’s a long tradition of interpretations that try to explain them away. My favorite example of this is the claim, which some of you may have heard, that there was a gate in the wall of Jerusalem called “The Eye of the Needle.” It was a narrow gate, the story goes, too small for a camel to walk through loaded up with all its goods. But if you unloaded all that baggage off the camel’s back, and if the camel got down on its knees, it could just squeeze through.
Now, this is the kind of thing that preachers crave: the historical tidbit or missing piece of context that makes it all make sense. If this is true, then it gives a different tone to what Jesus says. The wealthy can get into heaven, Jesus would be saying, if they unload themselves of their attachment to their wealth, and get down on their knees, and enter through the gate. (And, conveniently, then you can carry the baggage through and load it back onto the camel and be on your way, unchanged but for a moment of humility.)
There’s just one problem with this illuminating fact: it’s entirely made up. While it would be nice if it were true, there is in fact absolutely no evidence that there ever was such a gate. It’s a neat story, but it’s too neat; it seems almost perfectly designed to let us off the hook, without having to engage with what Jesus really says.
Of course, it’s possible to over-interpret what Jesus says in the other direction, too; you might understand his words as too general a rule. You might, for example, extract from this story the general principle “it’s as impossible for the rich to go to heaven as it is for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle,” and the general commandment, “go, sell what you have, and give the money to the poor.” And if you don’t consider yourself rich, then this can come with a certain kind of satisfaction. I may not have much in this life, you might think, but at least God likes me, unlike those people over there.
But of course, every one of us “has many possessions” in some sense, by comparison with our ancestors, or with other people in other places in the world. Some of us have significant wealth, others don’t, yet almost every one of us has, in her pocket, technology that would astound even the 1990s versions of ourselves, and that’s not to mention things like refrigeration and indoor plumbing that would astound our ancestors. Every one of us is rich, if only relatively so.
But even more than that, the story here matters. Jesus doesn’t deliver these words as universal truths. He tells the disciples, in private, that it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God. But this is a specific case of the truly general rule: “How hard it is to enter the kingdom of God!” (10:24) He doesn’t address a crowd with a speech, “All of you who are wealthy, you must sell what you own and give the money to the poor.” He answers a specific man, when pressed, with a specific invitation.
And the specifics of the story make a difference, for me. The man comes running up to Jesus, wanting to be the best. It’s a public question: He wants to be seen handing in his quiz. He asks, “Good Teacher, what must I do?” And Jesus deflects. No one’s good, but here’s what God has given you to do. “Oh yeah yeah yeah!” the man seems to say, I know that no one’s good, but I’m good. I’ve done all those things you said! What else do I have to do? And Jesus looks at him, and loves him, and asks him to give up what he’s holding onto most dearly.
Peter and the disciples misunderstand. “But Jesus,” they say, “we’ve left everything we have.” (10:28) Are we good? At least we’re better than him, right? As usual, they’re missing the point. There’s nothing they can do, no action they can take, that can achieve the kind of self-justification they’re looking for. Whether it’s the rich young man who keeps all the commandments or the poor old disciples who’ve given up everything to follow Jesus, there is nothing they can do, nothing any of us can do, to become worthy of God’s love.
And yet God loves us, and God loves them—God loves you—nevertheless.
Every one of us, in one way or another, has something in common with that man out on the road: “Yeah, yeah! I’ve done everything right! Now would you validate me please? In front of everyone?” Every one of us is in some way like those disciples later on, who say, “Okay, Jesus, but—We’re not like that other guy, right? We’re doing things right?” I’m rich, but I’m not that rich? Or, thank God, for once, I’m poor? Some of you might even be like me, wanting to be the one to hand in the quiz first, because that must mean we’re worth something, right?
And Jesus looks at us, and loves us, and challenges us to give that up.
“For we do not have,” as the Letter to the Hebrews writes, “a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin.” We have a Savior who comes down among us, and is like us. We have a God who knows what it is to be us, who can empathize with our every weakness and lend us another ounce of strength, who walks alongside us so that we can “approach the throne of grace with boldness,” so that we may “receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” (Hebrews 4:15-16)