sermon preached
at Church of the Good Shepherd, Federal Way, WA
by the
Rev. Josh Hosler, Rector
The
Twenty-First Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 23B, October 14, 2018
Last
week we heard Jesus’ strong words about divorce. And I said that I wished I
could preach about a dozen sermons, and that if I missed anything important, or
if anyone wished I had gone somewhere else with it, I hoped for further
conversation. I’m really glad I said this, because honestly, last week I
committed an act of homiletical malpractice: I didn’t adequately address the
most challenging piece of Scripture we heard.
As I
stepped into the pulpit, I still didn’t really like my opening paragraphs, but
I hadn’t put my finger on why. In reality, I had made excuses all week for not
spending more time with my sermon. Had I engaged in some amount of silence last
week, God might have shown me that I oversimplified when I referred to divorce
as sinful in general. I had said nothing about divorces that happen, for
instance, because of abuse. And in my male privilege, I neglected to mention
the fact that for centuries, male preachers have used Jesus’ words to lay guilt
trips on women who won’t remain subservient to mean and violent men.
So
let me be clear, first of all: to leave an abuser is not sinful. It is a
painful and responsible choice. The situation itself is sinful in that it falls
short of how God would have us love one another … but it is by no means
guilt-incurring. On the contrary! When you leave someone who is hurting you,
God leaves with you.
You
know, most of the time I don’t even refer to specific behaviors as “sins” or
“not-sins.” I don’t think that’s a helpful dichotomy. Rather, “sin” is a state
of being, a situation we find ourselves in when our actions prevent us from
living in loving relationship with our neighbors. This is precisely what Jesus
rescues us from, so that we can live in love again.
But
sometimes we don’t even know we need to be rescued, as is the case with the man
who approaches Jesus in today’s gospel reading. His problem is not that he is
abusive or malevolent: it is that he is overconfident. He thinks he’s really
winning at this life thing. In his mind there’s one thing left: eternal life,
or, as Jesus calls it, the Kingdom of God. He wants to achieve his salvation
and then feel secure in having obtained it.
And there’s
no reason to doubt his sincerity. He is a purpose-driven believer who has his
best life now. This is his time. All he needs is that one key to perfection—which
Jesus must certainly be able to provide for him.
“Good
teacher,” he begins, kneeling in reverence before the master rabbi, “what must
I do to inherit eternal life?”
Now,
for just a moment, let’s pause the recording. I want to tell a very brief story
of my own. Early in our marriage, Christy and I wanted to buy a house, but we
lacked the savings to make a down payment. And then, at just the right moment, my
grandmother died and left us $12,000. And we had what we needed.
What
did I have to do to inherit that down payment?
Yeah,
that’s what I thought. I’m starting to think that the man might be missing the
point. Furthermore, it’s not like we actually needed a house; we just wanted
one. Was God in that process? I refuse to claim certainty.
OK,
hit the play button again. Jesus answers the man’s question with a question:
“Why do you call me good?” It’s like, hey, buddy, stop for a moment and wonder.
What makes me good? What makes you
good? What’s the source of all this goodness?
Yet
the man doesn’t stop to wonder; he plows onward, eager to share that he has
perfected the art of following the law! He has never done anything wrong—and
maybe he’s not just kidding himself. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt
and assume that he is, indeed, a very earnest, very good man, not like the
people Amos excoriates, the people who are intentionally trampling the poor.
This man is one of the good rich
people. They do exist … right?
I
don’t think it occurred to this man once that he might go away from Jesus grieving.
Indeed, I think that his privileged position taught him that you can achieve
anything you put your mind to.
Jesus
replies: “You lack one thing: sell what you own, and give the money to the
poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”
I’m
going to pause the recording again and tell you about a dream I once had. I was
with a group of people under a gigantic, permeable dome. We all knew that beyond
the dome was heaven. We watched as a man and a woman, a married couple,
pondered this fact. Then the woman suddenly took off into the air and flew,
shooting up joyfully and puncturing the dome, which sealed again behind her.
Her husband stood on the ground and watched. And he turned away, grieving,
because he was too scared to follow her.
Meanwhile
the rest of us were eager to fly after her, and we knew that we could. But
there was just one thing: we had in our midst a gigantic machine of some kind,
and we couldn’t imagine leaving it behind. So we tried to lift the machine and
fly with it beyond the dome. But even with all of us working together, we
couldn’t lift it more than a couple inches off the ground. So we resigned
ourselves to staying down below, because we weren’t going anywhere without our
machine.
Both
in Jesus’ time and today, it’s the same situation: we are addicted to our
possessions. We might say and believe that our possessions aren’t what counts,
but what if we were given a distinct opportunity to put our money where our
mouths are?
That’s
what happens to this man in Jesus’ presence. For all his earnest and
self-confident kindliness, he is called up short. In the Kingdom of God, having
wealth holds us back. Period.
We all
want to “get it right,” just like this rich man did. What if we can’t get it
right?
What
if we cannot help ourselves, but instead must become helpless? What if we
cannot receive unless we are first empty?
What
if even a good, steady job that benefits the world can’t get us closer to God,
but unemployment can?
What
if our generosity can’t earn us points in “the good place,” but our poverty
blesses us?
What
if our carefully managed plans for a safe life just lull us into a false sense
of security? What if being in danger is actually better for our spiritual
growth?
What
if the woman who leaves an abusive man and steps out into uncertainty is
surrounded by angels, while the couple who have a good, untroubled marriage for
decades are in danger of losing their souls?
What
if such a realization drives us into a form of grief that is actually the first
step toward benefiting from our salvation?
See,
here’s the thing: Jesus makes clear in the gospels that God sides with the
unemployed, the homeless, the hungry, the lonely, and the abused … over against
the rest of us. God loves us all, to be sure, but God doesn’t love our
possessions, or our security, or our confidence. “Believe in yourself” is not
the gospel and often runs contrary to it. When things are going well for us, we
are so easily led into the false belief that we are in control. It’s not until we come to understand ourselves
as poverty-stricken—voluntarily or otherwise—that we can begin to receive God’s
love.
I’m
telling you this with great trepidation. I walk away from this gospel passage
grieving, because I have many possessions. And I wonder what it would take for
me to lose all faith in their saving power.
Oh,
the word of God is indeed “living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword,
piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow”! God’s judgment
of the folly of our lives is real, and it will cause us to grieve.
Jesus’
disciples are shocked. It’s as if, for one fleeting moment, they actually understand
the gospel. When we talk about the baptized life, we’re talking about an
alternative lifestyle, a lifestyle that stands in stark contrast to that of,
for instance, American culture, because it is both totally free and costs us
everything.
This
week I’ve been reading The Cost of
Discipleship by Lutheran pastor and Nazi resister Dietrich Bonhoeffer. He writes
about Levi the tax collector, a man with many possessions who did indeed follow
Jesus:
At the call, Levi leaves
all that he has … not because he thinks that he might be doing something
worthwhile, but simply for the sake of the call … The disciple simply burns his
boats and goes ahead … The disciple is dragged out of his relative security
into a life of absolute insecurity (that is, in truth, into the absolute
security and safety of the fellowship of Jesus).[1]
You
may now be saying, “Well, it’s not like it makes sense for all of us to sell
everything we have”! I’m not saying that. But what if we all took just one step
toward beginning to understand that we don’t actually own anything—that we have
no right to keep any particular possession?
What
if we practiced giving ourselves away?
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