This is a long, provocative passage, and there are many sermons and many different directions that could come out of it. But it's almost stewardship season, so I thought I'd give the one that has to do with money. Now, if you've suddenly remembered an urgent appointment, or thought you'd see if they need help in the nursery, I'll understand. But I hope you'll stay!
Jesus was setting out on a journey when a man approached him. Unlike some of the Pharisees who had just questioned him, this man was in earnest. He ran to Jesus and knelt before him: he humbly addressed him as "Good Teacher." We learn that he had kept the commandments from his youth...or at least thought he had and Jesus didn't contradict him. He hadn't committed murder or adultery; he did not steal or defraud or bear false witness; he honored his father and mother. It says that Jesus loved him. And that he had many possessions.
Jesus told the man he lacked one thing to follow him: to sell what he owned, and give the money to the poor. When the man heard this he was shocked. He went away grieving; another translation says his face fell, and he went away sad. We don't know exactly what he found shocking but we can imagine. Certainly it was shocking that a religious teacher would bring up such a wordly, crude and impolite subject as his possessions. Didn't the good teacher know that you're not supposed to ask people about their money or their stuff, let alone tell them what to do with it? And didn't Jesus know that people with means were good for the movement, that benefactors could support traveling evangelists? That rich men could build synagogues and support scholars. So he was shocked. But in his shock he didn't dismiss Jesus. He didn't roll his eyes or shake his head at this crazy charlatan. He didn't argue or even disagree. He didn't get angry or tell Jesus to go jump in the lake.
He became sad. He went away grieving. Those words of Jesus touched a nerve. Perhaps, in that, he saw his life for what it was: upstanding, beyond obvious reproach, outwardly successful, but actually, quietly, desperate. Maybe he was lonely and knew that his friends hung around only because of his wealth and his standing in the community. Perhaps it was suddenly clear to him that his stuff, his house and all that was in it, was his only comfort in life. Perhaps he couldn't even imagine who he would be without the clothes and servants and food and deference befitting a man of wealth. Maybe giving up his possessions would mean leaving family. Or perhaps he knew that if he sold his household things he would be exposed for who he was: not a rich man, but a man in debt. A man who would have creditors lined up first, pushing the poor out of the way. Whatever it was, he couldn't give up those possessions. But it made him sad, and he went away grieving.
In our reading from the letter to the Hebrews it says that the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing until it divides soul from spirit, joints from marrow; it is able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And before God no creature is hidden, but all are naked and laid bare to the eyes of the one to whom we must render an account.
When the Word of God came to this man in the words of Jesus, it's no accident that it came in the form of a financial proposition. For most people, there's nothing like a pointed, unduckable, personal query about our money or possessions to make us feel judged in the thoughts and intentions of our hearts, or to make us feel that we're facing a two-edged sword, ready to split our joints from their marrow. Grief, sadness, guilt, unseemly pride or pleasure, envy, regret, anxiety, anger, loneliness and fear: these are the emotions most likely to surface when we take an honest clear-eyed look at our money and our stuff. And money is a touchy subject not only for those with too many possessions or too few: it's a sensitive one for nearly everyone along the economic spectrum.
There are many variations on the theme:
Bank balances and "lifestyles" give us a sense of who we are. Billions of dollars are spent each year to convince us that our sneakers and jeans, our cars, furniture, kitchens, and make-up, our children's schools and vacation spots are a reflection of our identity and our worth. We may say we know better—that we're not materialistic—but an honest assessment of our closets or electronic gadgets may indicate otherwise.
How we spend and earn money is also an expression of our values, especially for those of us with career choice and discretionary income. An accurate account of our spending may show quite a gap between what we profess and how we live. We may say that sharing with the poor is more important than fancy clothes, but department store bills and that line for charitable giving on Schedule A, Form 1040 may tell a different story. Or perhaps we claim that family is the most important thing in our life, but don't know how to get out of that demanding job that takes us away from them. Or maybe we look at our conEd bill or gas station receipts, and realize how significant our personal contribution to global warming is.
Or maybe we wake up at 4 a.m., thinking of our credit card debt or unsustainable mortgage, feeling fearful and ashamed. Knowing that millions of other Americans are suffering—in that very moment—from credit card panic insomnia doesn't necessarily help.
Or there's the problem of not earning enough by any measure, of having to worry about the grocery bill at the end of the month. From the cradle we're taught that our incomes and jobs reflect our worth. Being underpaid or losing a job can be emotionally devastating, far beyond the practical problems of such a loss.
Or as we age, begin to face our mortality, and look at our retirement accounts—or lack of them—fear of the future and regret for the past may surface. That crazy scheme of Uncle Bill's in 1987 sounded like a good investment. Who knew about compound interest at 25?
And finally, in a capitalist system with a weak safety net, we all fear falling, unless, perhaps, we're at the very top. So that fear leads to more grasping and spending, more guilt and anxiety. The subject of money causes more turmoil and pain for some than others. Some of us are in deeper denial; some more frugal, some more fortunate. Some of us even tithe, but no one is totally clean. If you want to see human brokenness or sin, if you want to see sin and brokenness in the world around us, follow the money.
Well, now that I've totally depressed you and myself, where am I going? In the book Your Money or Your Life, Vicki Robbins and Joe Dominguez outline a program to understand and transform your relationship with money. They instruct you to make an inventory of your financial past, and to track and scrutinize every penny that goes in and out of your life. They know how that feels, so they suggest a mantra: no shame, no blame. When you suddenly realize what you've paid in credit card interest this year: no shame, no blame. When you discover how much you spent on lattes and take out this month: no shame, no blame. When you realize what you've lost in interest over the past decade, or how little you've given to others: no shame, no blame. It's an excellent mantra: a kind of cognitive therapy, and it's helpful as far as it goes. Thankfully, our Bible and our faith go even further.
Mark says that when Jesus told the man to sell what he owned, he was looking at him and loved him. Jesus was the Son of God—he knew the man had many possessions, he knew all about his stuff and the secrets they held. But he loved him. And after the writer of Hebrews tells us that the Word of God is going to tear us from limb to limb and lay us bare before our maker, he or she has good news. That in Christ we do not have a high priest unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tested as we are; a high priest that allows us to approach the throne of grace with boldness, to receive mercy and find grace to help in need.
God knows everything about our money and our stuff. God counts every hair on our head and keeps track of every penny that goes in and out of our life. God can do the math, and God still loves us. Christ sympathizes with our weakness. We can dare to approach God with boldness. And God does more: in this love, God, in Christ, calls us to repent. It's not enough to simply recognize that we have a messed up relationship with our money and our stuff. Christ calls us to a more faithful life, a life of discipleship with our money as well our time and our heart. A life where our sense of identity and worth is uncoupled from our stuff. A life where our use of money exhibits love of God and neighbor and self. A life where we may have to sell some of our possessions and give the money to the poor, but a life where we live into our salvation.
This repentance requires different things of different people. For very few does it mean selling everything, for even fewer leaving home and family. But it may mean giving more money to those in need, or giving money to fight poverty. It may mean leaving one job for another that pays less, or it may mean organizing with our co-workers for a living wage and health benefits. It may mean taking care of ourselves by paying off debt or saving. It may mean living frugally to be more generous with our kin. It may mean giving more money to the church—not necessarily, but maybe! But whatever our call, it is a journey, a journey of three steps forward and two steps back. A journey where we need the support of others, a journey which requires us to look honestly at our lives—confident that in the grace of love of our Lord Jesus Christ we can face anything that we find there.
Like the story of the prodigal son, where we are left with the oldest son standing outside of the party and wondering whether to go in, this story is unfinished. Mark tells us the man went away grieving, but leaves open the possibility that he returned at some point. And if we turn from Jesus today or tomorrow, if we refuse his call to follow, even if we tell him to go jump in the lake and we buy that new DVD player we didn't need, Christ is ready to welcome us back. And it is not only for our sake that he calls us to repent. In this world of global warming, when billions are still hungry and nations go to war for cheap oil, we who are rich Christians, especially, need to transform our relationship to money. We need to change our getting and spending, so that we can leave enough for others and for future generations. We need to live in a more Christlike way, a way that may mean fewer luxuries for us, but justice for others. A way that brings loss, but also blessing—blessings that come from a life following in the footsteps of the living Christ, our savior and redeemer.
[This sermon also relies on the books The Overspent American by Juliet B. Schor (New York: Harper Perennial, 1998) and Your Money or Your Life by Joe Dominguez and Vicki Robin (New York: Penguin Books, 1992).]