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I've got
a Bible story in one hand and a personal story in the other.
I am tempted to let you choose hands, thereby determining
the order in which I tell them. But I will not yield to that
temptation. Meaning, I'll pick. You get the Bible story first.
The rich
young ruler comes to Jesus. Actually, it is Mark, not Luke,
who first calls him "rich." It is Matthew (and then,
only by inference) who calls him "young." But it
is Luke who tacks on the title "ruler." Ruler of
what? More likely Temple than state (making him something
of a holy ruler ... if you'll pardon a very bad pun).
"Good
teacher," he says to Jesus, "what shall I do to
inherit eternal life?" And following a momentary debate
on whether Jesus deserves the term "good" ...
"I don't," says Jesus (leading me to wonder, "If
not you, who?") ... Jesus says: "There are commandments
against which to check your fitness for the Kingdom. Let's
run through an abbreviated list."
So far,
this guy is batting a thousand. "I have kept them all,"
he says. Then he adds, "From my youth." Which is
doubly impressive. Many of you would measure up pretty well
on that list ... or any list ... if (and this is a mighty
big "if") we were to exempt your youth from scrutiny
and allow "your youth" to be whatever you say it
was. Indeed, the primary reason most of us worry about today's
youth is not because we trust too little, but because we remember
too well.
But this
guy is the original "Mr. Clean." His record is not
only spotless, but sparkling. The one thing that puzzles me
here ... I mean, the only thing that puzzles me ... is why
he (of all people) should have any uncertainty about eternal
life. I mean, even Jesus has to be impressed.
"There
is one thing," Jesus says. "Your stuff. Sell it
all, today. Give the proceeds away." And the young man's
face fell (and great was the "thud" of it). Because,
you see, he was very rich.
That's
the Bible story. Now for the personal story. Last winter I
went back to school for a while. And one of my classes was
an advanced practicum in preaching called "Preaching
New Testament Ethics." This was not a continuing education
class. This was a seminary class. Meaning that I was outnumbered
by bona fide students, forty to one. Which is why I pretty
much sat in the back and kept my mouth shut. After all, they
were paying through the nose to be there. I was simply along
for the ride.
It was
about 3:30 on a Tuesday that she stood up to preach. Which
means that she started out with a lot of obstacles to overcome.
She was preaching in a classroom ... and classrooms do not
look like sanctuaries. And she was preaching on a Tuesday
... and Tuesdays do not feel like Sundays. What's more, 3:30
is nap time ... especially for students who do not go to bed
until 2:00 in the morning. She was a student. Did I mention
that? A green-as-grass, wet-behind-the-ears, "I wore
a long skirt so you can't see my knees knocking" student.
She was preaching to 39 other students (holding ballpoint
pens) ... two faculty members (holding red pencils) ... and
me (who was, at that moment, holding nothing ... making me
the least intimidating person in the room).
Her sermon
was "sweet" ... which, as a young female, was probably
the last way she would ever want to hear it described. And
short. Maybe if she'd lengthened it, some of the syrup would
have rolled off it. What she described ... ever so sweetly
... was poverty. Making reference to several texts (including
this one), she talked about the oppressive burdens of wealth
and how desirable it would be to unload them. She talked about
how guilty she felt because, even as a "humble seminary
student" (she really said that), she still had a "few
things" in a world where many had "no things."
Then, in her one extended illustration, she talked about her
recent return from a two-week trip to Haiti. She described,
in some detail, the final worship service she attended, noting
that the Christians of Haiti sang and praised for over two
hours, with a joy on their faces that struck her as being
greater than the joy she was feeling in her heart. Her interpretation
being: "It is easier to be happy with nothing than it
is with something."
So upon
returning to Duke ... which costs about thirty grand a year,
making it one of the faster ways of going from something to
nothing that I know ... .she began to cull her closet, figuring
that one immediate way to obey the gospel and gladden her
heart was by thinning her wardrobe. Which, at that moment,
was as close as she could get to "selling all she had."
Her story
was moving. And touching. Leading to a critique from her classmates
that was uncommonly supporting. They, too, viewed themselves
as numbered with the poor. And they perceived that, within
the span of a year or two, they would be preaching to congregations
who are numbered with the rich. They further assumed that
people in those congregations ... the people to whom they
would be preaching ... were equally unhappy in their material
prosperity. Meaning that it would become their job, upon occupying
those pulpits, to diagnose the problem and offer appropriate
antidotes ... which could range all the way from "sell
all you have" to "start culling your closets."
This led
to a more generalized discussion, with each seminarian trying
to out-humble the next. It also led me (as the pastor of a
well-heeled church in the second wealthiest county in America)
to feel moderately guilty about the antique table that was,
even at that moment, sitting in my van.
But all
of this changed, quite dramatically, when a student who had
heretofore remained silent, timidly entered the discussion:
I hear
what you all are saying. And I know, because I read the
same gospel you do, that there is corrupting power in wealth.
But, as a child of Eastern Carolina, I grew up poor. As
a student here on a combination of loans and work study,
I am poor. As the pastor of a church that can barely keep
its doors open (let alone pay my salary), I serve the poor.
And I am here to tell you that, for all the wonderful lessons
it may occasionally teach, poverty sucks.
You could
have heard a pin drop in the room. Because he, too, had preached
a sermon that was moving ... touching ... and incredibly short,
though far from sweet. Suddenly we were forced to pit the
truth that the gospel was telling against the truth that he
(and the sum total of his life experience) was telling. "Sell
all you have" versus "Poverty sucks."
I have
got to interrupt myself for a moment, just long enough to
tell you that I really wanted to soften the language he used,
the better to avoid offending you. But had I done so, you
would have never felt the moment as I felt the moment. Or
as everybody else in the room felt the moment.
Needless
to say, the seminarians heard his sermon ... and suddenly
it became the focus of the hour. One thing was clear to me.
In terms of raw dollars available (in his childhood ... in
his church ... in his checkbook), he had an insider's knowledge
of poverty. It was less clear that anyone else did. Including
yours truly. Most of us find it easy to romanticize about
poverty when we have a few shekels in our pockets. But honesty
compels me to agree with the person who first said: "I've
been rich and I've been poor. Trust me, rich is better."
That's because honesty also compels me to tell you that I
am rich. Hopefully, not filthy rich ... as in unclean before
God, shady in the eyes of the law, or dirty in the eyes of
the neighbor. But how do I know? How does anybody know?
Everything
is relative, of course. Compared to many of you, I am a man
of extremely modest means. Compared, however, to the citizens
of most third world nations (and all but a handful of my clergy
colleagues), I have done rather well. Nothing in my early
upbringing ... or in my vocational preparing ... ever prepared
me for the life I am presently leading. Which explains why
I can be happy in it, without taking it terribly seriously.
I never expected any of this. And things that come by surprise
(even if you work darn hard for them) tend to be seen as gifts
rather than entitlements. Meaning that the hands in which
I hold my treasures tend to be loose rather than clutching
... grateful rather than condescending.
Do I ever
feel guilty? Sometimes. But not often. When Josef Cervenak
was here from the Czech Republic, I felt a little guilty.
Briefly. Not when I drove him around Birmingham. There are
beautiful sections of the Czech Republic. Not when I took
him to stay in Gary and Margaret Valade's gatehouse. There
are lovely homes ... even castles ... in the Czech Republic.
Not when I showed him around our church. There are churches
in Prague (alas, mostly serving as concert halls) that would
render ours "plain and nondescript" by comparison.
The only time I felt guilty was when I took Josef home for
Sunday dinner. For he and I are both Methodist preachers.
As the General Superintendent of Methodist work for two entire
nations (Czech and Slovakia), his authority exceeds mine and
his title outranks mine. Yet I knew that walking through my
front door would be akin, for him, to entering a different
world. Not a better world. Not necessarily a happier world.
Certainly not a God-kissed or heaven-blessed world. Just a
different world. But, still, I felt guilty.
But back
to my two stories. First, the gospel story. Focus on a pair
of questions.
Are
the poor happier?
Sometimes,
I suppose. Certainly monks (and others who take the vow
of poverty) would suggest there is a certain happiness
that follows renunciation. It is important to note, however,
that such vows are taken voluntarily ... meaning that
neither circumstances nor oppressors force poverty on
such persons. I also find it interesting to note that
Kathleen Norris, who spends part of each year living among
the Benedictines, reveals that things like jealousy and
possessiveness exist, even in monasteries.
Must
everybody give up everything to inherit eternal life?
I
don't think so. Although I don't want to let myself off
the hook too quickly, given what Jesus says next about
"rich men entering the Kingdom about as often as
camels are threaded through needles' eyes." I don't
rightly know if riches will hurt your chances. I doubt
that riches will help your chances. And riches won't count
for a hill of beans, once you get to that throne (symbolically
speaking) where judgment is rendered, though nothing is
totaled ... meaning that nobody is going to add up your
T-bills or your transgressions (praise the Lord).
You've
heard, of course, about the man who approached heaven
with a brick of gold bullion in each hand and demanded
he be allowed to carry them in. Three times his request
was denied. Four times he restated his case. "I've
lived a moral life ... a spiritual life ... a disciplined,
discipled and dedicated life. If an exception ought to
be made for anyone, it ought to be made for me."
Finally, his case was carried to Peter who agreed it had
merit. So the man met Peter at the gate, bricks of gold
in each hand. Whereupon Peter looked at the gold ... looked
at the man ... threw his arms around him and said: "Welcome
to heaven. How thoughtful of you to bring us pavement."
What,
then, is the story of the rich young ruler about? You know
the answer as well as I do. It's not about money as a possession.
It's about money as a disease. Jesus is a healer, don't you
see. And, as a healer, you have to let the disease shape the
cure. Healers have to ask disease-related questions.
How
long has it been?
How
deep has it gone?
How
much damage has it already done?
Only then
will the healer know how radical an intervention needs to
be made.
We don't
have the whole story here. But if we did, I think we would
see what Jesus saw. We would see that this man was pretty
diseased. We would see that he'd gone from rich ... .way beyond
"filthy rich" ... all the way to "sickeningly
rich." But Jesus said, in effect: "You're lucky.
There's still time. We can do some cutting. More to the point,
you can do some cutting." Whereupon the man said (to
no one in particular): "I think this is one of those
cases where the cure is worse than the disease." Whereupon
he left. People do that, you know. They walk away from treatment.
And no doctor can stop them. Not even a doctor of divinity.
But back
to my other story. I mean the one about the preaching class
and the girl who figured that if she just sold it all ...
surrendered it all ... got rid of it all ... and told all
the "fat cat pew sitters" within earshot to do the
same ... everybody would be as joyous and happy as the hand-clapping
friends of Jesus she had witnessed (and envied) in Haiti.
I went
up to her after class. I thanked her for her sermon. I specifically
thanked her for her sincerity and her passion. Concerning
sincerity and passion, I said: "You know, you can't teach
those things. You have `em. So keep preaching `em. You're
gonna do fine."
Then I
told her who I was. More importantly, I told her who you were.
I described your nature. "Wonderful," I said. I
also described your assets. "Considerable," I said.
Then I added:
I could
fly you to Michigan and let you preach to my people some
Sunday. You could preach the same sermon you preached today.
And because you are so sincere ... so warm ... so full of
promise ... my people would receive you gladly. Some might
even suggest that I double your honorarium. And a few would
actually say, "My, wasn't she sweet," which (all
things considered) might be the cruelest cut of all.
Then I
continued:
If,
and when, you write a sermon telling my people that, if
they truly want to follow Jesus, there are other things
they can do with their assets than simply box them up and
set them out by the curb, let me know. I'll invite you to
come and preach it.
Unfortunately,
I haven't heard from her. Nor do I expect to.
*
* * * *
P.S. After
35 years, I no longer feel any need to defend the legitimacy
of my call to ministry. I am where I am supposed to be. But,
from time to time, I have felt a secondary call to do something
else ... related, but different. I have felt called to be
a philanthropist. I am serious. I'd be a wonderful addition
at the Kresge Foundation. I could do the work. I would perform
it seriously ... compassionately ... but most professionally.
Giving away money, I mean.
In reality,
I have never had all that much ... although I think Kris and
I have done honorably and ethically with whatever we've had.
But it
never occurred to me until that night in Durham ... after
telling that young seminarian about the "money sermon"
I wished she'd preached ... that maybe I had discovered the
reason why God (in His infinite wisdom) had placed me here.
Not just to give away my money. But to help you give away
yours ... thus saving both our souls.
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