I will be receiving the copyedited version of my book A Year of Faith and Philosophy back from my editor in a couple of weeks–copyediting is an important step, since it means that the content of your book has passed editorial muster. The copyeditor is simply the grammar and punctuation Nazi who doesn’t care about the content at all. 
Since I’ve been doing this for a while and serve as the grammar and punctuation Nazi for my students all the time, it will be embarrassing if there are lots of grammatical and punctuation mistakes that need to be corrected. My editor also sent me the cover design for my book on Friday–things are moving along!
Today’s gospel reading is a well-known and striking story–here’s what I wrote about in in my forthcoming book.
The Proper 23 Year B gospel is a familiar story in which Jesus once again makes clear that the cost of following him is far greater than many might be willing to pay. A wealthy young man approaches Jesus and asks, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” Their ensuing conversation reveals that following Jesus is more than an inconvenience—it requires everything.
“Sorry for the inconvenience” has over the years become the “go to” comment in student to professor emails when the communication contains information that the student doesn’t want to take responsibility for. “I will be missing the two classes before Thanksgiving because my plane ticket home for the holiday is on Sunday. Sorry for the inconvenience.” “I’m going to need an extension on the paper due Friday because I have another paper due that day. Sorry for the inconvenience.” They invariably discover that the inconvenience is theirs, not mine.
Human beings do not like being inconvenienced. Although we might not admit it, we love “convenience stores” and have made them a ubiquitous part of the American landscape, simply because they are “convenient.” All of which makes Jesus’ conversation with the wealthy young man problematic. In response to the man’s question about inheriting eternal life, Jesus answers that the young man knows very well what to do—he should keep the commandments, listing a few for the guy just in case he had forgotten them. In Jesus’ Jewish culture, right relationship with God requires obedience to the commandments and rules, something that although inconvenient is doable for a committed person.
But the conversation takes a deeper turn when the young man replies, “Teacher, I have kept all these from my youth.” He’s not looking for general affirmation from Jesus; he’s already past the point of thinking that simply following the rules is good enough, or he wouldn’t have asked in the first place. The young man is looking for more. Jesus answers, “Go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” We also all know the end of the story—“He was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions.” For the wealthy young man this is far more than inconvenient. It is impossible.
What precedes Jesus’ shocking challenge is very interesting. Mark says that “Jesus, looking at him, loved him.” This is a man who wants more, Jesus knows it, and Jesus loves him for it. But central to the gospel message is a disturbing truth—the thing that you cannot do will be the thing that is required. And it will be something different for each of us. This story isn’t primarily about the incompatibility of wealth and following Jesus. It’s a story about being called to come and die. The God of love is not a cure for anything. The God of love is the greatest dispenser of inconvenience and worse. “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword,” and this is a sword that cuts deepest in those who are the most obsessed with knowing God.
The gospels contain “hard sayings” that run roughshod over our desire that our dealings with what is greater than us be similar to a convenience store transaction. “What do I need to do in order for X to happen, in order for Y not to happen, in order for Z to get a break?” are the sorts of questions we so often want answered, but they are always the wrong sort of question when directed toward the transcendent.
I once heard the poet Michael Dennis Browne speak of an insight that unexpectedly came to him as he grieved the tragic death of his younger sister, a woman for whom family and friends had gone hoarse with their prayers and petitions for healing. And she died anyways. Browne said, “It came to me that this is not a God who intervenes, but one who indwells.” That changes everything. The inconvenience of trying to believe in a God who never calls, writes, or tweets is transformed into the challenge of being God in the world.
For reflection: Which of Jesus’ many difficult sayings in the gospels do you find most challenging? What do you do when confronted by it?
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