“Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
A little over nine years ago, while I was working as the Canon Pastor at the Cathedral in Boise, Idaho, Andrea and I had the Bishop, John Thornton, and his wife Jan over for dinner. During dinner, Bishop Thornton asked Andrea and I whether we would be interested in moving to Sun Valley. The job of rector at St. Thomas had come open, and the Bishop wanted to know if I would be interested in applying for that job.
Andrea and I didn’t need to consult together; our answer was immediate and unanimous. We looked at the Bishop and said no. In my mind, Sun Valley was a resort community full of these profoundly wealthy people, and we didn’t know if that would be a community in which we would want to raise our children; a culture where profound wealth was all around, where money just flowed. Frankly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be the pet chaplain to the profoundly wealthy, you know, getting called out to bless their new yacht or whatever. So from my position of ignorance and prejudice, I said no.
Fortunately, Bishop Thornton requested that we reconsider. He said he thought it would be a good fit. He knew us, he knew this community in Sun Valley, and he asked us as a favor to him, to please apply for the position. Now, I know how to follow orders, so I said “Yes, Bishop,” filled out the paperwork, and sent it in.
Some time later Andrea and I took a trip to Sun Valley. We met the people. We fell in love. I was wrong; my prejudices were misplaced, invalid. I met these down-to-earth people who were really wanting to grow spiritually. Our hearts changed, and after our hearts changed we wanted nothing more than to move to Sun Valley. I wanted nothing more than to get to be the rector of St. Thomas’ Church. This was all well and good, but there were many other priests who had applied and who wanted that job as well. So now I had to compete against these other clergy.
Each priest was brought to Sun Valley on a different weekend. During the weekend, there were a series of interviews and dinners, but the big event was Sunday morning, when the visiting priest had to celebrate the Eucharist and preach. I know there’s probably some fancy church word for what that morning was, but plainly speaking, it was an audition. I had to audition for the job of being rector at St. Thomas’ in Sun Valley, which puts a profound amount of pressure on a single sermon. That one sermon is going to determine whether I get the job or don’t get the job.
As many of you know, the readings that we hear in church are not chosen by the preacher. The readings come from the Lectionary and are prescribed for each Sunday. My “audition Sunday” was nine years ago today. What that means is that I had to preach in Sun Valley, Idaho, and the Gospel text included Jesus saying, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is wealthy to enter the kingdom of Heaven.”
When I discovered what the reading was, and realized that was the text I would have to preach on, and none of the other candidates had to preach on it—oh brother. I ran down the street to the Bishop’s office, knocked on his door, grabbed him by the collar, and shouted, “What have you done to me?!?”
Bishop John Thornton, who is a very wise man, said to me, “Brian, you know, the people in Sun Valley know better than anyone else in the world that money doesn’t buy happiness.”
He was right. Even though I know better, I live with this tape that runs in the back of my head that says, “You know, if I only had a little more money, a little bit more, then I could relax, I could be happy. If I only had just a little more.”
Then I moved to Sun Valley, and met people who have more, and more, and more. I met people who achieved everything in the American Dream. I met people who were CEO’s of billion-dollar industries, their private corporations. They owned the companies. I met people who have mansions in many luxurious places. People who have everything that you could ever imagine. Some of them flew to these mansions in their own jets. I met those people who had done everything right; they had achieved everything they were taught to achieve in order to be happy, and they were still hungry. Some of them knew it. Some of them came to church, and said, “What must I do? What must I do to have real life? Deep life? Abundant life? Life that is so profound and meaningful that it lasts for eternity? What must I do to have that real life?”
A man throws himself at Jesus’ feet and asks that question. “Good teacher, what must I do to have life? To have abundant, real life? Life that matters?” Jesus says, step one. “Obey the commandments. Don’t murder; don’t commit adultery; don’t steal.” Now, step one is important. You can’t have abundant, rich, eternal life if you’re murdering people; or if you are living a lie; or if you are stealing. Step one is important. But step one is only the first step.
The man replies, “I’ve done all that! I’ve lived a good life.” Jesus looks at him and loves him, and Jesus loves him because he is sincere. He loves him because the young man has lived a good life. He has obeyed the commandments; he’s done everything he’s been told, and still he’s hungry. Jesus looks at him and loves him, and says, “There is one thing you lack.”
Imagine the joy he felt in hearing that. Only one thing? Only one thing! He is ecstatic until Jesus tells him what that one thing is. “Sell all your possessions. Sell your possessions, give the money to the poor, and then you will have life. Follow me.” The Gospel says that the man went away grieving, because he had many possessions.
I know how he feels. I have a lot of “stuff.” The way I know that I have a lot of “stuff,” a lot of possessions, is that I just moved from Idaho! We had to get this huge moving van—a couple of families could have lived in there, and it was filled to the ceiling with all this stuff. And it all was stuff that apparently I couldn’t live without, so it all had to get moved to California. I couldn’t imagine giving it away.
I couldn’t imagine giving all this stuff away for two reasons. One is that I can’t help but live a lie, even though I know it’s a lie. The lie is this: I need more stuff. There is something inside of me that wants to get more stuff. I want a new car. I just got a car seven months ago, but it’s not new anymore; and it’s not a hybrid, and hybrids are cool. So I need a new car, even though I know that the minute I get the new car, it’s going to become the old car, and I’ll want something else. There is something in me that just wants more stuff. Shopping is my hobby; go to the store, get something new, and there’s that rush from getting something new. I think, “If only I have this, then I’ll be happy.” The worst day of the week is Sunday, because on Sundays, the newspaper is just filled with advertisements for stuff, new stuff that I need to have.
So part of it is this acquisitiveness, this wanting more stuff. Another part of it is a fear of letting stuff go. I have a need to hold on to my stuff. Part of it, I think, is because the life I live, the physical life I live in this body, is so fragile. I’m fine right now, but I don’t know if I’m going to be fine tomorrow, or the next day, so I have to hold on to my stuff. And not just my material toys, but everything that makes me feel okay about myself. My financial portfolio, my health, my beauty, whatever it is—I’ve got to hold on to it and cling to it and not let any of it go.
I just bought a house six months ago. What was six months ago? The height of the housing market! What’s the stupidest time to buy a house but at the height of the housing market? And now it’s tanking, the equity in my home is slipping through my fingers, and I’m asking myself, dear God, what am I going to do? There is something in me that just needs to cling to my stuff, and as long as I hold on really tightly, so none of it slips away, then I’m going to be okay.
But it does slip away. I’m going to get sick; I’m going to die. This life is temporary. As long as I cling to this life and to my stuff, I never understand that there is another life to be had. A life that is deeper, and richer, and eternal. I’m not just a child of my parents; I am a child of God. But, it is so hard to let go of my stuff.
Jesus says to the young man, “Let go of your stuff. Follow me.” And the young man goes away grieving, because he has so much stuff. I know what that feels like.
This story of this young man with all this stuff—we never hear how it ends. I think that today’s Gospel reading is just the beginning, the real beginning, of his story. He went away grieving; he didn’t go away angry. He didn’t go away indignant. He didn’t go away saying to Jesus, “That’s ridiculous!” He went away grieving, and what he was grieving was, he knew that Jesus was offering him a deeper, richer, more abundant life, and he didn’t have it. What he had was his stuff. He yearned for that other life, and in my mind’s eye, that yearning, that grieving, worked on his heart and his soul. Then one day he thought, I’m going to give something away. He gave it, and he began to learn the economics of the spiritual life, which make no sense; because in the spiritual life, when you give something away, you get life in return.
The young man gave something away, out of his stuff, and realized it didn’t diminish him; it didn’t make him less alive. In fact, he realized that as he gave it away, he got life. So he tried giving something more away; and he got more life. Then he gave more away, and he began to live his life with his hands outspread, instead of with his hands grasping all his stuff to himself.
Jesus says, “Give your stuff away.” Now, there is one other problem with that. Jesus tells this young man to give away his possessions; sell them, give the money to the poor, and follow me. What I hear Jesus saying is, this life that he offers me will cost me everything. That’s what I hear.
I hear Jesus saying, “If you want to follow me, if you really want this life, if you want to be true to this life, the cost is everything you have.” It’s not a price I’m willing to pay. I’m not that big of a person; I’m not that good of a Christian.
But I don’t think that is what Jesus is saying. Think about it; what does it cost you, right now, sitting in the pew, to live? How much does it cost you to breathe? To live deeply, right here, right now, and to have joy? It costs nothing.
Abundant, rich, deep, eternal life costs absolutely nothing. The problem is that we don’t live it. The only thing this life costs is to go ahead and live it! But we don’t, because we’re cluttered with all this stuff! I’ve got all this stuff, and I am distracted by new shiny stuff that I think I need. And the end result is that I fail to just live my life. Life doesn’t cost anything; but the stuff gets in the way.
So Jesus says, sell your stuff! Give your money to the poor. As we begin to take little steps to live into that, we realize what that young man realized as his story progressed. If we can loosen our grip, if our stuff can flow, if our money can flow, if our love can flow, if our relationships can flow, if we can walk through life with our hands open, then the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand, and we live life.
“Teacher, what must I do to have life?” You have to live it, like this, hands outspread.
I want to tell you one of my favorite stories. This is a story about an American Baptist minister, Tony Campolo. He’s an evangelical Christian and a sociology professor. The last time I told this story was nine years ago, at my “audition” at St. Thomas’ in Sun Valley.
Tony Campolo, who lectures all over the world, was in Honolulu for one of his speaking engagements. Because of the time difference, he woke up at 2:30 a.m., and he was hungry. He got up, left the hotel, and started walking around Honolulu looking for a place to eat. Of course, all the good restaurants were closed, but down a side street he noticed a greasy diner with the lights on. He went in, sat down at the counter, realized he wasn’t all that hungry, and just got one of the donuts that was underneath the glass and a cup of black coffee.
He was eating his donut and sipping his coffee, when at 3:30 a.m. the doors open and in walk eight or nine loud, boisterous, smoking prostitutes. They all went up to the counter, started talking to Harry, the guy behind the counter, and were pushing in on Tony. Tony, the evangelical Christian, is getting a little uncomfortable. He hears the woman sitting next to him tell the woman who is beside her, “I just realized, tomorrow’s my birthday! I’m gonna be twenty-nine tomorrow.” The woman next to her goes, “Why you tellin’ me? So what? You want me to throw you a party or something?” The woman next to Tony said, “Why do ya have to be so mean? I wasn’t expecting a party or a cake, I was just talkin’. Why would I expect a party or a cake? I haven’t had a birthday party in my whole life.”
When Tony heard that, he got an idea. When all the women left the diner, Tony asked Harry, the guy behind the counter, “These women—do they come in here every night at this time?” “Yep,” replied Harry. “Three-thirty on the dot.” Tony asked, “That woman sitting next to me, does she come in here every night?” “Yeah, that’s Agnes. Why do you want to know?”
“I just heard her say that tomorrow’s her birthday. What do you say we throw her a party?” asked Tony. Harry thought about it for a moment, then a smile slowly broke over his face. “Yeah. I like that. I like that idea. I’ll make the cake.”
So the next day, Tony buys decorations, and at 2:30 a.m. he shows up at the diner and he starts pinning up crepe paper and hanging balloons, and puts up a sign in construction paper that says, “Happy Birthday Agnes.”
At 3:15 a.m. he realizes that Harry must have gotten the word out, because the diner was packed with every prostitute in Honolulu. At 3:30 a.m., the door opens, Agnes walks in with her friend, and everyone shouts, “Surprise! Happy birthday!” Agnes is stunned. She’s flabbergasted. Her jaw drops open, her knees shake a little. Her friend guides her to a stool at the counter and sits her down. Everyone in the diner sings Happy Birthday. When they get to the line, “Happy birthday, dear Agnes, happy birthday to you,” her eyes begin to mist. When Harry brings out the birthday cake, with all the candles, she breaks down and sobs. She blows out the candles. Harry gets a knife out from behind the counter and says, “Agnes, cut the cake!”
Agnes looks at the cake. Harry says again, “Agnes, cut the cake!” Agnes looks up at Harry, and says, “Harry, it’s so beautiful—can I just look at it for a little bit?” Harry says, “Well, yeah, do whatever, take it home if you want.”
Agnes brightens. “Can I?” She looks at Tony. “I only live a couple doors down. Can I take it home?” Tony nods. She reverently picks up the cake, walks out, the door closes behind her, everyone is standing there in stunned silence.
Tony, the evangelical Christian, fills the silence by saying, “What do you say we pray?” And in good evangelical form, he prays. He prays for Agnes, that God would be good to her. When he finishes his prayer, Harry, behind the counter, with a slight bit of hostility in his voice, says, “You didn’t tell me you were a preacher. What kind of a church do you belong to, anyway?”
Now, when Tony tells this story, he says that this is one of those moments when he was given the exact right words to say. What he said was this.
“I belong to the kind of church that throws birthday parties for prostitutes at three-thirty in the morning.”
That is the Kingdom of Heaven. That is the rich, deep, everlasting abundant life that God wants us to live. What do you have to do to live that life? You need only to go ahead and live it; openly, generously, graciously, freely.
What must I do to have eternal life? Just that. Amen.