Mark 10:17-31 · The Rich Young Man
The Impossible Option
Mark 10:17-31
Sermon
by Cathy A. Ammlung
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Before there was Harry Potter, there was Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit. In J. R. R. Tolkien's wise fantasy, this short, hairy-footed resident of the Shire in Middle-Earth was a well-to-do bachelor and country squire. Comfortable and conventional, but just a touch bored with life, he nevertheless was shocked when the mysterious wizard, Gandalf, knocked on his door one spring morning and requested his services as (of all things) a thief. The clever, nimble-fingered hobbit was just the person to help a struggling band of dwarves reclaim their treasure from a greedy dragon. And of course, there would be a cut of the profits for Bilbo, too! 

Gandalf proposed more than a business venture, though; he invited Bilbo to an Adventure, capital A. And much to his own surprise, the comfortable, conventional Bilbo at last agreed, running out the door after the departing dwarves without so much as a handkerchief. And Adventures he had! He encountered elves and other wondrous characters, including the magnificent, jewel-encrusted dragon. He trekked through mountains, was lost underground, and found a magic ring. He was carried by eagles, escaped from prison in a beer cask, and finagled his way into the dragon's lair. There were battles, songs, a treasure recovered, friendships made, reward received, and a long trip home where he settled back into his comfortable routine. 

Except ... not quite. He was changed by his adventures. He was known as the local eccentric. He entertained strange guests, learned ancient languages and stories, and wrote poetry. At last, he passed into the Uttermost West with the elves. 

Perhaps it's surprising to mention this story while hearing the Gospel story of the rich man and Jesus. True, this man came running to Jesus, and not thievery but eternal life was under discussion. But how like Bilbo the man was! Comfortable, well-off, law-abiding, he also sensed that his life didn't quite add up. And when Jesus invited him to sell everything, give the proceeds to the poor, and follow him, the poor fellow was as shocked at this crazy proposal as if Jesus had suggested a stint of thievery for him. Unlike Bilbo, he not only wavered but finally refused the invitation to an Adventure with a capital A. 

Because when all the pious religious language is stripped away, that's what Jesus was offering. This was invitation to Adventure, not proposal of a business venture. Following Jesus would mean taking roads and making choices that might have never occurred to the man. His priorities and expectations would be turned topsy-turvy. Following Jesus wasn't a matter of examining the bottom-line profitability of doing so; nor did it mean taking charge of his own destiny, even by doing good and doing right. It meant losing his heart (and possibly his life) to this One who beckoned. 

If Bilbo found the label of "Thief" off-putting, the rich man certainly found the notion of "Penniless-By-Choice Disciple" equally unpleasant. To give away his vast wealth -- not as a tax write-off or personal do-good project, but as the necessary paring away of everything that was non-essential to following the Son of Man ... it was a sort of death. It meant losing control of his image, his plans, his destiny. It meant the death of one identity, and who knew what (if any) new identity this Jesus would raise up from the ashes. The up-front loss and sacrifice involved in following this engaging young rabbi outweighed the prospect of a life-transforming journey with him. 

At least the rich man was realistic about what he stood to lose, and honest about his fear of losing it! Often we seem to think that we can follow Jesus with baggage, riches, priorities, self-image, identity, and control neatly packed and easily toted. We sometimes act as if following Jesus is more like an occasional weekend ramble, not a life-long journey with its own logic and demands -- and certainly not as a life-altering Adventure. 

And we compound the problem. At times, we're so eager to draw new people into the life of the Church that we make it sound like discipleship really is a jaunt in a spiritual Winnebago, complete with all the comforts we're used to. We soft-pedal obedience to Jesus, and are uncomfortable mentioning self-discipline and sacrificial giving, living, and loving. Maybe we fear that we'll scare people off if we talk about that kind of radical "stripping down for the journey." Or maybe we really don't believe in it ourselves. 

Other times, we get too caught up in the oughts and shoulds, the duties and responsibilities of Christian life. We really do make following Jesus into drudgery, a series of losses, burdens, and duties with precious little joy or adventure about it. We are so anxious to talk about "taking up one's cross" that we forget all about how Jesus himself looked beyond the cross' agony to the joy that was set before him. Maybe we sympathize with not only the rich man but also the disciples, who bluntly remind Jesus that they have given up plenty to follow him -- so what will they have to show for it? 

And sometimes we're just not in synch with the sweeping nature of Jesus' command or his invitation. Sell everything and give all the proceeds to the poor? Follow Jesus? How? Are we supposed to drop everything to become a missionary or evangelist? Our minds boggle. "You've got the wrong person, Jesus!" we protest. "I'm no great saint or preacher or anything, I'm just little old me, trying to muddle through the best I can." No easier is it for us to put ourselves in Jesus' picture than it was for Bilbo to imagine himself a bold thief or unlikely hero.  And yet the command and the invitation stand, blunt and uncompromising. All the excuses we trot out to defend our wavering lie limp on the ground. We are left with the disciples' almost forlorn question when Jesus said that wealth (whether measured as possessions, power, or ability) hinders entry into God's kingdom. "Then how can anyone be saved?"

"For God," says Jesus flatly, "nothing is impossible." Nothing. He actually sounds as if he means it. Nobody has an excuse; there is nothing in our lives that inevitably provides an impenetrable barrier between us and the Kingdom of God. Our Lord himself has seen to that. And so he can look at an earnest, perplexed rich man ... and ask him to do what seems to be impossible, because Jesus himself intends to accomplish the really, truly impossible. To put it another way, once you believe that God is serious about saving anyone who'll accept the offer -- rich, poor, bad, good, Gentile, Jew -- then visualizing yourself divested of wealth and humbly taking your cues at Jesus' feet ought to be a piece of cake! 

The problem, of course, is twofold. It's terribly easy to talk ourselves into believing that what our Lord commands really is impossible, dangerous, foolhardy and otherwise inadvisable. Bilbo nearly did that, and the rich man certainly did. We re-erect a barrier that our Lord had resolved to tumble down. 

The second problem is that the road down which Jesus invites us to follow him inevitably leads to a cross -- and not just for Jesus, at least figuratively. The rich man was right on target if he feared that following Jesus was a small death, the loss of one identity with no certain prospect of a new one. 

It all comes down to trust, of course -- trust that the Lord, for whom nothing is impossible, will bring any who follow him into the fullness of his Father's Kingdom. And trust that the goods and houses and eternal life he promises to those who leave everything behind to follow him will more than compensate for the losses, the dangers, the risks, the persecutions -- and the deaths, both small and great. 

Does that sound too up-in-the air? Then imagine the "impossible" options for those who might dare to trust our Lord's promises. A rich man does donate all his fortunes to charity and works in a drug addiction program. A woman relinquishes a wealth of resentment and for Jesus' sake forgives her estranged sister. A teenager gives up a chance to play in the championship soccer game to take part in his youth group's Habitat for Humanity project. A family decides to simplify its lifestyle as a response to the Gospel, and to give more time and financial support to the ministry of its church. Small things? Maybe. But they may be the first fruits of a new life that our Lord raises up when the old dies. 

Who knows what sort of new life God will shape in us as we begin to take him at his word? Who knows what things that we "give up" in order to travel lightly and gracefully with him will be taken up and hallowed and transformed to the good of many? Who knows what marvels we will see, what lives we will touch, what joys we will experience on this blessed adventure of discipleship? Maybe we'll end up more like Bilbo, resident eccentric, than like some great, heroic saint. But we'll never know -- until, graced by God, we lose our hearts to our Savior and set off down the road, hearts quaking but secretly hungering to be upended and stretched and challenged and changed. And then -- well, who knows? After all, with God, nothing is impossible. Even when he's dealing with us. Amen.        
CSS Publishing Company, Sermons for Sundays after Pentecost, by Cathy A. Ammlung