Dear People of Christ Church,
I’m still mulling over the Gospel for Sunday, Jesus’ encounter with the rich young man. It’s an astonishing and tragic moment: he comes up to Jesus and bows down, offering deference and respect. “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” We can imagine that maybe he’s expecting to be told he’s doing well; he says he has kept all the commandments. But something unanticipated happens—Jesus looks at him, and loves him. In that loving glance, Jesus sees him and knows him, and tells him what he’s missing: “You lack one thing. Go, sell all you own, and give the money to the poor. Then come, follow me.” The man was looking for approval, not grace. Certainly not this kind of love that will change his life. So he leaves. The text says, “He went away grieving, for he had many possessions.”

This, it seems to me, is as clear a picture of hell as we ever see in the New Testament. Never mind all that stuff about the eternal fire where the worm never dies we heard a few weeks ago. This is the real thing. All of the promises of God’s eternity so close he could touch it, and instead he turns his back. The psychological keenness of the Gospel story is so striking—he went away grieving. Giving in to his fear, he can’t listen to his sorrow. He walks away into hell, rejecting the invitation and love of Jesus.

There is a stained glass window at Grace Church in Medford, where my husband is the rector, that has a person with exactly the same expression as I imagine Jesus offering this young man. It’s full of compassion and love, a deep, knowing comfort. In this all-encompassing gaze, you are seen, deeply seen. All of your fears, all of your vulnerability, all of your joy and strength. And I imagine when this young man encountered Jesus looking at him like that, he just couldn’t manage it. It was too much. This is where the depth of this story really hits home—that glance. How often do I let my fear of vulnerability take over? How often do I rely on the safety of invisibility rather than the risk of transformation?

What would I do if I heard that call to sell everything I own and give it to the poor? Jesus is really clear here—it’s give the money. Not to a charitable organization that will “responsibly” dole out assistance. It’s about the cash, here, giving it up and giving it to those who don’t have any. Is this the call of the Gospel now? With every home improvement project and nice sweater I buy, am I walking step by step away from the promises of eternal life? Is it possible still to inch closer and closer, slowly, slowly, near to God’s dream of peace and justice, however often we become distracted and confused? How about you? Where are you encountering that love of Jesus, and how are you turning toward it?

Blessings,
Sara+

P.S. So—when I say I like the window—I really like the window. I sat opposite it when I was on sabbatical three years ago and sang in the choir at Grace, and started contemplating it as a tattoo. This fall I took the plunge—more about that process on my own blog.