Imagine: the plane is going down. You have a minute or two left, and then you will be gone.
What matters most to you? What do you want to do with the seconds you have left? Will you call someone? Will you pray? If so, for what will you pray? That you will be saved? (Saved from what?) Maybe you will pray that God will receive you at the point of death; or that it will happen quickly and painlessly; or that your loved ones might know, or do, or receive, something…
As you continue to grip your airplane seat, you realize that others are going down with you: if you choose, you could interact with one or more of them. If you engage them, what will you say? What will you do?
I am sure that something you are not thinking about in this terrifying crisis is your many earthly possessions.
But then you discover, to your own immense relief, that the plane went down but your captain is Sully Sullenberger, and he deftly landed the plane right-side-up in the Hudson River. Everyone is going to survive! However: you must exit the plane in an orderly fashion, and quickly. Not only are you forbidden to open the overhead compartment and get your large bag, but there isn’t even time to reach under the seat in front of you for your laptop and other personal items. If you don’t already have your phone in your pocket, then you must leave your phone behind. The plane is about to take on water and sink; everyone needs to get to the exits immediately; if you slow things down, even a little, by trying to save even one of your possessions, then someone else could die. Or you could die.
I believe every one of us would throw aside anything and everything that doesn’t really matter in this life, if it might mean that our life has meaning, or our life closes with meaning, or (most of all) that someone else’s life is saved, or somehow, in all the chaos and loss, somehow the world is just a little bit better, or just one creature is a little bit healthier or happier.
Andrew and I threw aside quite a lot of time, quite a lot of energy, and yes, quite a lot of money to diagnose and try to lengthen the life of our dog, Hoku ala, whose name means “rising star.” He died a little over a week ago. And when we recognized that this was it, that he was not going to have any more comfortable days, and that he had already lost most of what made him who he was, most of what made his life worth living, well, Andrew and I threw aside our own hearts to help this poor dog end his life, and go beyond any and all suffering.
This does not make saints of Andrew and me. Our story is as common as they come: who among us would not do exactly what we did for an animal companion, and even more for a child in crisis, or an aging parent, or a spouse? A friend of mine once said that she would lay down her own life for the lives of animals trapped in factory farming, and I believe her. Many things matter to her, but nothing matters more to her than the lives of those animals. She would throw aside even her own life if it would rid the earth of factory farming.
I have no doubt that every person here at Grace, in this room and online, would throw aside everything they own, everything they care about, even their own futures, to save someone, or something.
What, or whom, would you save?
Jesus offers powerful wisdom about all of this. He offers this wisdom fiercely, but also lovingly. He does not pretend that we have easy options lying before us, where the choices are of little consequence. (He makes an ultimate choice himself that costs him his life.) But Jesus looks upon a rich young man with love. That poor man is balking at the idea that he has to throw aside everything if he wants to do the true spiritual work that his own heart desires.
The Good News today is rough, but it is offered in authentic love. Jesus knows us. And Jesus loves us. Please hear and know that.
Now, some things are more easily set aside than others. I love talking to people I know well, but I have no trouble setting aside a conversation with them after our worship to say hello to someone who is here for the first time. In that moment, the newcomer doesn’t matter more than a long-timer—for all are equal in God’s sight—but the newcomer’s need in that moment is greater, and my need to welcome them is greater than my need to hang with my friends.
But life in the Spirit, life along the Way of Jesus, life in the dominion of God: it is calling us to set aside far more than the casual comfort of friends. If you are sick; if you are scared and alone; if you are too young—or too old—to feel valued by the world around you; if you have been rejected or shunned by another church; if you are struggling to find work; if you have been scorned, assaulted, or mistreated; if you are staggering under the weight of grief; if you are plagued with addiction; if you are in great danger; if you are near death—it is our task to throw aside anything and everything that separates us from you, so that we can rush to your side and help you, or walk with you, or simply break bread and grieve with you. We are here for you. And being here for you costs us a lot. But you are worth it.
And so we linger here, between that Baptismal font and this Eucharistic table. Here between font and table: this is our airplane cabin in peril; this is our arena of encounter with all people who cry out (whether they know it or not) for God’s mercy, for God’s justice, for God’s peace. Here in this arena, we are vulnerable to one another. Here in this arena, we stand to lose a lot. I will lose my false sense of security, my false sense of superiority, my false belief that I can thrive when my neighbor languishes, my false belief that I am not sometimes the cause of my neighbor’s suffering. Here in this arena, Jesus himself loses everything. And he calls us—lovingly! but also bracingly—he calls us to let go and follow him.
Every autumn, Grace Episcopal Church, like so many churches across the world, begins to look ahead to the coming year. We empower our elected leaders to draw up a budget. We appeal to members of all kinds to discern their own calling to be stewards of God’s blessings here. And once again, in stewardship season, we hear the loving but firm call of Jesus: to set aside wealth to save the lost and to lift up the broken-hearted; to anoint the sick and visit the imprisoned; to clothe the naked and feed the hungry; to reach out with both hands, emptied of possessions, open to clasp the hands of others.
This is a hard teaching.
But again, it is offered to us with love, with love that sees and knows how lovely the world becomes when we do these good things. And how lovely we become, too. “Love to the loveless shown, that they might lovely be,” goes the old hymn. God’s love repairs and heals the world, and that happens here, whenever we—with God’s help—set aside everything that keeps us separated from one another.
God’s generous, self-giving love happens here, between font and table. God’s generous, self-giving love happens here, in this arena of crisis and loss. God’s generous, self-giving love happens here, in this flourishing garden of Easter life.
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Amos 5:6-7, 10-15
Psalm 90:12-17
Hebrews 4:12-16
Mark 10:17-31
Preached on the 20th Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 23B), October 10, 2021, at Grace Episcopal Church, Bainbridge Island, Washington.