In a land of desperate poverty, his land, Jesus, a poor man, encounters a rich man. This rich man, no doubt in fine clothes, runs up to Jesus and throws himself at the dusty feet of this itinerant rabbi. "Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?"

In the world of the rich, compliments are probably very useful tools, and this guy is a bit of a "suck-up," throwing himself at Jesus’ feet and calling him "good teacher." But Jesus will have none of it. Like a wizened old teacher who will not be swayed by a young student’s attempts at flattery, Jesus says, "Why do you call me good? No one is good but God." Nice try, buddy, but focus on God. That will be the theme of their encounter.

Then Jesus asks whether he has obeyed the commandments: honor your parents and do no murder, adultery, stealing, false witnessing, or defrauding. The rich guy says, "I’ve followed all those rules since my youth." Jesus seems to sense that the man is sincere. He has really tried. He’s a seeker. Jesus, "looking at him, loves him." What a profound thing. "Jesus, looking at him, loved him." Jesus sees this man, really sees him, really knows him, and loves this man. And in loving him, knows where his stumbling block is, and tells him what he needs to hear to have eternal life: "Go; sell what you own, give to the poor, come, and follow me."

Jesus doesn’t condemn the man’s wealth. Wealth isn’t inherently bad or good. But wealth is given by God for the purpose of meeting the needs of the poor, of being a resource for the kingdom of God. Jesus looked at him, and loved him, and knew that his wealth was not held for God’s use.

Keeping the law, acting morally, is not enough. Everything Jesus teaches is about unifying our outward behaviors with our inner hearts and minds. It’s not sufficient to just follow the rules; good actions must be the response of a heart dedicated to God. Our actions are to be sacramental — the outward and visible signs of hearts given to God. This guy had followed the rules, but his heart was dedicated to his wealth. So the wealth had to go. He had to make room for God.

The Greek word for the man’s reaction can mean "gloomy and dark," or "shocked." "Appalled" probably gets at it as well as anything. It’s not surprising. The rich man, upon hearing Jesus’ words pounding in his head like a hammer ("go, sell, give, come, follow"), is "appalled." And he goes away grieving.

Grieving. Not "angry." Not "sure Jesus was wrong." Not "arguing," or hollering over his shoulder, "You’re a quack!" But head down, "grieving."

Why would he be grieving? His grief must mean that he knew Jesus was right, but he also knew that he was not going to do it. He knew Jesus was right, but he also knew that he was not going to do it.

This story is pretty scary. (It scared the disciples.) And over the years, we Christians have tried desperately to ignore it. When we can’t (because, for example, it pops up as a Sunday reading), we’ve often tried desperately to distinguish ourselves from that rich man: "That rich man worshipped his wealth; I’m not like that."

What I’d like us to have the courage to explore this morning is how we are like that, what we have in common with the rich guy. To do that, I want to share some of my journey in thinking about the spirituality of money.

I made my first pledge to the church when the rector called me and said, "We’d like you to run for vestry, but you can’t if you don’t pledge." (I’ve made that call to some of you!) My point is that I had to learn to pledge. I thought that since I was very active, gave money, and devoted a lot of time to the church, I’d covered it. I hadn’t. I didn’t give as a percentage of my income, and I kidded myself about how generous my gift was (which is what happens when you don’t figure it as a percentage).

When I was first ordained, I didn’t like to have to talk about money in the pulpit. I knew how many people had been constantly hollered at about money by preachers who tried to guilt the congregation into forking it over, and I didn’t want to be lumped in with them. The first stewardship sermon I preached didn’t even mention money, a fact of which I was very proud.

I’ve changed. I have come to see how important it is for Charlotte and me to pledge, to make a promise rather than just — to give a tip. That promise is important for our soul’s sake. Promises are powerful.

And over the years I’ve learned more and more about how very, very powerful and how very, very important money is in people’s spiritual lives. It is, simply, the most prevalent idol in our culture. An idol is something which is not God, but which asks you to worship it as a god. It is what your heart is devoted to. All the good works in the world won’t change a heart devoted to money. Over the course of twelve years of ordained ministry, I’ve seen how important, and how hard, it is to be free of the love of money, how important, and how hard, it is to see wealth as simply a tool to be used for the kingdom.

But most importantly, over the years, I have come more and more to see how my heart is like the heart of the rich man Jesus encounters. I don’t like that; I want very much to be able to stand here and point a finger at him and say, "Sinner! How different he is than I am. Thank God I’m not like him!" But there’s a funny thing about grace, God’s love, the more you get in touch with it, the more you get in touch with how much you need it.

When Jesus says, "Go, sell, give, come, follow," I don’t think he’s saying to us that we have to sell all we own, but I do think he’s asking us: "If I asked you to, would you?" And when that question scares me (as it does), I know that I have some heart disease in common with the rich guy. I know that I need to be absolutely free of love of anything material to be able to devote my whole heart to God. But the question scares me. Charlotte and I tithe (we give ten percent), and I know Jesus is right that giving brings spiritual riches because even in just tithing, we get great spiritual riches; our lives are closer to God. But biblically, the tithe is not the ending place, it is the starting place; giving ten percent is the minimum biblical standard for giving. And when I think about being wholly free of devotion to the other ninety percent, I can imagine how wonderful that kind of absolutely unencumbered devotion to God would be. But, well, I also know I have something in common with the rich guy, and I grieve.

Don’t we all? Don’t we all know somewhere in our hearts that our lives would be richer, more profound, more free, closer to God, closer to other people, more available to love, if we were totally free of love of possessions, totally trusting in God, totally given to God? And yet, when we think of that idyllic standard, don’t we all grieve, to one degree or another?

So I’m not standing here pointing fingers; I’m not trying to guilt you (I don’t want you to give out of guilt!); I’m saying I think we all have something in common, to some degree, with the grieving rich man. It’s important that we recognize that.

But here is where we will part company with him, and this is very important. He grieved, and left. We will not leave. We will continue this journey — this journey toward an ungrieved heart — together, in the Church, holding onto one another; reminding one another over and over that Jesus sees each one of us (really sees us); remind one another over and over that Jesus loves each one of us (really loves us), loves us even with our hearts that are still growing; loves us even with our hearts that are still grieving.

Thanks be to God.