Here we have two encounters that offer a
piercing contrast.
Part one. Jesus has been teaching a growing
crowd of devoted followers and intrigued listeners.
Just one chapter ago, in response to a selfinterested question from his disciples about who
will be the greatest in the kingdom of heaven, who
will get a front row seat in God’s kingdom, Jesus
called a child forward. You must change. You must
become like children or you will never enter the
kingdom of heaven. To underscore the message,
he gives them this memorable line: “Whoever
welcomes one child in my name welcomes me.”
At least, that line should have been memorable.
But here we are, barely a chapter later, and those
same disciples—the ones who have just heard him
say those words—completely forget. And intent on
protecting Jesus from unacceptable disruption and
distraction, they order the parents to get those noisy,
sticky, chaotic, unruly children out of his way. I don’t
know about you, but I can sense Jesus’ frustration
(what did I just say?) as he reiterates the earlier
point. Hey guys, the kingdom of God belongs to
these kids!
Part two. A man approaches Jesus with a question
about eternal life. His query is practical. What must
I do to earn it? Initially, Jesus points him toward the
commandments found in their tradition, but the man
senses the need for more; he knows that something is
missing. Literally, what do I still lack?
Jesus takes him seriously. In fact, in an earlier
version of this same story from the Gospel of Mark,
the writer records, “Jesus looked at the man and
loved him.” Tenderly, he offers a simple invitation.
Sell your possessions. Give the money to the poor.
Come and follow me.
It does not end well. This earnest young man is
overcome with sadness. He catalogues the vastness
of his resources, and then he walks away—not from
his possessions, but from Jesus.
Perhaps similarly grieved that the man missed the
moment, Jesus offers a sad summary statement. It will
be hard for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven.
The kingdom of God belongs to children.
It will be difficult for anyone with vast resources to
find it.
How are we to take this distinction Jesus draws for
his disciples?
Start with this: it is a mistake to conclude that Jesus
is condemning his conversation partner. His words
are not directive; they are descriptive. Not harsh
judgment, but distressing reality.
The man approaches Jesus seeking salvation, and
Jesus takes his question to heart. He loves the man.
Jesus does intend to save him. From what? From the
ideology that dominated his life. From that unceasing
whisper in his ear, “More, more, more. Always more.
Never enough.” We—you and I—we know that
whisper. That man, like us, needed to be saved. So,
Jesus invites the man into relationship. Let it go. Come
and follow me. Jesus offers salvation, the freedom to
experience joy, deeper faith, and generous living.
Part one. Part two. The distinction here is between
those who run to Jesus to receive the blessing he
offers and one who walks away grieving the prison of
his wealth. I know the illustration lingered in the minds
of his disciples because still shocked by his words,
they ask another question, another question of their
own. “Then who can be saved?” they ask. Jesus again
has a simple answer. For mortals it is impossible, but
for God all things are possible.
Listen. If our faith is going to mean anything at all,
it will make us uncomfortable. As a great preacher
said, “The truth will set you free, but first it will make
you mad.” It will expose the lies by which we live
and compel us to do something differently. Over and
over again in the gospels, Jesus gently reframes the
perspective of those who would follow him. Opening
their eyes and their hearts, he urges them to see their
lack that may lead to life.
What must we do to earn eternal life?
How can we live abundantly and find deep fulfillment?
Aren’t these the questions we all want answered?
All of us who sense there is something more. All of
us who long for deeper purpose. The good news in
this morning’s scripture is that the answer isn’t all
that complex. Now, don’t misunderstand me—I didn’t
say easy. The man who walks away from Jesus is our
stand-in. He represents all of us too encumbered to
accept the invitation to life that is life.
Here’s the thing we need to know on Commitment
Sunday. Jesus is talking about more than writing
checks or filling out pledge cards. The kind of
commitment Jesus demands begins with a radical
change in our hearts that transforms our perspective.
What Jesus has in mind here is not charity, not
in the anemic way we use the word. His purpose
is salvation. His vision is the kingdom of God—a
dramatic shift away from a world in which some
people survive only because the wealthy and
powerful choose to act morally from time to time.
This is no way to embody the kingdom of God. What
Jesus preaches, what he lives, is a fundamental
tension with the status quo. He destroys categories.
He disrupts comfort. He invites us to a walk of
discipleship. Come. Follow me. What Jesus demands
is a new way of seeing everything.
A couple months ago, my friend Mike Mather led a
wonderful seminar for our Lake Fellows. For many
years, Mike served as pastor of Broadway United
Methodist Church here in Indianapolis before moving
in 2020 to become pastor of a Methodist Church in
Boulder, Colorado. That morning with our residents,
he told a story that has lived in my heart ever since.
The church he now serves is in downtown Boulder,
and several folks who are homeless often sleep on the
steps outside their building. Early in his time as pastor,
a group of members, seeking to initiate and get some
help from the new pastor, came to Mike with a request
that he do something about this issue. Namely, that
he remove these folks from the steps of the church.
You can imagine the words that were used. Eyesore.
Unsanitary. Uncomfortable. Dangerous. Mike told the
members that they would need to deliver this news,
but he agreed to set up the meeting. So, one evening,
in the church fellowship hall, Mike brewed a pot of
coffee and gathered members of the congregation
and those who were sleeping on the steps. He began
by asking each person to gather in a circle and briefly
introduce themselves, one by one, to the rest of the
group. Each one shared their name and a little bit of
their story. Then Mike turned to the members of his
congregation. “Was there something you wanted to
tell our neighbors?” Silence.
Abundant life begins when we see the world through
the lens of the Gospel. When we see every person as
God’s beloved child, created in love and redeemed
by grace. It is a powerful shift. And we can start
right now. We can release our stranglehold on our
possessions and our obsession with more, more,
more. We can live generously for others. The invitation
is open, and so much will depend on how we respond.
On November 19, 1838—185 years ago today—fifteen
members of the First Presbyterian Church in the
frontier city of Indianapolis gathered in an unfinished
lecture hall of the Marion County Seminary. They
were there to charter a new congregation in the
New School Presbytery of Indiana. As one of our
worshipers in early worship this morning said,
“Those must have been some tough old birds.” A
year later, after three invitations were declined, this
fledgling congregation called its first pastor. A 26
year old, he was the son of a well-known preacher
and seminary president, and the first full time pastor
of this new congregation. And so, in the fall of 1839,
Henry Ward Beecher arrived in Indianapolis, and
this bold group of new school Presbyterians charted
a new course in the new city. From its very start,
the Second Presbyterian Church of Indianapolis
sought to make an impact on the city in which God
had placed it, to be a community of service and
leadership. And over the decades, this congregation
has done just that, establishing outreach centers
and mission chapels, educating and caring for the
poor in our city, working with others to form the first
boy scout troops, schools, medical clinics, the city’s
first public library system. And here in this space,
disciples of Jesus and servants of God have been
inspired, charged, and sent to serve in every part of
our city, our nation, and our world. New ministries
have been birthed in these pews, in the hearts and
minds of worshipers. New possibilities imagined.
New ventures launched.
And now, 185 years later, it is in our hands.
Prognostication about the Church’s future is a
hobby for many in our culture. Decline is the
narrative of choice.
But what if we built?
What if we built a culture of civility, respect, and
constructive dialogue, where every topic was fair
game, and every voice could be heard?
What if we built?
What if we built networks of opportunity and
dignity for neighbors with material need? What if
we heard their voices and listened to their stories?
What if we built?
What if we built initiatives to invest in early
childhood education and mentoring for students?
What if we built?
What if we built space for experiences of
transcendence that lift the vision beyond our limits
and toward the promise that with God all things
are possible?
What if we built?
There are many gifts that come with advanced age.
Or so I’m told. Second Church has demonstrated
staying power. Think of what this institution, this
congregation, this church has seen. Violence and
global pandemics. The wonder and horror of human
ingenuity and technology. Dramatic eras of social
change and progress. Times of deep division and
even civil war. It was on the 25th anniversary of
Second Church that President Lincoln delivered
the Gettysburg Address, the nation torn in two, and
this congregation continuing to gather. Second has
sought a faithful way forward in every age. Sometimes
we have succeeded, and sometimes we have failed.
Sometimes we’ve been mixed with faith and doubt,
courage and fear. I feel the weight of that strength
and tradition and the responsibility of the moment we
are now in. I feel that call to build. More than anything
else, the work of our church is a declaration of hope in
what the world can become. It always has been.
That wealthy young man tragically missed out. He
slinks away in self-doubt. He retreats in fear, listening,
“more, more.”
Second Church, we do not have to follow him. There is
another guide. There is another path. It is the one that
begins this morning’s story. Children running to Jesus,
eager to receive his blessing and to follow him.
What would it take for us to run toward Jesus in the year
ahead? What must we release? What must be built?
Second Church, it’s in our hands. Amen.