The Running Man
Sermon
SPECTATORS OR SENTINELS?
Sermons For Pentecost (Last Third)
"And as he was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him ..." There is an intensity that clings to these introductory words. They suggest a man driven by some urgent need. Who is he? We are given no name. Perhaps that is Mark's way of inviting all of us to identify with him.
The Greek word that Mark chooses to describe him as running is rare in the New Testament. It has an association with athletics and suggests a forerunner followed by other runners. Might this suggest that our anonymous man is a trendy pace setter who is running in the fast lane? We learn from the ensuing dialogue that judged by the measurements prevailing in his culture he can be called a successful person. He is a decent fellow who has sought to obey all the prevailing oughts. We learn also that he is an achiever and an accumulator. He is beginning to look like a Reebok-shod suburban jogger. Suddenly we realize that though separated from him by 2,000 years, we have much in common.
Outwardly there is much about him with which we can identify. Inwardly also there is a kinship. "Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" That is a heavy question. That is a value-loaded question. Questions of meaning and value are beginning to surface in his life. He is running in more ways than one. That road on which he has been running has suddenly turned into 1-95 and he cannot find the exit.
Or maybe he feels stuck in the clover leaf. Maybe the career race has turned into the rat race. This fellow is caught up in a crisis of meaning. He is no longer sure of the race. He is a metaphor for many of us. In a football game the ball carrier runs for the end zone. But as Tom Wingo broods in The Prince of Tides, "But where do we run when there are no crowds, no lights, no end zones?"
That crisis can assault any one of us. None of us are immune. Listen to these words of a nationally-known sportscaster. "I'm near the top of the mountain I saw as a young man. It's mostly salt." That's the meaning crisis. And that crisis is human enough and normal enough. It's quite apt to slip up on you between the ages of 35 to 65. These are years of transition for you. You are well along in your profession and have established a track record. Perhaps you have reached a plateau. Some advancements have passed by you. Younger people are on the scene and you're beginning to feel not quite up to speed. Your children are increasingly less dependent on you and have probably struck out on their own. These are the years when you will probably lose your parents. The thought of death surfaces in a way it never has before and with it thoughts of your own aging and death. And there is so much in our youth idolizing culture that feeds our anxiety about aging.
These are the vulnerable years when value questions emerge. You take a look around, measure the way you have come and all that you have acquired and wonder, "Is this all there is?" You may feel a desperate push to run faster, be pursued by a haunting fear of becoming obsolete or burning out. You may feel an anxious need to keep on looking young. A face lift may impress your friends, but it will not impress a flight of stairs. Do we begin to own our kinship with the running man? Where is the promised quality in my life? I have played by the rules, what is missing?
"You know the commandments," says Jesus and lists them. "I have kept these since my youth," replies the man. He has been running all his life, prodded by all the admonitions of home, church and culture. Brush your teeth and don't forget to floss ... say your prayers, work hard ... obey the law ... get ahead. Our man had lived by all the imperatives imposed upon him from the outside. That is the way we all grow at first, independently of our own decision. Our parents command us, our teachers teach us, our church preaches to us, society imposes its models and definitions upon us. We go along with the stream of influences. But sooner or later we get to the point where we have to do some deciding and choosing on our own. The running man was reaching that point. Mark tells us that Jesus looked at him and loved him. The Lord understood.
"You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me." Saint Francis took these words literally and the world was made brighter by that decision. But we also can remain true to the text by understanding the words this way. Jesus is asking this man and us to cut the nerve of our dependencies. And so often our possessions represent our dependencies. Jesus is asking this man and us to die to attachments that can provide only a temporary meaning for our lives. His challenge is to disentangle ourselves from our possessions. Roberta Flack sings a song with the intriguing title, Let Pharaoh Go. There is a reverse thought that grabs you. We think of Pharaoh as the one who can make the decision to keep us or free us. But so often the reverse is true. We do not want to let go of the things that hold us. After all, the things of this world give a certain kind of identity and assurance.
The theme of renunciation emerges in this encounter, a theme familiar throughout the gospels. Renunciation is a form of dying. We Christians tend to think of death and resurrection as experiences at the end of life, not as possibilities in the midst of life. The New Testament proclaims that the life of faith is a rhythm of death and resurrection, or should I not say deaths and resurrections. We have to die to many things during a life time if we are to experience any sort of new possibility.
Think of the role of being a parent. The satisfactions of parenthood are certainly part of our possessions. The role gives both identity and satisfaction that we are needed. But the time comes when our children leave home. That can be a crisis time. Psychologists speak of the empty-nest syndrome. We have to die to this particular role in this particular shape we have known. Children also, if they are to grow, have to die to parental dependencies. We have to die to our vocational role. A friend once made this comment about a lady who seemed so unhappy, "Her problem is that she is the retired chief operator of the Indiana Bell Telephone Company." Finding identity only in terms of our work is common in our culture. Daring the risk to die to old dependencies is what resurrection faith is all about. We have to die to all our dependencies someday.
Mark tells us that when the running man heard the challenge of Jesus "he was shocked and went away grieving for he had many possessions." Really, his things had him. Jesus did not seem surprised by his departure. He understood how our possessions can bind us. "How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God."
Martin E. Marty, writing in Context, passes along from Leonard Sweet the story of an Amish man who momentarily stopped his farming to watch a new neighbor move in. Among the many items that came out of the delivery van were a deluxe refrigerator with a built-in ice cube maker, a state-of-the-art stereo system with a compact disc drive, a remote control television with VCR, and a whirlpool hot tub. The following day, the new resident was welcomed by the Amish man and his wife, who brought a gift of homemade muffins and jam. After the usual greeting and cordial conversation, the Amish man concluded with "... and if anything should go wrong with your appliances or equipment, don't hesitate to call me."
"That's very generous of you," the new arrival interrupted.
"No problem," the Amish man replied, "I'll just tell you how to live without them."
Perhaps before any of us are ready to hear Jesus on this subject, we have to reach the point where all our toys begin to fail us and we begin to realize what trifles they are and become open to the love that is life indeed.
The Greek word that Mark chooses to describe him as running is rare in the New Testament. It has an association with athletics and suggests a forerunner followed by other runners. Might this suggest that our anonymous man is a trendy pace setter who is running in the fast lane? We learn from the ensuing dialogue that judged by the measurements prevailing in his culture he can be called a successful person. He is a decent fellow who has sought to obey all the prevailing oughts. We learn also that he is an achiever and an accumulator. He is beginning to look like a Reebok-shod suburban jogger. Suddenly we realize that though separated from him by 2,000 years, we have much in common.
Outwardly there is much about him with which we can identify. Inwardly also there is a kinship. "Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?" That is a heavy question. That is a value-loaded question. Questions of meaning and value are beginning to surface in his life. He is running in more ways than one. That road on which he has been running has suddenly turned into 1-95 and he cannot find the exit.
Or maybe he feels stuck in the clover leaf. Maybe the career race has turned into the rat race. This fellow is caught up in a crisis of meaning. He is no longer sure of the race. He is a metaphor for many of us. In a football game the ball carrier runs for the end zone. But as Tom Wingo broods in The Prince of Tides, "But where do we run when there are no crowds, no lights, no end zones?"
That crisis can assault any one of us. None of us are immune. Listen to these words of a nationally-known sportscaster. "I'm near the top of the mountain I saw as a young man. It's mostly salt." That's the meaning crisis. And that crisis is human enough and normal enough. It's quite apt to slip up on you between the ages of 35 to 65. These are years of transition for you. You are well along in your profession and have established a track record. Perhaps you have reached a plateau. Some advancements have passed by you. Younger people are on the scene and you're beginning to feel not quite up to speed. Your children are increasingly less dependent on you and have probably struck out on their own. These are the years when you will probably lose your parents. The thought of death surfaces in a way it never has before and with it thoughts of your own aging and death. And there is so much in our youth idolizing culture that feeds our anxiety about aging.
These are the vulnerable years when value questions emerge. You take a look around, measure the way you have come and all that you have acquired and wonder, "Is this all there is?" You may feel a desperate push to run faster, be pursued by a haunting fear of becoming obsolete or burning out. You may feel an anxious need to keep on looking young. A face lift may impress your friends, but it will not impress a flight of stairs. Do we begin to own our kinship with the running man? Where is the promised quality in my life? I have played by the rules, what is missing?
"You know the commandments," says Jesus and lists them. "I have kept these since my youth," replies the man. He has been running all his life, prodded by all the admonitions of home, church and culture. Brush your teeth and don't forget to floss ... say your prayers, work hard ... obey the law ... get ahead. Our man had lived by all the imperatives imposed upon him from the outside. That is the way we all grow at first, independently of our own decision. Our parents command us, our teachers teach us, our church preaches to us, society imposes its models and definitions upon us. We go along with the stream of influences. But sooner or later we get to the point where we have to do some deciding and choosing on our own. The running man was reaching that point. Mark tells us that Jesus looked at him and loved him. The Lord understood.
"You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me." Saint Francis took these words literally and the world was made brighter by that decision. But we also can remain true to the text by understanding the words this way. Jesus is asking this man and us to cut the nerve of our dependencies. And so often our possessions represent our dependencies. Jesus is asking this man and us to die to attachments that can provide only a temporary meaning for our lives. His challenge is to disentangle ourselves from our possessions. Roberta Flack sings a song with the intriguing title, Let Pharaoh Go. There is a reverse thought that grabs you. We think of Pharaoh as the one who can make the decision to keep us or free us. But so often the reverse is true. We do not want to let go of the things that hold us. After all, the things of this world give a certain kind of identity and assurance.
The theme of renunciation emerges in this encounter, a theme familiar throughout the gospels. Renunciation is a form of dying. We Christians tend to think of death and resurrection as experiences at the end of life, not as possibilities in the midst of life. The New Testament proclaims that the life of faith is a rhythm of death and resurrection, or should I not say deaths and resurrections. We have to die to many things during a life time if we are to experience any sort of new possibility.
Think of the role of being a parent. The satisfactions of parenthood are certainly part of our possessions. The role gives both identity and satisfaction that we are needed. But the time comes when our children leave home. That can be a crisis time. Psychologists speak of the empty-nest syndrome. We have to die to this particular role in this particular shape we have known. Children also, if they are to grow, have to die to parental dependencies. We have to die to our vocational role. A friend once made this comment about a lady who seemed so unhappy, "Her problem is that she is the retired chief operator of the Indiana Bell Telephone Company." Finding identity only in terms of our work is common in our culture. Daring the risk to die to old dependencies is what resurrection faith is all about. We have to die to all our dependencies someday.
Mark tells us that when the running man heard the challenge of Jesus "he was shocked and went away grieving for he had many possessions." Really, his things had him. Jesus did not seem surprised by his departure. He understood how our possessions can bind us. "How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God."
Martin E. Marty, writing in Context, passes along from Leonard Sweet the story of an Amish man who momentarily stopped his farming to watch a new neighbor move in. Among the many items that came out of the delivery van were a deluxe refrigerator with a built-in ice cube maker, a state-of-the-art stereo system with a compact disc drive, a remote control television with VCR, and a whirlpool hot tub. The following day, the new resident was welcomed by the Amish man and his wife, who brought a gift of homemade muffins and jam. After the usual greeting and cordial conversation, the Amish man concluded with "... and if anything should go wrong with your appliances or equipment, don't hesitate to call me."
"That's very generous of you," the new arrival interrupted.
"No problem," the Amish man replied, "I'll just tell you how to live without them."
Perhaps before any of us are ready to hear Jesus on this subject, we have to reach the point where all our toys begin to fail us and we begin to realize what trifles they are and become open to the love that is life indeed.
