Mark 10:17-27

 Lent is one of those seasons in the church that I both love and well, hate might be too strong a word, so I’ll say, have difficulty with.  It’s not the color, I love the color purple, which symbolizes penitence and confession of our sins.  I love the different worship services, beginning with Ash Wednesday - placing ashes on our foreheads to remember our mortality and that it is God whom we belong to and God whom we need.

 I love Maundy Thursday - remembering the Last Supper Jesus had with his disciples - sitting around tables together in Moody Hall, reading scripture, singing, feeding one another the bread and sharing the cup.    I love Good Friday, as we walk with Jesus to the cross.  It’s a beautiful and haunting service and very few of us emerge from a Good Friday service without tears.  And of course I love Easter - celebrating Jesus resurrection - singing the Hallelujah chorus, all the lilies, and the chaos of the Easter Egg hunt out on the back lawn.

 I even sort of like giving up something - a tradition for many people during Lent - a symbol of sacrifice and fasting.  The idea behind it being that every time we crave what we’ve given up we’re supposed to take a moment and pray and think of the sacrifice Christ made for us.  I gave up potato chips.  I’ve been praying a lot.  Even better, I love the idea of taking on something during Lent, like a service project - filling book bags with school supplies for Afghanistan or doing something nice for someone else each week - visiting an older neighbor who would love the company, or caring for a friend’s child who just needs an hour to herself.
 

There is much I love much about Lent.

 What I have difficulty with, I’ve decided, is all the other stuff that happens during Lent; the inward reflection, the prayer, the reading, the really looking at myself as God sees me, really thinking about how I’m doing in my walk with Christ.  I don’t spend a lot of time doing this for a many reasons, for one, I’m usually too busy telling you to do it, and two, it’s actually hard for me to sit and be quiet for any length of time..  I like to blame my household - it’s never quiet there, but I know that’s not completely true.  Sitting quietly, by myself,  is a discipline I have yet to master.

 But this year is going to be different. This year I have committed to reading the daily Lenten Meditations from the works of Henri J. M.. Nouwen - every year I order 150 of them and I implore you each and every one of you to pick one up and take one home and read it;  it will make your Lenten journey better, deeper, richer, I tell you.  And year after year many of you come up to me and say to me, "You were right. It was wonderful.  I got so much out of those Lenten readings."  And I would think to myself each time, "One of these years I have got to read one of those."

 So this is the year.  This is the year I take time to read and pray and reflect inward.  This is the year I slow down...if only for a few minutes
 each day...to open myself up to God, and to myself,  to see how I’m doing.

 The only problem is, this inward reflection stuff is hard. I know it’s good for us, I know it’s even necessary.  But still it’s hard -  opening ourselves up, really looking at all the stuff inside us, there’s some stuff there we’d rather not look at, rather not deal with, things lurking around inside our hearts, deeply imbedded in our souls that we should have dealt with long, long ago, but just haven’t, people we should have reconciled with years ago - but just can’t quite bring ourselves to call.  People we need to say thank you to, I’m sorry, to, I love you, to, but for one reason or another, just haven’t been able to.

 Opening ourselves up, seeing ourselves like God sees us, and then doing those things we know we should do.  It’s hard. It’s work. And, sometimes it hurts. Which is why so many of us don’t go there.  Even at this time of year when we’re invited to join the rest of the Christian church in prayer and self reflection.

 Instead some of us move through life, from one day to the next, smiling, waving. Deep down there may be a hole inside, an ache, something missing, something we’re searching for, but we manage to hide it pretty well. We keep busy with phone calls, meetings, errands, kids, things.  There are a million ways to keep busy as you know.    A million ways to keep from seeing ourselves as God sees us, to keep from seeing ourselves real.  We hide behind the roles we play, mother, wife, husband, or our careers, we hide behind masks of our own making; masks that say, "I’m o.k. nothings wrong with me. I’m o.k."

  I talked with a woman once who said she has  a hard time coming to church because everyone around her looks like they have it all together - they look so happy - and she feels like she’s the only one with troubles - the only one who’s having trouble with her marriage, the only one who’s having trouble with her kids, the only one with pain in her life, the only one struggling.

   And my heart ached for her because you know as well as I do that’s just not true.  We all have our own troubles and our own share of pain,  our own struggles with life.  Some of us just hide it better than others.  And when we go out in public we put on our masks that we’ve gotten so good at wearing, and we pass each other at the grocery store, on the sidewalk, or in coffee hour and we holler at each other as we pass by,  "How are you?"  And we answer one another, "Fine, Just fine, you?"  And it never goes any further than that.

   Until one day, someone stops us and asks, "How are you doing?" and they’re not asking in passing, they really want to know, they’re looking right at you, and before you know it, you’re really telling them.  You let the mask fall and you’re telling them that life has been kind of hard lately and you’ve been really struggling with some things and it doesn’t help that apparently winter is not going to end and all you want to do is cry, and before you know it, you are.  It’s hard and it hurts but there’s healing, there, too.

   When I first moved to Connecticut to serve a church there, I was in such a place, thinking no one else was going through what I was going through, no one else could possibly know the pain I was feeling, but I hid it very well, had my mask on good and tight.   "How are you, people would ask.  Fine, just fine, I’d say. And you?  Meanwhile, part of me was dying inside.

 When one night, it was fairly late, I was making a run to the grocery store - we were out of milk - we’re always out of milk - and as I was leaving, milk in hand, a woman I knew - I didn’t know her real we'll - just from different meetings in town -  this woman caught me as I ran out the door and said, "How are you?"

 And there was something about the way she asked, something about the way she was looking at me, that told me she really meant it, she really wanted to know, and instead of blowing past her with my usual, fine, just fine, thank you.  I stopped. And I began to tell her how I really was.

 How I was struggling with living in Westport, with my job, how I didn’t feel like I fit in and how there was a chance one of my children was going to get thrown out of pre-school for kicking the teacher and I would be labeled as the mother of that boy who got kicked out of pre-school - and my son would be labeled as the kid who got kicked out of pre-school and he and I would never have any friends, and I was a bad mom and before knew it, tears were streaming down my cheeks.

 Right there in front of Stop and Shop. In front of God and the whole town.  It was hard and it hurt, but as this woman listened to me pour out all that was in my heart, there was healing there, too.

 And I think that’s the purpose of Lent, that’s what Lent is all about.  It’s an invitation to see ourselves and each other real, if we dare, and in the midst of all that seeing and looking at ourselves, the good, the bad and the ugly, there’s an invitation to healing and wholeness and new life, as well.

 And I think that’s what our gospel lesson is about today, too.

  In our story Jesus is approached by a rich man who is setting out on a journey.  He appears to have all that he needs, wealth, position, possessions. But he’s missing something, deep down there must be a hole, an ache, something he’s searching for, so he comes looking for Jesus, kneels at his feet and asks him, "how do I inherit eternal life."  He has done everything right so far, follows the 10 commandments, doesn’t steal, doesn’t use the Lord’s name in vain, observes the Sabbath, it must keep him very busy.

 But still something’s missing.  What else can he do?

  And Jesus looks.  Really looks at him, looks at him like only Jesus can look at somebody, deep into his heart, deep into his soul, he sees all that he is, and all that he isn’t, and all that he can be, all that stuff inside him, the good, the bad and the ugly, he sees the rich man for who he really is, sees him real and loves him anyway.
 

 And aren’t we lucky that God can look at us the same way, deep into heart, deep into our soul, and sees all that we are, and all that we aren’t, all that we can be, all that stuff inside us, the good, the bad and the ugly, aren’t we lucky that God can see us for who we really are, see us real and love us anyway.

 Jesus looks at the rich man and loves him and knows what the man is missing in his life.

 So he offers him  an invitation to healing and wholeness and eternal life.

 See all you own, he says to him, give the money to the poor and follow me.  Then you will find what you’re searching for, then you will have what you need, then you will have healing and wholeness and eternal life.  But the rich man can’t, he has too many possessions, so he turns and walks away, surrounded in his grief.

 Jesus sees the the rich man’s pain and he speaks to it as he says to his disciples, "How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of  needle than for someone who is rich to enter God’s kingdom."

 The disciples are astounded.  Then who can be saved they ask?  And Jesus gives them this answer which offers hope for all of us,  "for mortals it is impossible, but not for God; for God all things are possible".

 I like to think that the rich man heard this as he walked away in his grief, that he overheard Jesus’ words to the disciples, that for mortals it is impossible, but not for God, for God all things are possible.  I like to think that the rich man heard this and understood that if he changed his mind,  and followed Jesus, he would find what he was looking for, with God’s help.

  It would be hard, chances are it would hurt, but there would be healing, too.

 This Lent, we are invited to see ourselves real, to see ourselves as Jesus and God see us - to really see, to open ourselves up, to look closely at all that stuff lurking inside our hearts and deeply imbedded in our souls,  and then to accept God’s invitation to healing and wholeness and new life.

  It’s not an easy journey, it will be hard, and at times it may hurt, but it’s worth the trip, so I’m told.

 May God bless each one of us on our Lenten journey this spring.

 Let us pray:  Living God, you who see us and love us still, see us now and speak to the hurts, the pains, the emptiness in our lives. Help us to find what we are searching for, help us to find you this day. This is our prayer and our plea, to follow in your way and in your steps all the days of our lives.  Amen.

Linda B. Hirst