“Imagining the Gospel Scene” is a series from the Jesuit Media Lab. On occasional Sundays throughout this liturgical year, creators in the JML community will respond to the day’s Gospel passage through the practice of Ignatian contemplation, or what is sometimes called “imaginative prayer.”
In his Spiritual Exercises, St. Ignatius of Loyola invites participants to place ourselves in Gospel scenes using the imagination, relying on our senses to develop a distinctive, personal perspective on a given story — and thereby getting to know Christ better. After praying with the Gospel using their imaginations, our contributors will create a piece of art flowing from their experience — a painting, poem, short story, song, photograph or work in another medium.
In today’s installment, Christine Marie Eberle reflects on the rich man in Mark 10:17-27 from the perspective of one of the women in his company.
Twenty-eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time: October 13, 2024
Mark 10:17-27
A reflection on the rich man from today’s Gospel, from the perspective of one of the women in his company:
As Jesus was setting out on a journey, a man ran up, knelt down before him, and asked him, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
Why does no one understand what it takes to get a gaggle of disciples packed up and ready to move? “As he was setting out on a journey” does no justice to the chaos of bedrolls and cooking pots being shouldered by the sweating, clanking followers of Jesus — take nothing but a walking stick being the exception, not the rule. We hadn’t gone a dozen steps before a finely dressed man blocked our path, throwing himself to his knees and begging, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”
What a question — flung out like he was asking directions to Nazareth and not the world to come! We exchanged exasperated glances, then groaned when it became clear that Jesus was going to engage the stranger. (Who were we kidding? When did he not?) We laid down our burdens and got comfortable.
Jesus began by reprimanding the man’s obsequious approach, then reminded him that, as far as eternal life goes, we’ve had a pretty useful checklist since Moses schlepped the tablets down from Sinai. That should have settled the matter. But in a burst of what I assumed to be performative piety, the man protested. “Teacher, all of these I have observed from my youth.”
So, let’s get this straight: you’re well-off (a classic sign of divine favor), and a self-professed goody-two-shoes, yet you’re still wringing your hands about your eternal salvation? We rolled our eyes and made to rise — until we saw the expression on Jesus’ face.
Jesus, looking at him, loved him.
Why? While the rest of us were variously annoyed, amused, exasperated or skeptical, why was love Jesus’ immediate response? (I know what you’re thinking, but this wasn’t the Jesus-loves-everybody kind of love. I watched his face melt with tenderness.)
“You are lacking in one thing,” he said gently.
Just one? What was it? Humility? Common courtesy? My uncharitable brain would have continued to serve up hypothetical shortcomings, had I not been arrested by Jesus’ next words.
“Go, sell what you have, and give to the poor and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.”
Come, follow me? That was an invitation whose recipients we could number. The challenge that preceded it was no less stunning, though. Sell all — seriously, ALL — and give to the poor, in exchange for something called treasure in heaven.
“Well, that’s never gonna happen,” one of the guys mugged, and the others snorted and chortled, shook their heads and got to their feet, shouldering their ragtag possessions before easing on down the road. But my eyes lingered on the man’s crestfallen face.
What was it about him that inspired Jesus’ loving response and generous invitation? Having had years to ponder the question, I’m better able to see it through the Lord’s eyes now. It’s a terrible burden, wanting so much to be good yet fearing nothing you do is ever enough. Perhaps the surge of hope that threw him to his knees in front of Jesus was an act of faith — faith that he had finally met the One who held the key to his peace — a peace that neither wealth nor works could unlock. A peace, one might say, that surpassed all understanding.
Nothing moved Jesus’ heart quite like an earnest expression of faith.
Most assume the rich man went away grieving the high cost of comfort, unable to part with his many things. Certainly, Jesus’ next words — about camels and needles and whatnot — did little to dispel that assumption. But I believe the man was saddened by the immensity of the task that lay before him: the decisions to be made about each expensive object and priceless family heirloom. It wasn’t going to be easy, selling all. Yet I had no doubt that he would try.
What made me so certain? Because of the odd bit of poetry that kept jogging through my brain as we continued our journey.
What treasures from my chest would I not shove
If Jesus looked at me with that much love?
Maybe the guy only needed time.
Art: Christ and the Rich Young Ruler by Heinrich Hofmann (public domain)