The Rich Young Man and the Leper

Once upon a time there was a rich young man. He wanted to be a knight - but he was a commoner. He wanted to be a crusader - but he was a clothing salesman.

His father’s business was importing fine fabrics from France.

His father gave him fine clothes to wear so he could impress all his rich young friends with his fashionable clothing made of imported fabrics. His father gave him a fine horse to ride.

His father gave him money so he could keep up with the fast crowd and impress them even more with his stylishness.

But then one day the rich young man was out riding on his fine horse in his fine clothes.  On the side of the road he saw a beggar. Not just any beggar - a man with a skin disease. A leper!

Stay away! That was the standard protocol of the time. Don’t come near them - you might catch the disease. And look at them. They have open sores on their bodies. How could you touch them anyway?

We don’t know the name of the man with the disease. But he might as well have been Jesus.

For the rich young man leapt from his horse, went up to him, embraced him, and kissed him.

Not so much the attitude of the man in the Gospel story. What was the difference? Maybe this rich young man had heard the Gospel story. Maybe he just knew he wasn’t so different from the other man. Not deep inside.

For they were both of infinite value in the sight of God.

We have seen things like this in our own day. In Sacramento General Hospital in the summer of 1983 when I was working as a trainee chaplain, someone found out I came from Berkeley. And that was near San Francisco. And you know about San Francisco. Stay away from him! He might have that disease. You know the one. (They didn’t know what to call it yet.) And so the teasing went on - sick, cruel, cased in fear.

Fear. Shunning the unknown, the different.

Our young man, by the way, wanted to be a crusader. He got as far as to get the gear (Dad paid) and the horse and start on his way. But he encountered another poor man, this man a knight (a real one) but destitute, without armor or spear. And the young man in a fit of compassion gave him what he had. And went home rejoicing. Dad was furious.

And then came the last straw. One day the young man went into a church. It was in ruins. So he went back into town, to the warehouse where all the fine fabrics were kept, loaded his horse up and rode to the next town. He sold the fabric and the horse, brought the money back to the church. He tried to give it to the priest. Who wouldn't touch it. Hw wouldn’t have any part of this escapade.

So the young man in a fit of youthful pique tossed the money - now filthy lucre - into a corner of the church and went away. He didn’t get very far. His father was furious. And threw him into the basement of their house. For a month. Or a week. And then he drew him out, dragged him in front of the bishop, right in the town square, and demanded justice. This son of mine has squandered my wealth. Get him to give me back everything he has had from me.

All right, said the young man. You win. And there and then he gave back to the old man everything he had had from him. Every. Last. Stitch.

Naked in the public square.

The bishop threw his cope around him and led him off.

(Later he found a castoff gardener’s garment and wore that. His new life had begun.)

By now you know, or have guessed, the name of the rich young man.

Extraordinary. Singular. Unique. Admirable - but a tough act to follow. You wouldn’t expect, for example, a pope to name himself after that young man, would you?

But there was something about him. Something ennobling - no, better than ennobling, humanizing - about him. Something compelling - because unlike the wealthy man in the gospel story, he didn’t see his status as something to be grasped and held onto. In fact he gladly gave it up for another.

And in fact hard as his act was to follow, some of his rich friends, his father’s customers, well, former customers at this point, followed him into his new life.

They embraced the gospel without fear.

They embraced charity as eagerly as the young man had embraced the leper.

They embraced poverty as if it were the fairy princess in a fable, and they were the heroes, fallen at her feet.

They embraced a love of the world and all that is in it. They served the people, rich and poor, and sang to them of God.

They embraced obedience - to the gospel - even when it was hard. Take up your cross and follow me.

And they went on their way rejoicing.

We have a prayer we can say, inspired by their story (#62, BCP, 833):

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

2016 September 25

Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost

CProper 21

Amos 6:1a,4-7

Psalm 146

1 Timothy 6:6-19

Luke 16:19-31

The Book of Common Prayer, 1979, 833.

St. Andrew's Episcopal Church, Tucson. Sunday, September 25, 2016. JRL+


© John Leech 2016. All rights reserved.

The Rich Young Man and the Leper

O God, you declare your almighty power chiefly in showing mercy and pity: Grant us the fullness of your grace, that we, running to obtain your promises, may become partakers of your heavenly treasure; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

The Rich Young Man and the Leper

Once upon a time there was a rich young man. He wanted to be a knight - but he was a commoner. He wanted to be a crusader - but he was a clothing salesman.

His father’s business was importing fine fabrics from France.

His father gave him fine clothes to wear so he could impress all his rich young friends with his fashionable clothing made of imported fabrics. His father gave him a fine horse to ride.

His father gave him money so he could keep up with the fast crowd and impress them even more with his stylishness.

But then one day the rich young man was out riding on his fine horse in his fine clothes.  On the side of the road he saw a beggar. Not just any beggar - a man with a skin disease. A leper!

Stay away! That was the standard protocol of the time. Don’t come near them - you might catch the disease. And look at them. They have open sores on their bodies. How could you touch them anyway?

We don’t know the name of the man with the disease. But his name might as well have been the name of the man who gave us this morning’s parable. He might as well have been Jesus.

For the rich young man leapt from his horse, went up to him, embraced him, and kissed him.

Not so much the attitude of the man in the Gospel story. What was the difference? Maybe this rich young man had heard the Gospel story. Maybe he just knew he wasn’t so different from the other man. Not deep inside.

For they were both of infinite value in the sight of God.

We have seen things like this in our own day. In Sacramento General Hospital in the summer of 1983 when I was working as a trainee chaplain, someone found out I came from Berkeley. And that was near San Francisco. And you know about San Francisco. Stay away from him! He might have that disease. You know the one. (They didn’t know what to call it yet.) And so the teasing went on - sick, cruel, cased in fear.

Fear. Shunning the unknown, the different.

Our young man, by the way, wanted to be a crusader. He got as far as to get the gear (Dad paid) and the horse and start on his way. But he encountered another poor man, this man a knight (a real one) but destitute, without armor or spear. And the young man in a fit of compassion gave him what he had. And went home rejoicing. Dad was furious.

And then came the last straw. One day the young man went into a church. It was in ruins. So he went back into town, to the warehouse where all the fine fabrics were, loaded his horse up and rode to the next town. He sold the fabric and the horse, brought the money back to the church. He tried to give it to the priest. Who wouldn’t have any part of this escapade.

So the young man in a fit of youthful pique tossed the money - now filthy lucre - into a corner of the church and went away. He didn’t get very far. His father was furious. And threw him into the basement of their house. For a month. Or a week. And then he drew him out, dragged him in front of the bishop, right in the town square, and demanded justice. This son of mine has squandered my wealth. Get him to give me back what he has had from me.

All right, said the young man. You win. And there and then he gave back to the old man everything he had had from him. Every. Last. Stitch.

Naked in the public square.

The bishop threw his cope around him and led him off.

(Later he found a castoff gardener’s garment and wore that. His new life had begun.)

By now you know, or have guessed, the name of the rich young man.

Extraordinary. Singular. Unique. Admirable - but a tough act to follow. You wouldn’t expect, for example, a pope to name himself after that young man, would you?

But there was something about him. Something ennobling - no, better than ennobling, humanizing - about him. Something compelling - because unlike the wealthy man in the gospel story, he didn’t see his status as something to be grasped and held onto. In fact he gladly gave it up for another man - men.

And in fact hard as his act was to follow, some of his rich friends, his father’s customers, well, former customers at this point, followed him into his new life.

They embraced the gospel without fear.

They embraced charity as eagerly as the young man had embraced the leper.

They embraced poverty as if it were the fairy princess in a fable, and they were the heroes, fallen at her feet.

They embraced a love of the world and all that is in it. They served the people, rich and poor, and sang to them of God.

They embraced obedience - to the gospel - even when it was hard. Take up your cross and follow me.

And they went on their way rejoicing.

We have a prayer we can say, inspired by their story:

Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is hatred, let us sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, union; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that we may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.

2016 September 25

Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost

CProper 21

Amos 6:1a,4-7

Psalm 146

1 Timothy 6:6-19

Luke 16:19-31

The Book of Common Prayer, Prayer 62, page 833.

The Rich Man and Lazarus

Back in 1980 I worked in Washington, D.C., and I walked to work.

I started out in Georgetown on Que Street, crossing the Buffalo Bridge walking east to Dupont Circle, then down Connecticut Avenue to the corner of Lafayette Park, past Decatur House and Blair House, crossing at the light, then along Pennsylvania Avenue down to 13th Street N.W. As I crossed at that stop light I came onto the sidewalk in front of the White House.

There was an old lady who wore purple, who needed a safe place. She found it in front of the White House. As I walked by each morning on my way to work farther downtown, I would see her there, huddled against the fence, in the corner between it and the guards' station. She was there every morning that fall (1980).

I checked once, with the guard, an eye check, just a nod: yes, he knew she was there, and yes, they looked out for her, every night. And every morning I would walk by. She was cold but she was safe.

Lazarus lay at the gate of a big house too - but he was starving. He would have gladly gathered up the scraps discarded by the rich man's guests.

He was invisible - or more truthfully, ignored.

The day came when that rich man died - and discovered that he wasn't safe.

Fortunes were reversed. All of his life was built on the pleasure principle - he lived well and trusted to his wealth to bring him safety. But that was all gone now.

"Let goods and kindred go; this mortal life also" - he wasn't ready for that.

All that was left was what he could have always counted on - the justice and mercy of God - but he'd counted on something else: Mammon, that is, worldly wealth or power or status - any one of those things that people place between themselves and reality, themselves and the true God, themselves and the reality of the life that is really life - the life of obedience ot God.

Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, he says - did he still not get it?

His next request: send him to my brothers, my closest kindred, so they may be spared this agony. At least give me that.

But the estate tax is 100% - it's all gone and worthless now.

What lasts? What lasts but the promise of God?

Jeremiah discovered the promise held in the most desperate circumstances. Jerusalem was under siege - the mighty army of Babylon was encamped beneath its crumbling walls.

He had told the leaders of Israel there was no point - they had no chance to defeat this army. God would remold Israel, remake it - break it if need be - and only in God would they find safety. Certainly they would not find it in their own prowess.

Jeremiah relied on nothing less than God's promise when he insisted on buying a plot of land for full price, in full public view - when he could have driven a hard bargain, or just forgotten about it.

His city was under siege and he knew there was no hope to be found in the walls and troops defending those walls - the mighty army around them was bound to come in - and sure enough they did. (Jerusalem fell, and its leaders went into exile in Babylon for seventy years.)

But before that day the Lord sent a message to Jeremiah and through the prophet to the people: there will come a day beyond that day. Beyond defeat, the death of your hopes in common defenses, there will be a new era - and houses and vineyards, and fields will once again be valued and purchased here.

Bury that pot for now - it contains what must be preserved: the due dull formula of commerce of course but now commerce serves a holy purpose - not for its own sake but for something beyond human striving - it points, a sign of God's eternal faithfulness: there will come a time when all will be made right and all will be well.

Paul tells Timothy start living now like that day is almost here: anticipate the return from exile, the coming of the true king, the day of the Lord.

All things will be set right - put your trust in God.

What fouls people up is not wealth or poverty - what fouls people up is the eager striving, the craving, the wanton desire, the desperate need, to get more and then more again, that leads to destruction.

What you have - what you have been given - you have been given in trust, to use to the glory of God.

If you must pursue anything seek the kingdom of God and his righteousness, seek godliness, faith, love, and gentle endurance - it is in these that the path to true riches lies.

What you have before you is imperishable - take the transitory things as a way to work good in the world, be rich in good works, generously sharing God's abundance, so that you may grasp at last the true inheritance: the life that is really life, in God's presence.

Jeremiah bought the field his kinsman offered to show that the land of promise was going to see the fulfillment of God's purpose. You can live that way - it's not safe but it's good.

There is an old woman who lives in the desert - she sold her house in the foothills and moved far away from the city to a ranch outside a small mining town. It's near the border - the southern border.

Sometimes people come to her house out of the desert - they are sick, they are tired, they are poor, they are hungry, they are old - or young; and she takes care of them.

Lady, please, the Border Patrol says, don't - they are worried about her safety.

But she does - so far, safely.

But I think she know that it may not always be safe for her, but that is not what she is thinking about: it is not safe for them now. - and so she goes on loving, unstintingly.

It's a careless, reckless love - like the love of God for his people.

For we are the ones in the desert, crossing from desolation to hope.

We are the strangers who are welcomed, that are welcomed by God.

May God bless us in careless, reckless ways, in the abundant love of his Son, who gave his all for us - who, having more in his possession than the richest of rich men ever had, gave up his seat at the side of God and took on our humanity, and came to us, God in the flesh, that we could have life and have it abundantly.

Good and gracious God, all that we have comes from you; make us sensible of your grace in all our dealings with each other and with your whole creation.

Grant that we may reflect your generosity in our lives and do your will here on earth that we may come to rejoice in your heavenly kingdom,

through Jesus Christ our Lord who is alive and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, world without end. Amen.

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Do good, be rich in good works, generous and ready to share, live in peace with all. The peace of the Lord be always with you...


Grace, mercy, and peace be yours from God who abounds in love for you and all people; and the blessing of God almighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, be among you and remain with you always.

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Prayer, peace, and blessing by David Adam, from Glimpses of Glory: Prayers for the Church Year, Year C (SPCK, 2000).

Insights gleaned from Herbert O'Driscoll, Fred Craddock, Sharon Ringe, Tom Wright, and other sources.

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