I
cherish the style of French novelist Marcel Proust – a style so detailed and so
contemplative that, as one editor rejecting Proust's work wrote, it takes one
of his characters thirty pages to turn over in bed before falling asleep.
Detailed,
interior writing moves me.
The
writing of the Bible is not like that. It's amazing how brief, how bam, bam,
bam, the stories in Genesis are. Creation! Expulsion from Eden! The first
murder! The flood! And yet these rapid-fire narratives have captured
imaginations and sparked debate around the world for thousands of years.
My
first exposure to Bible stories was listening to them in church. I peopled
these sparse narratives. I embroidered their mise-en-scene and provided rich
backstories. All this happened in my head spontaneously. Thus these stories
have had a hold on me all my life. The combination of their sparseness and
their power recruited my creativity to engage with them.
So it
is with the man who went away sad.
It's
a very brief encounter; only a few sentences in Matthew, Mark, and Luke.
Jesus
was teaching. He was answering questions about marriage. A rich man approached
him and asked how he could best live his life. Jesus said follow the
commandments. The man asked which ones. Jesus listed them. I already follow
those, the guy said.
Now,
here's the thing. The man could have stopped there. He could have said, Okay,
Jesus. I've got it. I asked you what I should be doing, and you told me
something I already do. So I can just move on now, satisfied.
But
he didn't.
See?
That's how a briefly told story gets under your skin. You pay attention to
every detail.
The
man asks what else he can do.
And Jesus
delivers his zinger. "Sell what you have, give to the poor, and follow
me."
In
retrospect, how many of us wish we could have been in this man's sandals? Jesus
Christ is holding out his hand and saying "Follow me." What a supreme
adventure and privilege!
The
man merely "goes away sad." He is rich. He doesn't want to sell what
he has.
And
that's it. That's all we have of the man.
But I
see him, and I feel him, too.
I see
him as young, and handsome, with lots of the finer things in life, including
women, which really are just things to him. I see him as really comfortable,
and knowing that craving that only a lucky life can instill: the craving for
something other than good fortune.
He's
on the brink of entering into splendor and satisfaction beyond his wildest
imaginings, and he turns it down for just more of the tawdry same: more coins,
more babes, more bread and olive oil. Not even pizza. No tomatoes for another
1,490 plus years.
The
story ends there. He is still going away from the best thing he has ever
encountered. He is still focused on his material wealth and status. He is still
sad.
I
talk to him. I try to convince him. Maybe someday I'll write a story about him.
No doubt someone else already has.
When
a movie ends sadly, I often try to make up a plausible, alternative, happy
ending. That's harder to do than it sounds. I can conjure no plausible happy
ending for "Age of Innocence," for example, no matter how hard I try.
Newland Archer is such a royal screw-up. I can't give Archer a happy ending and remain true to the character Edith
Wharton created.
I
want to give the man who went away sad a happy ending, but I want to be true to
his character, and I want to honor his choices.
I
hope the story has been written that creates a believable rich man who went
away sad, but eventually found happiness.
Today's
reflection brought to you by the eight of cups, a card that depicts a man
walking away sad.
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