Sayings of Jesus: The Rich Young Ruler
There is no such thing as uninterpreted Scripture. Even where we may think what a passage is “saying” is “obvious,” that very statement is itself reflecting an interpretation—one that seems “obviously” right to us.
Here, we will consider the story of Jesus’ encounter with a man typically known as the “rich young ruler,” which features in all three synoptic Gospels (Matthew 19, Mark 10, and Luke 18) and how we might interpret that, against the background of how it has typically been read.
The three passages are broadly similar in content and positioned similarly in terms of what surrounds them, so we will work from Mark’s account (likely the earliest), Mark 10:17–27. However, we note that only in Matthew is he described as “young” and only in Luke as a “ruler.”
Surprisingly, perhaps, we know almost nothing about the man’s identity. Aside from the features in the story, he is anonymous. This may well be intentional, insofar as the characteristics could be describing many people—then and now—with the anonymity suggesting that the underlying teaching point was intended to apply more broadly than this one individual.
The Greek word archon, translated “ruler,” is used of Nicodemus (in John 3) as a member of the Sanhedrin, the Jewish ruling council, and generally in the New Testament to speak of religious and community leaders, such as Jairus, a synagogue leader in Luke 8. “Rich young ruler” is a composite label, but we can reasonably infer that he is (i) comparatively young, (ii) conspicuously wealthy, and (iii) recognised as a person of some importance in a Jewish civil and religious leadership capacity.
The fact that we know relatively little about the man’s identity does not mean that we can read this story in a universal, decontextualised way (which is always a risk for modern Christians looking for propositional truth claims in everything in Scripture). Not simply because of decoupling it from its original context, but compounding the error by replanting it into our own—for example, by reading it through a Reformed evangelical lens. The man does not ask a modern evangelical question, such as “How do I become a Christian?” or “How do I get saved?” or “How do I get to go to heaven when I die?”
It’s easy to misread what he says by focusing on the first part, “What must I do . . .?” which will trigger modern evangelical sensitivities to “works-righteousness,” as if the man was saying, “What can I do to earn my salvation by my own good works?” I’d be surprised if you’ve not heard sermons that assume that’s the question—followed by the warning: “You can’t earn your salvation, Jesus has done everything, you don’t need to do anything.”
That warning may reflect a classic evangelical doctrine (actually, it’s an oversimplified caricature of a classic evangelical doctrine), but it’s not what the man’s asking here. It’s patently a misreading, which is evident once we resituate the story in its original first-century Jewish context.
There are two clues for understanding what he is asking.
The first is the man’s reverential greeting to Jesus: “Good teacher.” He’s asking Jesus for his theological opinion as a respected rabbi. Different rabbis had different takes on all manner of interpretive questions. When Jesus says (as he quite often does) “You have heard it said . . . but I say to you,” he is not contrasting “Judaism” with “Christianity” (aka, contrasting stereotypical “Jewish works-righteousness hypocrites” with himself). That disdainful assumption reflects the theological anti-Judaism that is sadly embedded in a lot of popular evangelical thinking as a result of its Reformation roots. Faithful Jewish people in Jesus’ day had all manner of interpretive questions they genuinely needed guidance on, often concerning how to relate ancient Torah in its original rural setting to then-contemporary urban life.
The same chapter, for example (Mark 10), begins with the question of divorce. There were two well-known rabbinic schools in Jesus’ time—the houses of Hillel and Shammai. Each had a different “take” on that question (and on many other questions, besides): one generally harsher, more “conservative,” and one generally kinder, more “liberal.” The questioner in that conversation was asking what side Jesus came down on; Jesus, of course, approaches the question from a different perspective entirely.
The second clue comes from the latter part of the man’s question: “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” The Greek word here, klēronomeō, means “to obtain by inheritance.” Eternal life was the inheritance of Israel as God’s covenant people. That was understood. The debate was around who constituted “Israel”—in other words, who was included in the covenant people. Was it all Jews, ethnically speaking? And in any event, who was a Jew? Was it determined by one’s father or mother? Was it between each individual and God? Or was it by being part of a faithful remnant of so-called “true” Israel (and if so, which remnant; which group)? These were critical questions!
The man is basically saying, “What do you say is required of me, Jesus, to be part of the faithful Israel that will receive the inheritance that God has promised us?” The man is not asking how to earn salvation, but what faithful covenant living looks like.
Jesus’ response must be read in that context—nothing to do with “good works” as such. Practising Torah, to the best of one’s abilities, was a heartfelt response to the covenant relationship, not a means of qualifying for a covenant relationship. Obeying Torah was how faithful Jews responded, thankfully, for having been included in—it wasn’t a way of trying to get in.
In responding to the question, Jesus plays a straight bat—he answers classically, by referring the man to Torah (the 613 commandments that constitute the “covenant charter”). The man responds, “I have kept all these since my youth.” How are we to read that? Is it arrogant bragging? That would be the assumption of those who have been raised on a conservative evangelical diet of “No one could ever keep the law.” Perhaps he says it with an air of relief. Maybe he was just looking for some reassurance. Or perhaps, he had some doubts.
Is there more to this rich young man than meets the eye? Perhaps Jesus knows (or senses) something more about him, beneath the surface.
The passage doesn’t tell us, but there are two possible clues here: one slightly speculative, one more concrete. The speculative one derives from the fourth of the five representative commandments that Jesus names (he doesn’t quote all 613, or even the famous ten that we call the Decalogue): “You shall not murder. You shall not commit adultery. You shall not steal. You shall not bear false witness. You shall not defraud. Honour your father and mother.”
“You shall not defraud” is not part of the Decalogue; it comes from Leviticus 19:13 (echoed in Leviticus 6:2–5 and Deuteronomy 24:14–15). Leviticus 19 is a chapter that modern scholars call an “inner biblical exegesis”—an elaboration and commentary on the Decalogue. It’s about being ethical and just in your business practices.
The question is therefore whether Jesus has had some kind of “word of knowledge” (1 Cor 12:8) from the Holy Spirit about how this young man came to be rich, or how, as a rich and powerful person, he treats the poor and less fortunate.
The man may have rightly felt that he had “kept” the headline ten commandments reflected in the Decalogue, but no one could realistically have held all 613 in mind and kept them consciously. Jesus may have perceived that, in the man’s not unnatural focus on the famous ten, he had missed or turned a blind eye to something significant at the ethical heart of Torah—in this case, Leviticus 19. (Missing the people-centred ethic underlying the majority of the commandments was Jesus’ recurring criticism of the religious leaders as well.)
There is another potential aspect here, as well. Wealth creation, as we understand it today, was not recognised in that ancient world setting. Wealth was perceived as finite, a zero-sum game; one person’s gain was someone else’s loss. Thus, those who became more wealthy, especially conspicuously wealthy, were concurrently causing others to become poorer.
But ultimately, all of this is speculation. What we do know, from a little later in the passage, when the young man goes away sad (we hear nothing from him after “I have kept all these since my youth”) and Jesus says, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God,” the disciples “were perplexed” at Jesus’ words. Their shock probably reflects another common thread in Jewish thought at the time: that prosperity is a reflection of divine blessing (gained, for example, from Deuteronomy 28 and Psalm 128). Perhaps the young man’s reaction is a reflection of that line of thinking: “He was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions,” and so too, it could explain the disciples’ reaction when they respond, “Then who can be saved?”
Be that as it may, the more concrete clue comes immediately before Jesus tells him: “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.” The clue is “Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said . . .” This was not a man whom Jesus was confronting angrily for financial misconduct, as we see in the clearing of the merchants from the temple precincts. This is someone to whom Jesus’ heart goes out. Jesus is “for him,” not against him, and wants him to “get it” about the problems money and possessions can cause him. Whether he got it or not, we don’t know—that’s left hanging in the story (probably deliberately so, inviting the hearer to reflect on it).
So why, if money and possessions are not evil per se, did Jesus ask such a difficult and challenging thing of him? Are we to read this as a timeless, universal expectation for Jesus followers—to literally “sell what you own”—as a precursor to “then come, follow me”? Or is it that Jesus, well aware of the timeless lure of money and possessions and its potentially damaging impact on discipleship, is using this encounter as a platform to teach it as a broader principle, with a “shock factor” built into the story to reinforce it?
Perhaps the intention is that we leave it to the Holy Spirit to speak to us individually on how to interpret and apply the story. But at a bare minimum, it does not harm to remind ourselves of the temptations surrounding money and possessions and the susceptibility of the human heart.
Perhaps we exclude ourselves from the “rich” category and get around Jesus’ words that way. It’s easy to define “rich” as “people who are significantly wealthier than me.” Perhaps we set the story aside as an interesting one-off that doesn’t apply literally to Christians today (phew).
As church pastors, we might reflect on our susceptibility to “go soft” on the richer congregants who significantly fund our churches—and who, by extension, preserve our own jobs. Might avoiding upsetting them, if not also pleasing them, be a moral temptation? It’s certainly true that in most churches and the denominational hierarchies surrounding them (that determine who advances in those organisations), the rich and powerful (the “money men”) have a disproportionate voice and are often not shy in letting others know that.
What things might we believe in our hearts as pastors, but not have the courage to say publicly, for fear of upsetting the rich and powerful (whether that concerns money or other matters)? Is there a temptation to make ethical compromises in what we believe and say to protect our career progression and personal status within our denominational ranks?
It’s easy to rationalise challenging words from Jesus and “interpret them away” (that’s one of the critiques that many ordinary Christians make about “interpretation” in general—and in this case, perhaps, rightly so). The story of the unnamed rich young ruler offers ample temptation to do exactly that.
Image: Heinrich Hofmann, Christ and the Rich Young Ruler (1889), public domain.