[Pentecost+19] "between you and us a great chasm has been fixed"

"There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores.

The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham.

The rich man also died and was buried. In Sheol, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side.

He called out, 'Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.'

But Abraham said, 'Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.'

He said, 'Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house—for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.'

Abraham replied, 'They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.'

He said, 'No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.'

Abraham said to him, 'If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.' "

Luke 16:19-31 (NRSV, alt,)

Beloved, what spoke to you in this passage?

Molly preached largely about the issue of control. The rich man, in agony after death, is asking that Lazarus (who is resting in the bosom of Abraham) be sent to serve him.

Molly said:

I've noticed something about myself, and maybe you've noticed the same thing about yourself. The more control I have, the more privilege I have, the more things go my way—the more outraged I am about the things that don't go my way. There is a kind of madness that seizes me when the bus is late, when the kid gets sick, when my plans are ruined. I think "that's not the way things are supposed to go!" as if I am the boss of the universe.

This is certainly something I can relate to much more easily than a rich man who hosts banquets every day.

It's an interesting question who is in control in this parable. Both the reward and punishment are in the passive voice. Do we believe that God has sent Lazarus to eternal rest and the rich man to eternal agony? When Abraham says, "between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us," do we think that means the post-death verdict is final and God will never change God's mind?

Molly cited theologian G. Penny Nixon: "the moral of the story expressed in this parable is that if you do not cross the gaping chasm between the rich and the poor in this life, you surely will not be able to do it in the next."

What really spoke to me in Molly's sermon was the indictment of how we ignore those in need who are just outside our gates -- or in our urban context, on the edges of the sidewalks we traverse.

Liturgist Carolyn G. reassured us that we don't necessarily have to give money to panhandlers, that even a moment of human connection can be a blessing. I asked in my invitation email if this feels comforting or like it lets us off the hook too easily, perhaps giving away my own cynical take.

David Lose on Working Preacher writes:

In this light, perhaps the issue isn't simply that the man is rich or that he demonstrates no compassion toward Lazarus (though both of these things are true and important), but rather that his wealth prevents him from seeing or relating to Lazarus as a fellow child of God. As Greg Carey points out in his very helpful commentary, notice how the rich man assumes Lazarus will do his bidding even in the hereafter. Compassion has surfaced as an important value at several points in Luke's gospel, variously ascribed to Jesus (7:13), to the good Samaritan (10:33), and most recently to the prodigal's waiting Father (15:20). Could it be that not having compassion is one sure sign of being lost? Even more, might Jesus be warning that riches can stunt our compassion by insulating us from the need of others?

Maybe this is the tie back to Jesus' pronouncement that one cannot love both God and wealth a few verses earlier. For to love God is to love neighbor, the one in need (see, again, 10:25-37). Perhaps the chasm that separates the rich man and Lazarus in death only echoes the one that separated them in life. And while Lazarus' comfort in the bosom of Abraham is the reversal of fortune promised at the outset of Luke's Gospel (1:46-55), maybe the rich man's torment is the isolation from human compassion he has lived with all of his life made now painfully manifest. [...]

It seems to me that part of what is at stake in Jesus' parable is the link between our wellbeing and that of others. If we cannot feel compassion for others we have lost something that is deeply and genuinely human. In time, the wealth that has numbed us to the need of our neighbor deludes us into imagining that we ourselves have no need, are sufficient unto ourselves, and can easily substitute hard work and a little luck for grace and mercy. At that point, we are, indeed, lost.

But I think the reverse is also true -- that as we become more responsive to the hurts, hopes, and needs of others we become more acutely aware of our own humanity, of our own longings and insufficiency and thereby can appreciate God's offer of manifest grace in Christ, the one who took on our need, our humanity, our lot and our life, all in order to show us God's profound love for each and all of us.

We talk a lot in this community about sharing our stories, about being vulnerable with each other. We talk about how the opportunity to offer care to another can be a gift to us the giver. Does our turning away from those in need on our streets contribute to a sort of soul death in ourselves? Does it keep us from full relationship with God in keeping us from full relationship with God's beloved children?

I sometimes worry about the heart-tugging stories -- that they fill us with compassion, but our distress is so great that we don't actually do anything about it.

In Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary [Season After Pentecost 2 (Propers 17 - Reign of Christ) - Year C], Scott Bader-Saye suggests that:

the more we become voyeurs upon the faraway sufferings of others, the more impotent we feel to do anything about pain and injustice. Despair and cynicism tempt us to close our eyes to suffering and shut down our overloaded sympathies.

In his Confessions, Augustine [...] asks, "How real is the mercy evoked by fictional dramas? The listener is not moved to offer help, but merely invited to feel sorrow."¹ [...]

As well as anyone, Johann Baptist Metz has called our attention to invisible suffering. For Metz, such attentiveness lies at the heart of Christian spirituality. He invites us into "a God-mysticism with an increased readiness to perceive, a mysticism of open eyes that sees more and not less. It is a mysticism that especially makes visible all invisible and inconvenient suffering, and -- convenient or not -- pays attention to it and takes responsibility for it, for the sake of a God who is a friend of human beings."² This parable challenges us not simply to share wealth but to become attentive to the poor and suffering persons who are before us, who dwell at our doorstep or, more likely, in another part of town where we do not see hem if we do not want to. Where is the invisible suffering in our world: the suffering of women and children in sweatshops, who are invisible behind the labels we buy; the suffering of animals in factory farms, who are invisible behind our fast food; the suffering of the suspect who is tortured behind locked doors to calm our cancerous fears? We live within political and economic systems that feed upon the sufferings of others, all the while keeping those sufferings invisible. The call of Christ is to refuse to live any longer by those convenient fabrications.

1. Augustine, The Confessions, trans. Maria Boulding (New York: Vintage Books, 1998), 38.
2. Johann Baptist Metz, A Passion for God: The Mystical-Political Dimension of Christianity, trans, J. Matthew Ashley (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1998), 163.

(page 118)

I wonder if perhaps part of the solution is not just to acknowledge those in need around us, but to acknowledge how not that different they are from us.

Mark Scandrette on The Hardest Question writes:

A friend of mine recently told me about an experience he had. After the gathering of his faith community he walked outside to find a man begging for spare change. "What do you need the money for?" he asked. The man replied, "I'd like to buy a beer." "Sorry," my friend said, "I can't give you money for that." Then my friend went on to a pub down the street with his church friends and bought a round of beers for everyone. Reflecting on this incident he said, "I guess I felt justified judging the begging man, assuming that he was an alcoholic, even though I would never do that with my friends."

I take my friends and family out for meals. When people come to my house I always offer them a cup of coffee or something else to drink and invite them to stay for dinner. I naturally and unconsciously give to people I consider to be my friends. So why do I face hesitation and resistance when the person is poor or unknown or smells bad. Maybe the honest truth is that I don't consider these people to be my friends or even potential friends the way I do people who look more like me or appear to be less needy. I don't think my friends are taking advantage of me when they stay at my house and eat my food or ask to borrow my car.

G. Penny Nixon suggests of our text from Luke, "Perhaps Jesus had been a guest at one of his listener's homes and had witnessed a scene similar to the one with which he begins his parable. This surely would have heightened the discomfort created by his words" (Feasting on the Word, p. 119).

Does Mark Scandrette's story indict us?

We worry about how best to use our money in God's service -- if we give money to someone on the street, will they use it in ways that will further diminish their well-being? Are we doing more good dollar-per-dollar if we give to an organization? Which organizations are making the most effective use of donations? Are we sure that these organization aren't acting in ways that violate our values (like the Salvation Army)?

Discussing the rich man's request that Lazarus return from the dead to warn his brothers, Scott Bader-Saye says:

The quest for certitude often becomes an excuse for not acting. This parable suggests that God will not, perhaps cannot, speak to us with a sign that escapes the need to be interpreted and believed. We are left with the call to act based not on an absolute certainty in the divine command, but on the visibility of the suffering face that becomes, for us, the face of Christ himself, shrouded in all the ambiguity of our finitude and fallenness.

(Feasting on the Word, page 120)

In the invitation to the offering, Carolyn G. said that God's standards are low.

Can we respond to the need we encounter, guided by the pull of God on our hearts, knowing that if we act imperfectly, it is likely better than if we had failed to act at all?

Does this story inspire us to make more of an effort to recognize all those around us as beloved children of God?

(As always, you're invited to comment anonymously/pseudonymously if you prefer.)