I take a class down at the JCC in West Kendall and so at least once each week I am stopped at the light at the corner of Kendall Drive and Route 1 where panhandlers walk between the rows of cars. Their signs – handwritten on cardboard – say “lost my job,” or “5 kids and homeless,” or “God bless you.” You know. You’ve been there or somewhere else like that corner where you’re faced with the decision, do I give him something, or do I not support this kind of thing? Some of us carry food bars and other nutritious snacks to give out; some of us roll up our windows and refuse to make eye contact; some of us reach out our windows and give a dollar or two. Some of us do one thing today and something different the next time.
What do you tell yourself when you sit waiting for the light to change at a corner like that? Do you think if he would just stop drinking, or if he would just learn English, or if she didn’t have so many babies? Do you think there are agencies to help these people? What do you think to protect yourself from the pain of those around us? It is human nature to find some reason why things are the way we they are so that we can mostly ignore it without feeling too guilty. Certainly some of us think, “I can’t fix all the problems of this world” and didn’t even Jesus say “the poor you will always have with you”?
In Ken Folett’s novel, Fall of Giants, young Billy, 13, much to the chagrin of his father, prays aloud at Sunday service. This part of the novel is set in the Welch coal country, early in this century. Following a disastrous mine fire, caused in large measure by the failure of the wealthy owners of the mine company to install proper safety measures, Billy dares to question God’s purpose. He stands, closes his eyes, and lifts his voice.
“O, God, we have asked thee this morning to bring comfort to those who have lost a husband, a father, a son, and now Lord we ask for one more gift, the blessing of understanding. We need to know, Lord, why this explosion happened. All things are in thy power, so why didst thou allow fire damp to fill the main level [of the shaft] and why didst thou permit it to catch a light? How come, Lord?”
We want answers, too, and the people in Jesus’ day did also. One of the most common beliefs was that misfortune was no mistake, no accident. It was common to believe that those who were rich and fortunate were being rewarded for their goodness and that those who were not were being punished for their sins – known or unknown. This was a popular view in Jesus’ day, especially among the rich, and indeed there is much in scripture to support the view that God promises fertility, prosperity, and victory in war to those who obey the Lord. In biblical days riches were not seen as a bad thing at all, but rather a very good thing, a sure sign of God’s pleasure.
So it would have been a surprise for Jesus’ audience to hear Luke’s parable of the rich man and Lazarus that is our Gospel this morning. The idea that the rich man would wind up in a place of torment and the beggar would wind up in Abraham’s bosom would have shocked its hearers.
The story of Lazarus and the rich man is full of contrasts and reversals. The poor man is named, while the rich man is not. The rich man is dressed in purple, while the poor man is “dressed” in sores. The rich man feasts sumptuously, while Lazarus, looking up, longs to be satisfied with what falls from the table. The rich man has a proper burial, while Lazarus is carried away by angels. By the end of the story, Lazarus, the poor man, is looking down from heaven, and the rich man is the one looking up, begging.
This parable is a warning to the wealthy and a word of comfort and hope to the poor. Jesus’ identity as a prophet who was anointed to “preach good news to the poor” (Luke 4:18) was manifested in living color when he told this parable. He spoke out against the inequities of his day by his stern and unrelenting admonition to the wealthy that they share their earthy resources and cease their oppression wherever it existed.
Pretty good, so far, no argument. But where does that leave us who are neither wealthy nor destitute? It is hard for me to identity with either the rich man or Lazarus. The point of the story is to tell us a truth that we need to know in hopes that it will change our lives. The rich man’s real problem was not that he was wealthy, but that he did not even see Lazarus at his gate. He ignored him. He looked past him in his concern for himself and his way of life. Just as there was a great chasm between Father Abraham in heaven and the place of torment below, so there was an equally great chasm between the rich man and Lazarus at his gate on earth. And that can be our problem, too. For as long as we insist on separating ourselves from those we refuse to even see, we perpetuate that chasm. And yet Jesus teaches us that when we give to one of the least of our brothers and sisters, we give to him.
So we end with a word of hope but a word of caution as well. We are stewards. We brought nothing into this world and we will take nothing out of it. We have been entrusted with a great treasure and what we do with it is of vital importance, not only to Jesus, but to ourselves, to the health of our own souls. But, here’s the caution. There is an urgency we ignore at our own peril. The parable reminds us that the time to act is now. Later will be too late; once that chasm is set there is no crossing it.
The best thing about this story is that while it is too late for the rich man, it is not too late for us. You and I are in charge of our own lives. While we can not remake society and cure all of the social evils with which we live, we can remake ourselves. I will pass that corner of Kendall Drive and Route 1 again tomorrow. It is not over for us because we are the five brothers of the rich man. We have Moses and we have the prophets and we have our Lord Jesus Christ who has risen from the dead to convince us. All that remains to be seen is what we will do about it.
Pentecost 19 (Proper 21C) September 29, 2013
Sermon by the Reverend Jo-Ann R. Murphy, D.Min.
Assistant Rector