Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost
“Prisoners of Our Own Device” — Rev. Brent Gundlah
First Reading (1 Timothy 6:6-19/NRSVUE)
Gospel Reading (Luke 16:19-31/NRSVUE)
The decision to move here resulted in a lot of changes for my family and me — some of them large, and some of them small. For example: we went from living in a town of about a thousand people to living in a large metropolitan area; we gained about three thousand feet in elevation; we no longer needed to look out for the horses and buggies of our Amish neighbors on country roads (though now we have to dodge Utah drivers on I-15 instead); and rather than taking Monday as my day off, as many pastors do, I started taking Saturday instead.
On the surface, my reason for switching my sabbath was pretty straightforward: being married to someone who works Monday through Friday while you work Tuesday through Sunday means that you don’t share a common day off, and that’s kind of a drag. But I kinda think that part of my motivation for making this change was an unfortunate experience I had one Monday back in Ohio.
I’d gone outside to take out the trash and closed the door behind me because I didn’t want our dog, Olive, to make a run for it. But when I got back to the house and turned the knob to go inside, the knob didn’t move because it was locked. “No problem,” I thought, “I’ll just grab my keys out of my pocket and unlock it.” And this would have been a great idea had my keys actually been in my pocket.
I took a lap around the house trying to find another way in, but there wasn’t one — well, short of breaking a window and setting off the alarm and having the police show up, that is. As I peered through the glass panel in the side door, I could see my keys lying just a few feet away on the kitchen counter (along with my phone) and Olive sitting on the doormat staring up at me with her head tilted to one side, giving me a look that was her way of saying both “I want to come outside too” and “What the heck are you doing?”
I sat down on the front stoop to consider my options and, realizing there weren’t any good ones, I kinda gave up. I had no house key and no phone with which to call anyone (though I really didn’t have anyone to call). My church office, which was a few blocks away, was closed on Mondays so I couldn’t just go there and work (yup, that key was on the counter too). I couldn’t drive to my wife’s school and get her house key because my car key was also on the kitchen counter; and she wasn’t going to be home to let me in for at least another five hours. So I decided to do one of the only things I could do: I walked all around my little town.
I talked to my neighbors; I checked in on some of my church members; I introduced myself to several people I hadn’t met before; I got rained on a little; I circled back home to look in on Olive (who was blissfully asleep on the couch that I likely would have been sitting on had I not locked myself out); I had a leisurely hour lunch at Main St Deli (and the owners kindly put lunch on my tab because my wallet was at home alongside my keys and my phone on the counter). And, when all was said and done, it ended up being a pretty glorious day.
It dawned on me some time around one thirty that I could have asked one of my neighbors to give me a lift to my wife’s school so I could fetch her house key and put an end to this self-imposed exile, but at that point it didn’t really matter and I didn’t really care.
I did, however, begin to question the wisdom of taking Monday’s off; given my penchant for misplacing keys (this definitely was not the only time I’ve done something like this), it was probably a good idea to ensure that someone who’s better at keeping track of them than I am was around to bail me out. But that wasn’t the only — or even the most important — epiphany I had that day.
I realized that, in my quest to keep the outside world at bay, I’d unwittingly turned our home into a kind of inverse jail — one that I was locked outside of rather than inside of. And yet, at the same time, being forced out of the house and into the community (albeit by my own stupidity) proved to be a liberating blessing in many ways. Who knows? Perhaps this was God’s way of giving me a kick in the seat that would inspire me to go out see the world around me differently.
I can’t help but think that this is kind of what’s going on in today’s reading from Luke, which is, of course, the parable of the the rich man and Lazarus. And maybe, just maybe, that rich man in this story gets the kick in the seat he needs too.
This is the last of five stories that Jesus shares in response to the situation that arises at the beginning of the previous chapter; Luke tells us there: “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him [namely, Jesus]. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’”
The parables that follow tell of a lost coin, a lost sheep, a prodigal son, a dishonest manager and now, a rich man and Lazarus. What these stories have in common is an exploration of the exclusion that we often witness (and perpetuate) in this world versus the inclusion and community that define God’s reign.
As today’s story begins, we meet an unnamed rich man, dressed in the purple robes of royalty, dining alone at home as he does every day. At the gate that guards his house lay a poor man named Lazarus, who is covered with sores, and who longed for the scraps of food that fell from the rich man’s table (for the record, Lazarus is the only character in any of Jesus’s parables that’s given a name).
Both men die and, while Lazarus is carried away by the angels and gets to hang out with Abraham, the rich man lands in Hades where he’s tormented with thirst amidst the flames that surround him (and that sure sounds nice). The rich man mistakenly believes that the privilege he enjoyed in this world is still in effect, so he asks Abraham to tell Lazarus to bring him something to drink.
There are so many questions here: Why doesn’t the rich man address Lazarus directly, instead of speaking to him through Abraham? If the rich man actually knows Lazarus by name, why didn’t he ever help Lazarus while he was in agony right outside his window? I suspect we all know why.
Abraham’s response to the rich man’s request is a resounding “No.” He points out that the rich man had his fill of life’s good things, while Lazarus had “in like manner evil things;” So, apparently, Lazarus now gets comfort while the rich man gets suffering. Call it a reversal of fortune; say that what goes around comes around; chalk it up to karma, I suppose.
But the rich man continues trying to negotiate with Abraham. “Ok, I get it; you won’t command Lazarus to fetch me some water, but can you at least make him go talk to my brothers, to warn them about what will happen to them if they don’t change their ways?” (the rich man still can’t bring himself to speak to Lazarus directly). And again Abraham’s answer is “No.” He elaborates: “Look, God has been saying it for as long as anyone can remember, and it’s not that complicated: ‘Love your neighbor, seek justice and righteousness for all, care for the poor;’ it’s right there in the Bible for the whole world to read.”
“With all due respect, Abraham (may I call you “Abraham”?), I think it would be so much more compelling, so much more convincing if someone who’s actually risen from the dead could go remind them; that would really bring it home.”
“Sorry, but there’s no point. If they wouldn’t listen to Moses and the prophets, then they’re not going to be convinced by anyone — even someone who’s risen from the dead.”
It all sounds so straightforward — and so hopeless — on the surface: Rich man bad, poor Lazarus good; Rich man goes to Hades, Lazarus gets to hang out in heaven with Abraham.
But remember, Jesus is telling this story so things are never either that simple or that hopeless. It’s so easy to read this parable as a warning about what will happen to us someday — about what God will do to us in the future — if we don’t mend our ways, but there’s more to it than that.
You see Jesus doesn’t ever make a clear distinction (like we do) between life in the here and now, and life in the hereafter. His whole point is that we share in God’s reign right now, we catch a glimpse of heaven right now, we experience the fullness of life right now — when we turn outward toward the community rather than inward toward ourselves; when we share our time, talent and treasure with others; when we tend to the need around us; when we act out of love instead of fear; when we seek to be in relationship with the world.
Conversely, we alienate ourselves from God (and one another) — we experience a little bit of hell right here on earth — when we care about nothing but ourselves; when we hoard the gifts we have been given; when we ignore the need that is all around us; when we act out of fear instead of love; when we choose to live alone inside jails that we ourselves have created.
Does God have a soft spot for poor people? Yeah, the Bible makes that pretty clear. But does that mean the rich man (and those like him) are doomed to suffer at the hands of an angry God? Not necessarily. I mean, does God really need to punish us when we’ve proven to be quite capable of punishing ourselves?
As bad as the the rich man’s plight here might seem, this parable does offer some signs of hope. For starters, Jesus has Abraham refer to him as “Child,” and it’s hard to imagine a child of God being rejected by God for eternity.
More important, though, is the statement that Abraham makes at the very end of the passage. When denying the rich man’s request to have Lazarus warn his brothers, we are told that “[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.’”
But, as those of you who have read ahead to the end of Luke’s Gospel already know, that’s exactly what happens with this guy named Jesus. Apparently God still thought there was a chance we could be convinced — and God still does.
Don’t you see? Despite all evidence to the contrary, God continues to believe that we can be — that we ultimately will be — reconciled to God and to one another someday.
And so God reached out to us in Moses and the prophets; God reached out to us in Jesus; God continues to reach out to us each and every day — in order to liberate us from our self-imposed exiles and to draw us into relationship.
Because God never gives up on us, even when we may have given up ourselves.
That’s the whole point of this, really.