Sermon for September 25, 2022 – 16th Sunday after Pentecost
Jeremiah 32:1-3a; Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31
At first glance our gospel story today does not seem to fit with the often hopeful and encouraging stories that Jesus offers to us in the gospels. It doesn’t seem like Good News at all. This story of the rich man and Lazarus sounds more like a warning: “you’re gonna get what’s coming to you if you don’t change your ways.” It seems like our story is not a message of hope and strength to help us live our lives, but a warning, a vividly disturbing warning at that. In these verses Jesus is giving his followers a wake-up call; he is pulling back the curtain to open their eyes to something they urgently need to see before it is too late.
In our parable this morning, there is little interaction between the two men. The unnamed rich man is not disdainful of Lazarus; he simply does not notice him, he doesn’t see him…Lazarus is invisible. All we know about Lazarus is his name and his need. Lazarus’s empty stomach and life are gnawing at him, and his gaze is set on the household of the rich man. He is hanging out outside the house, perched on the stoop, where he hopes only for leftovers, or less, the crumbs. He gets nothing. The only ones who do notice him are the dogs, who, in a grotesque show of how low a human life can go, lick the oozing wounds of the poor man.
Just when the two lives are as far apart as they can possibly be, there is a shift. Much like the funnel of an hourglass, all the sand of time is drawn through the narrow sieve of death to be redistributed on the other side. And redistributed it is, drawing a new boundary that results in the reversal of roles. The one who was afflicted is now comforted, and the one who lived comfortably is now in agony…classic Luke.
Their division and what separates these two men is now more physical than relational, as there is now a great chasm between them. On the one side is Lazarus in the arms of Abraham, nestled like a child nestles at the bosom of its mother: fed, warm, safe. On the other side of the chasm is the rich man, who this time is being tormented in the low place, left to gaze hungrily. Sadly, the man is none the wiser for his death experience, still acting as a little king, though wearing no crown, ordering Abraham to order Lazarus to serve him, speaking of him in the third person; as if Lazarus were not even there. The rich man still doesn’t see.
This reminds me of another story. It is the story of a young child, Phyllis, and her orange shirt. These are her words:
“I went to the Mission for one school year in 1973/1974. I had just turned 6 years old. I lived with my grandmother on the Dog Creek reserve. We never had very much money, but somehow my granny managed to buy me a new outfit to go to the Mission school. I remember going to Robinson’s store and picking out a shiny orange shirt. It had string laced up in front, and was so bright and exciting – just like I felt to be going to school!
When I got to the Mission, they stripped me, and took away my clothes, including the orange shirt! I never wore it again. I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t give it back to me, it was mine! The color orange has always reminded me of that and how my feelings didn’t matter, how no one cared and how I felt like I was worth nothing. All of us little children were crying and no one cared.
I was 13 years old and in grade 8 when my son Jeremy was born. Because my grandmother and mother both attended residential school for 10 years each, I never knew what a parent was supposed to be like. With the help of my aunt, Agness Jack, I was able to raise my son and have him know me as his mother.
I went to a treatment centre for healing when I was 27 and have been on this healing journey since then. I finally get it, that the feeling of worthlessness and insignificance, ingrained in me from my first day at the mission, affected the way I lived my life for many years. Even now, when I know nothing could be further than the truth, I still sometimes feel that I don’t matter.”
All of us little children were crying…and no one cared. They did not matter...and no one cared. It sounds an awful lot like our gospel story, with Phyllis and generations upon generations of other children, just like her, standing in the shoes of Lazarus. These children were not seen as unique persons made in the image of God. They were seen for what they were not. Then they were systematically scooped up and taken to places where they would no longer be seen. And for many, they would never be seen again.
And so Phyllis, along with many others, created a grassroots movement to help people see and to remember; to help people see that children matter. These orange shirts that we wear today and that you will see over the coming days serve as a reminder, not only for what was so harshly taken away, and not only for the survivors who were systematically cast aside and neglected, but these orange shirts also serve a reminder of those who did not survive. To see is to remember. To remember is to never again allow the atrocities that were committed in the name of God and goodwill to be repeated.
These stories present us with the great moral challenge of seeing; and then making visible, the invisible suffering of the world. Indeed, this may be one of our most important moral challenges today as it is made manifest in the pursuit of reconciliation. Our global network of communication allows us to be more aware of the world’s suffering than ever before, but we have become even more adept at ignoring the suffering that is literally right at our doorsteps.
Deadly protests in Iran, sham elections in Russian occupied Ukraine, political crackdowns in Hong Kong, or another boat of Lebanese, Syrian, and Palestinian migrants who were desperately seeking a better life anywhere but home, sunk. 71 dead. Women and children gone. We see these stories and we say, “oh my that’s horrible,” and then we change the channel and go on eating our dinners. Or another story of genocide on the internet? Again, we say, “oh my that’s horrible” and then click on the story about the latest celebrity break-up. The more we become voyeurs upon the faraway suffering of others, the more impotent we feel to do anything about pain and injustice here. Despair and cynicism tempt us to close our eyes to suffering and shut down our overloaded sympathies. It is all too easy to slide into the rich man’s mentality and completely ignore what’s right in front of us.
This parable challenges us to more than just how we use the wealth we have been blessed with. It challenges us to become attentive to the poor and suffering persons who are before us, who dwell on our doorstep, who are in the pew next to you, or, more likely, in another part of town where we do not see them if we do not want to, which also happens to be this part of town. We see fear, hatred, and suspicion all too often in the media, and it is hard not to get lost in the abyss of apathy. This parable challenges us to open our eyes for love to overcome our apathy.
This story is an apocalyptic parable. Jesus gives us a vision of what may come about if we do not change our ways. Luke is situating us not so much in the role of either Lazarus or the rich man, but in the role of the five siblings who are still alive. The five siblings who are still alive have time to open their eyes. They have time to see the poor people at their gates, before the chasm becomes permanent. They have time to reread their Torah, to remember the commands of Moses and the prophets, to perform justice for orphans and widows, to love strangers by providing food and clothing; to do justice and love kindness. They still have more time, and so do we.
The Good News in our story today is that we are indeed those five siblings of the rich man. We who are still alive have been warned about our urgent situation. We have Moses and the prophets; we have the scriptures; we have the lessons that Jesus teaches us about the necessity to care for the poor and hungry. We even have someone who has risen from the dead. We have all that we could possibly need.
The question Jesus is asking of us: Will we -- the five sisters and brothers -- see? Will we see with the eyes of our hearts who is sitting outside our gates, seeking refuge on our stoop? We have eyes to see, but do we have hearts to act?
Amen.
