A Great Chasm

Luke 16:19-31

September 29, 2019

            Back in the days before community colleges were a common feature in the academic landscape, there were Junior Colleges. I went to a Junior College in Nashville; St. Thomas Aquinas. In many ways it was a big leap for a girl who’d grown up Southern Baptist to attend a college that was Roman Catholic, specifically of the Dominican tradition. But it was a good fit for me at the time, and it prepared me for life in a four year university. I loved many of my teachers and made friends with a lot of students there, but one of my favorite teachers was a priest named Father Nolan. I took Ethics and Psychology classes from him. He was an interesting, intelligent and funny man, and a good teacher.

            In his classes, especially in Ethics, our discussions would focus on both theory and current events. I don’t remember a lot of aspects from my classes in those days, but I do remember this. Our class discussion had wandered into the area of heaven and hell. Being brought up in the religious tradition I was, and having the grandfather that I did, I had heard a lot about hell in my lifetime. I believed it. I doubted it. I was repelled by it. I was scared of it, and I struggled with its implications. Another student asked Father Nolan whether he believed in Hell and, if so, what he thought Hell would be like. The padre paused for a moment before he answered, then he said words that I have never forgotten.

            “I think we start creating our own hells right here on earth, and when we die we take those hells with us.”

            I was maybe 19 years old when I first heard those words, and death and whatever awaits us in the afterlife seemed much farther away back then than it does now. But I thought long and hard about Father Nolan’s words when he said them, and I still think long and hard about them in the present. We create our own hells here on earth and we take those hells with us when we die.

            To the casual bystander it would not have seemed possible that the rich man in this parable was creating a hell for himself on earth. I suspect that the rich man wasn’t aware that he was creating hell for himself either. Outward appearances showed him living the life of luxury. He dressed in purple and fine linen – purple was the color of wealth and possibly royalty. He ate sumptuously every day, each meal a feast.

            Yet while the rich man lived lavishly, there was a poor man named Lazarus at his gates. The word translated as “gate” would not have meant a nice wrought iron gate such as the ones opening onto our courtyard. They would have been more like immense portals, the kind you see with mansions or castles. This man Lazarus, lying outside these vast entrances, was sick and diseased, covered with sores, desperate with hunger, and he would have been thrilled to have even the scraps from the rich man’s table. It wasn’t bad enough that he was starving to death; but his only attention came from dogs who would come and lick his wounds.

           Lazarus’ body finally gave up the ghost, and he was carried up to heaven by the angels. There he was with Abraham. Our text tells us that he was by Abraham’s side, but the better translation is “in the bosom of.”

Think about the old spiritual, “Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham. Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham. Rock-a my soul in the bosom of Abraham. Oh rock-a my soul.”

So while Lazarus was being rocked in the bosom of Abraham, the rich man went to Hades. There he was tormented with flames of endless fire. But he could look up and he could see into heaven’s portals. He could see Lazarus with Abraham, in comfort and care. And what always astounds me about this parable is not that he had a glimpse into that other place, but that clearly the flames hadn’t taught him much of a lesson.

He calls up to Abraham,

“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.”

Say what?! Rich man, even in death, even in Hades, even with fire and flames licking all around you, you still think Lazarus should come and give you comfort?! You don’t even address Lazarus directly. You talk to Abraham about him as though he were more object than subject. Even in death you treat Lazarus as though he were less than you. The torments of Hades haven’t gotten through to you yet, have they?

Abraham refuses.

“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.’”

The rich man persists. He still clearly thinks Lazarus is meant to do his bidding. Okay, he says to Abraham, if Lazarus can’t come to me then send him to my father’s house, to my five brothers still living, so that he can warn them and they can avoid this place of torment. If Lazarus goes to them, they will change their ways. But Abraham tells him that his five brothers have Moses. They have the prophets. They have already been warned. If they won’t heed the warnings of Moses and the prophets, a man risen from the dead won’t make them believe. Maybe Charles Dickens had this parable in mind when he wrote “A Christmas Carol.” It took Jacob Marley and three ghosts to shake up Ebenezer Scrooge, and dislodge him from his life of greed and miserly tightfistedness.

But Abraham would not concede to the rich man’s request. The warnings were already there and clear.

We create our own hells on earth and we take them with us when we die.

When Jesus first begins to tell this parable, perhaps those listening were tempted to give the rich man an out. Maybe he just never knew that Lazarus was lying at his gates, desperate and sick and alone. Maybe the rich man was shielded from seeing him. Well-intended advisors and lackeys kept the rich man’s eyes from straying so low to the ground and seeing Lazarus lying there. But when the two crossed over to the other side, they – and we – find out that the rich man did indeed know Lazarus. He knew his name. The rich man cannot plead ignorance or lack of vision. He knew his name.

This is actually the only parable where Jesus gives us a name. The Samaritan was known only by his ethnicity. The prodigal was defined only by his wasteful recklessness. In this parable the rich man’s only designation is the rich man, but it is the poor man, Lazarus, whose name is known.

I realize that I have made the reference and the connection to the afterlife, but in all truth, I do not think this passage or this parable is meant to be an instruction manual about what happens when we die. What I do think is that the chasm that was fixed between the rich man and Lazarus in the afterlife was started long before they crossed over that line between life and death.

A great chasm was there between them in life. Perhaps it was not a chasm that the rich man originated, but he perpetuated it. He knew Lazarus’ name. He saw him outside the gates of his home, but he did nothing. He did nothing, and the chasm that was between them grew.

It seems to me that Jesus’ purpose in telling this parable was also not about instructing those around him on what will happen when they die. His point, as I understand it, is that the chasms between us do not and should not be. He gave Lazarus a name. Lazarus was a full person. He had a story. He had a past. He had an identity beyond just being poor. He had a name. It is clear from the beginning of Luke’s gospel to its end that the poor are of special concern to God. Lazarus was of special concern to God. I think we lose something in our translation that Lazarus was by Abraham’s side. I think to hear that he was being comforted at Abraham’s bosom suggests a deep and abiding relationship. Lazarus, the man with a name, abided in a relationship in heaven that he was not given in life. A great chasm was fixed between him and the rich man and others who might have helped him, and while that chasm might have caused suffering in his life, it would not cause him suffering in death.

So what do we do with this? What do we do? Maybe we are the brothers. Maybe we are the ones who are still living, the ones who have at our fingertips the warnings of Moses and the warnings of the prophets. Maybe we are the ones who are being cautioned to see how great a chasm lies between us and others. Maybe we are the ones who are being enjoined to reach across it, to bridge that divide. And even if we are not able to completely repair that breach, we are called to know each others’ names. We are called, I believe, to see that every person we encounter has a name, a story, a history, and was born to be into relationship with God and others. We are called, I believe, to see that every person is a child of God.

The good news is that our God is a God of grace. I know I say this all the time, but it bears constant repeating. Our God is a God of second, third, fourth, fifth chances and so on. May that grace open our eyes and our hearts. May that grace help us each day to cross the divide, to bridge the gap, to narrow the great chasm between us and our sisters and brothers. May God’s grace be with us, now and always.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.” Amen.