Christ Church Uniting
Disciples and Presbyterians
1300 Kailua Rd.
Kailua, HI 96734
262-6911

Luke 16:19-31

"There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day."

There was a rich man. This is just the way last week’s lectionary passage from the Gospel of Saint Luke started and you wouldn’t have to be a bible scholar to figure that something’s not going to go well for the aforementioned purple dressed sumptuously feasting human being of wealth.

And you would be right. It’s a story after all. And what makes a story? You have characters minding their own business and something happens to put their business on hold, or worse. What we call a happy ending, which we’ll probably be seeing a lot more of in the cinema and on television drama, is when, after an adventure of some kind, everything gets back to normal.

Of course, we’re in a historical time in which things probably won’t get back to normal. It’s a new era. It’s happened before: Black Friday, Pearl Harbor. Normal will be something else, but it won’t ever be the way it was. That’s the way of biblical stories too. Once God has intervened, or the spirit has moved, things can never again be the same. It’s the pattern of all of Jesus’ stories too. Things begin one way and end another way, usually quite different, usually with some sort of previously unimaginable reversal. So it happens for the well heeled man in purple.

But first, another character appears in Jesus’ story: Lazarus. A man with a name. In first century Greek and Roman literature, stories would most typically be about people with names, great names, great people. In fact, there were almost no stories about nobodies. This, incidentally, distinguishes the Gospels. It’s stories are primarily about no account folks: unemployed, former fisher folk, women, crafts and trades people.

And here then is a man, a crumpled empty shell of a man, a man named Lazarus, unemployable, foul smelling, at death’s door, at what’s his name’s door. What’s his name? I’ve heard the rich man called Dives. Well, "dives" is Greek for "rich man." Dives isn’t a name at all. Curious, isn’t it that the man in purple is not named?

Lazarus died and (isn’t it just like Jesus to say this) he was carried by the angels to be with Father Abraham the great patriarch of Hebrew faith and memory. And no one is surprised: not Abraham, he takes it in stride—it’s what God does I suppose. Not Lazarus. He’s a bit dazed perhaps. Not Jesus’ disciples. They’ve heard him tell these sorts of stories before. Presumably, not even the well-to-do among Jesus’ listeners. Isn’t it fine that in death God also blesses the beggars in our streets. Amazing. Amazing grace after all.

And then Jesus went on, "the rich man died and was buried." And. And. "And in Hades where he was being tormented"…. Hold it. Stop right there Jesus. Why was the rich man being tormented? Why wasn’t he also there in the cozy den with Father Abraham and uh, uh, uh Lazarus? He tithed. He gave to the United Way and supported the Symphony. He loved his wife and his kids. He was totally fair and never cheated anybody. So, why, why, why Jesus is he suffering in Hades?

Remember what I said last week about the first century common era view of wealth: that it was any thing you had beyond what was needed for basic food, clothing, and shelter, that since we were not created equal, and since things happen, resources were bound to accumulate and accrue and that it was the absolute responsibility of whoever had more than enough to make sure that no one in the community had need. According to Luke’s account in The Acts of the Apostles, the early church movement even tried to live this way and, at least, a few others since then.

Remember that many believe, and the evidence supports, that Jesus invoked the year and spirit of Jubilee in his inaugural sermon at Nazareth. "The spirit of the Lord is upon me: to bring good news to the poor, sight to the blind, release to the captives, and to proclaim The Acceptable Year of the Lord, the Year of the Lord’s Blessings, in short, The Jubilee Year. Let all debts be forgiven. Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. Let all indentured servants go free. Return all lands to their original inhabitants. This, of course, earned him a trip to the edge of the hometown cliff from which, we are told, he somehow escaped.

The rich man looked up and saw Father Abraham with Lazarus by his side. Don’t you wonder how they do this---it’s a story, ok? He calls out, "Father Abraham." "Yes my child," answers the patriarch. "Send Lazarus to dip his finger in the water and come here to cool my tongue. I am in agony in these flames."

This is the first we learn of flames in Hades. There’s no pointy eared devil here stoking the fires. Hades is Greek for the Hebrew word Sheol. Hades/Sheol would be the outer shadows where the spirits of the dead retreated in death. One might have thought it was cool out there on the edge away from the warmth of the eternal flame in the center. But Abraham’s clear statement of the reversal of fortunes between Lazarus and the rich man makes me think that the rich man’s suffering in flames has its counterpoint in Lazarus’ feverous delirium when he lay at the rich man’s door, at death’s door, in life.

Do you notice that the rich man doesn’t get it? He gets that he’s in agony but he has no idea what’s changed. He still thinks of Lazarus as a potential servant and Abraham as someone to set in motion the rich man’s desires. "Sorry my child," explains Father Abraham. "Death has intervened and a great reversal has taken place. You were comforted in life, Lazarus was miserable. Now he is here and you are in agony. Even if he wanted to come to you (which, indeed, he may), there is a great gulf fixed between you and us. It’s done for you."

"OK. OK. At least send Lazarus to my brothers so that they don’t follow me into agony." The poor rich man is really stuck. He still sees Lazarus as his gofer. Abraham replies in words that probably explains for Luke’s community why not so many Jews followed them in the way of Jesus, "They have Moses and the Prophets (that’s two thirds of the Hebrew Scriptures, almost everything but Psalms, Proverbs and Ecclesiastes). If they don’t get it, if they don’t get compassion and community from the scriptures, they won’t get it even if someone were to rise from the dead (someone like , get it, get it, someone like, say, Jesus.)

So man what a story. As we suspected, it didn’t end well for the man in purple. But what does it mean? What does this story mean for us in the twenty first century?

Perhaps we identify with Lazarus somehow. Perhaps our suffering overcomes us and we feel thrown down at the threshold of someone’s home. We are at death’s door. Perhaps we imagine feverishly how it would be to have just a taste of what someone else seems to enjoy effortlessly.

Little is known about Lazarus. His name means "God helps." He is an innocent because of his suffering. That reminds me of something I wrote on September 11 which was also the fifth anniversary of my mother’s death: "It’s always the innocent who suffer. The rest of us teeter between revenge and repentance." Forgive the digression. The story suggests that the innocent, like Lazarus, are not forgotten by God even in death.

It doesn’t promise that the rich man will suddenly through open his door and say, "What’s this? Bring this man in immediately. Set him here next to the fire. Put my robe about him. Bring food. Be gentle. Hold on new friend. Hold on." Jesus’ story doesn’t suggest this might happen at all, but I, suppose, it could.

Probably none of us feel like the man dressed in purple. At least we know plenty of people who are far more well off than are we. Is it relevant that from a global perspective we are the people in purple in spades? Is it relevant we are still alive? Do you see what I mean? If it’s going to happen, someone throwing open death’s door, bringing Lazarus in from the cold, into the inclusive table of love, it will have to be done by the living, by people like you and me, people who would rather deal with agony now than, perhaps, live with it eternally in death.

One might hope that today God has intervened in our hearing, that the Spirit has moved, and that things can never again be the same. So is has been and so may it be again.

The Rev. Fabian M. "Buddy" Summers, Pastor

Christ Church Uniting Disciples and Presbyterians,

Kailua, HI 96734, September 30, 2001

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