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Readings: Am 6:1,4-7; Ps 146; 1 Tim 6:11-16; Lk 16:19-31
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Lazarus – it’s a name that means, “God has helped.”
Interesting, isn't it? In all of Jesus' parables, Lazarus is the only person who's given a name. It's as if Jesus wants to be sure we see the poor, the forgotten, the dispossessed, the helpless as unique human beings, as children of God with names attached. And yet Lazarus was almost invisible, wasn't he? Invisible, but he had a name.
After we've heard the parable a few times, we wonder how he ended up as he did. What did he do? Did they have drug addicts or alcoholics in first-century Galilee? I don't know, maybe, but probably not.
So, what happened to him? Had he been injured? No workman’s comp back then. Maybe that’s what happened.
Was he a thief, like the dishonest steward in that other parable? Did he get fired? The word gets around doesn’t it? And no one else would hire him.
Maybe he just got sick. Or could he simply be one of those people who've always been like that? Always lost, never able to climb out of the depths.
Jesus doesn’t tell us, though, does He?
But we 21st-century Christians can’t help but wonder. He probably did something, or just refused to do anything.
We really don't know much about him, do we? Jesus simply tells us what he is, not how he got there.
He has a name, though. His name is Lazarus.
Then there’s the rich man, tucked away in the warmth and comfort of his
home. Yes, he was well-dressed, well-fed, well-rested…and he was also nameless.
Have you ever wondered why?
Have you ever wondered why?
If Jesus had given him a name, well that’s who he’d be. And it would be harder to see ourselves in him, wouldn’t it? Easier to do if he doesn’t have a name. Maybe that's why he was nameless.
The rich man really doesn’t care about Lazarus, because he doesn’t even know he’s there. Yes, Lazarus is invisible, isn’t he? Even lying there right outside the door.
Did the rich man’s servants throw him a scrap or two? Doesn’t sound like it. Maybe one of them did. But we’ve all watched Downton Abbey, haven’t we? And seen how the servants can become more aristocratic than the aristocrats.
At least the dogs liked him…and licked his sores. I’m not really sure if that’s good or bad.
But then Lazarus dies, and he’s carried by angels into paradise, to the bosom of Abraham.
The rich man also dies, but he’s not so fortunate. He calls out to
Abraham, “Have pity on me…for I am suffering torment in these flames.”
And it’s only in death that he learned about Lazarus.
Had the rich man mistreated Lazarus? No, he really did nothing to the poor man.
Did he swear at him, or yell at him? No, as far as we know he never said
a world to Lazarus.
And to our knowledge he wasn’t like those rich folks the prophet Amos railed against. They cheated people. They stole from the poor. And they lied about it. But the rich man in the parable? He didn't do any of those things. He was just rich, and he lived well because he was rich.
And to our knowledge he wasn’t like those rich folks the prophet Amos railed against. They cheated people. They stole from the poor. And they lied about it. But the rich man in the parable? He didn't do any of those things. He was just rich, and he lived well because he was rich.
He didn’t really see the poor around him. They were invisible, even the
one lying at his doorstep, the one named Lazarus.
You see, brothers and sisters, it’s not always what we do, is it? It’s often
what we fail to do. It’s our sins of omission that create that “great chasm” that can
separate you and me from the salvation God desires for us.
I think about that chasm sometimes, and all the omissions of my life,
omissions that have deepened it and widened it.
And that’s when I remember a man named Willie.
It didn’t seem important, not at the time...
It didn’t seem important, not at the time...
Just another poor man, dressed like the bums who came knocking at the door when I was a kid in New York.
That's what we called them then...bums.
Remember? You do if you’re old enough, and didn’t live in a fancy house with a fence and a gate to keep the riffraff out.
My mom would give them a sandwich, maybe a paper cup of lemonade, and always a paper napkin.
She’d talk to them too, just a few words of encouragement, a promise to pray, and always a smile.
Back in 1951, for about a year we lived in a little beachfront cottage right here in Florida, in Panama City Beach.
It was very different in those days. The chain gangs would pass the house every afternoon - a black gang and then a white gang - they were segregated back then, even the chain gangs.
Mom would take paper cups and a pitcher of cold water or lemonade out to the road - Highway 98, a very quiet highway in 1951.
I'd sometimes tag along, just to see the prisoners, and the guard's shotgun.
Mom would ask the guard, "...if the boys could have some?”
He’d always say yes. And then, as she filled the cups, she’d smile at them and promise to pray.
Anyway, I guess I’d forgotten that the hungry need more than food, that the thirsty need more than drink.
It didn’t seem important. After all it’s a soup kitchen and folks like Willie came there for food. We always gave him a meal, a good hot meal, with a nice dessert, and seconds until we ran out.
That seemed like enough. It really did.
I even brought him coffee when he came in early, as he always did – cream, lots of sugar – just the way he liked it.
I carried the coffee to his table, so he didn’t have to get up. I thought that was pretty good on my part.
It didn’t seem important, at least not to me.
It didn’t seem important, at least not to me.
After all, I was working at the soup kitchen, doing God’s work, feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, doing those corporal works of mercy, being the good Christian God wants me to be.
I’d hand him that cup of hot coffee and I’d smell the booze, the old stale smell of cheap booze on his breath.
He’d slur a “thankya” but missing all those teeth he was hard to understand. So, I’d just nod and hurry back to the kitchen. I was busy.
I think I actually talked with him once. I guess I had the time that morning.
After I handed him his coffee, he looked up at me and said, “Pastor…”
He’d always call me, Pastor,” even though I told him, time and again, that I was a deacon at St. Vincent de Paul Church. I was not a pastor.
Anyway, this day he looked up at me and asked, “Pastor, do ya think I’ll go to heaven?"
“Sure,” I laughed, “of course, you will.”
We talked for maybe a minute, but it just didn’t seem important…
Until they found him lying there, early on that cold morning, one of those frozen mornings we sometimes get here in Florida in early February.
Curled up on the hard ground behind the bushes, with his face looking up.
He had died outside the door of the soup kitchen.
It just didn’t seem important to ask him about his life, to pray with him, or hug him, or tell him of God’s love for him.
...and so, I never did.
But after he died, I learned his name was Willie.
He had died outside the door of the soup kitchen.
It just didn’t seem important to ask him about his life, to pray with him, or hug him, or tell him of God’s love for him.
...and so, I never did.
But after he died, I learned his name was Willie.
When death comes knocking on our door, only one thing matters - our relationship with Jesus.
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