Mind the gap

Text: Luke 16: 19-31

Each week, as part of my preparation for Sunday worship, Daniel and I meet … and after a brief personal catch up, I usually ask “are we ready to dive into conversation about this coming Sunday?” To which Daniel takes a deep breath, his eyes get bigger, I hand him the bible and he reads aloud the passage of scripture that’s been given to us for the week. So what you just heard, we heard together on Tuesday.  In this case we were blessed with Ryan’s good company … which ultimately meant that by the end of our time together, there were 3 very puzzled people in the room not just 2. And more than puzzled, I’d say we were somewhat disturbed --which, as the week went on, I came to see is very likely Jesus’ intention in telling the story in the first place!

A few verses earlier, we’re told that this is a story that Jesus addresses to the Pharisees, who are described as “lovers of money.”  If you’ve been along for the ride these last few Sundays, we’re in this section of Luke’s Gospel that won’t let go of the theme of wealth -- the place of wealth, the liability of wealth, the responsibility of those who have wealth. If these few chapters were all you read of Luke’s Gospel, you’d think Jesus had only one tune to his fiddle … and yet we’ve only to poke around in much of the rest of the bible to discover this tune rings out all over the place! It’s not the only one … but it’s a biggie.

It’s a mark of Jesus’ gift for story-telling that in no time at all we’re there … you can see it … the oozing of the sores, the licking of the dogs, the banquet table filled to overflowing, the delight in feasting on rich food, the gnawing hunger that aches to be satisfied. The contrast is wild. We’re witnessing two very separate worlds, co-existing side by side, with only a gate between them.

To move the story along, death happens. The great leveller. Except there’s nothing level about what happens next. The rich man finds himself in agony, desperate for even one drop of water, while Lazarus is gathered up in the care and comfort and protection of Abraham’s bosom. The contrast is wild all over again and even more so as each tastes the very opposite of what they have known. And what’s more is that where there used to be a gate between them -- a passage-way -- now there’s a great gulf. It’s not just that the distance between has widened. It’s that the space is impassable. There is no crossing over in one direction or another.

I don’t know about you, but that struck us as harsh. 
And here’s the other thing that happened in me. I notice that the rich guy, from his new position of utter desperation, he isn’t at all remorseful. We don’t hear him calling out to Lazarus --now that he finally sees him-- we don’t hear him calling out in sorrow, now tasting something of what it must have been for Lazarus in his desperation. We don’t hear, “I’m sorry Lazarus that I didn’t care … that I didn’t really even see you … that I did nothing to ease your suffering.” We don’t hear, “forgive me Lazarus … please forgive me.” We don’t hear, “far be it from me to ask anything of you Lazarus, yet here I am begging for mercy.” No, we don’t hear that at all.

What we hear instead is, “Father Abraham, send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue.” Even from his place of desperation he imagines himself able to boss Lazarus around. Really?! Where does this guy get off? And when that’s not going to happen, he has the gall to suggest Abraham send Lazarus to warn his siblings. There he goes again, thinking he can order Lazarus around. He just doesn’t get it, does he? And yet, the fixed chasm -- it still feels harsh. In other words, I guess part of me is somehow rooting for this guy. Why would I be hoping for his relief?

Many mornings when I’m making my way from home to the church, Michael is standing at the corner of Cook and Pandora. He’s leaning slightly forward over his crutches, one under each arm, with the lamp pole at his back for a little more support. In his left hand is a ball cap, that will receive whatever money anyone is willing to toss him as they drive by. There he stands, a tall man, with match-stick legs, grey complexion, sunken cheeks, his eyes staring at the pavement ahead of him like he’s afraid or ashamed to make eye contact. Each morning as I crest the hill sloping down to that corner, I wonder if he’s going to be there. Mostly I hope he won’t be so I don‘t have to face the terror of my insufficiency. But most often the light turns red when I get to that corner … so there we are, side-by-side, me on my bike, only the morning air between us.  It’s awkward--at least for me. I haven’t really figured out what to say. Sometimes it comes out “how are you?” before I’ve thought better of it. His response is usually something about how hard it is. And then, even more, I don’t know what to say that isn’t trite or stupid or irrelevant. Of course I feel my privilege and his poverty … my easy access to whatever food I want and his hunger. I’m aware of the basic fact that I have and he doesn’t … all the while knowing how shallow is that? I have no idea where his resilience comes from, what courage it takes to bring himself to that corner or to walk away from it a thousand cars later, or anything about where he goes next, or to what. All I know about Michael is his name which I thought to ask in one of our awkward encounters. I might be sitting next to him on my bike, pretty much shoulder to shoulder, but I feel this great gap between us, and it doesn’t feel right And when the light turns green, I’m on my way, til the next time.

Makes me wonder about that chasm in Jesus story … is it really any wider or any more fixed after the two die than it was when there was only a gate between them? There’s that fixed chasm again … the thing that gets me about Jesus’ story because it of its harshness. Why does that even matter to me? Why would I wish it otherwise?
Why? Because I can’t help but see in me something of the rich man, and I’d be hoping for a better ending to the story.
It’s not that I’m afraid I’m going to burn in hell … which is what this story is all about for some people: the confirmation of heaven and hell as destinies in a life beyond this one. It’s not that I doubt the existence of heaven and hell … I just don’t think God sends us there. That God meets us here in our heavens and our hells … that I trust. But that’s for another sermon.

When I really think about it, it’s not just because I see something of myself in the rich guy that the harshness of the impassable chasm disturbs me. More than anything it’s disturbing because it doesn’t fit with my sense of Jesus. Where’s the grace in this story I wonder? And then Ryan points out, “well, things got better for Lazarus!” which wasn’t entirely lost on me, though it was definitely overshadowed by the verdict on rich man. So what is grace? I had to ask myself … realizing that in this case I guess thought of it as “wiggle room” … giving the rich man a break … letting him off the hook.
Except that’s not grace.
Grace isn’t casting a blind eye. Grace isn’t lowering the standard. Grace is the giving of a way where there is no way … the giving of a way to return, a way to move forward, a way out from under.  It’s a way that is freely offered, that needs in turn to be taken up if it’s to be experienced as grace.  I’m guessing this is what is meant when in the story Father Abraham says to the rich man who’s concerned about this brothers: “they have Moses and the prophets … they should listen to them.” In other words, already they have been given a way. And what is it we hear when we listen to Moses and the prophets? Repeatedly we hear the call to “care for the widow, the orphan, the stranger in the land” … in other words, care for those who are at the mercy of others … those who depend on mercy … those for whom mercy is their life-line. To have Moses and the prophets isn’t just about having their words in scripture. To have Moses and the prophets is about being given a way…shown a way…adopting a way…where Mercy happens … where Mercy is a verb … where mercy is a reach that connects, that lifts, that feeds, that heals.

It was this same way that was already given to the rich man … but he chose to ignore it. He chose instead to eat sumptuously every day while Lazarus laid at his gate starving.

Like the rich man’s brothers, we too have been given a way … shown a way. A way of Mercy. What if we heard Jesus’ story not as a threat, but as a wake-up call … reminding us that it is in this life that we have now, that we are given to be agents of mercy … summoned to be agents of mercy.

And what if Mercy isn’t only what we are called to be about … but the very surround in which in find ourselves … the sea in which we swim …the bosom in which we are held. What if mercy isn’t ours to muster but ours to fall into, to share in, and share ... streams of mercy never ceasing! What if mercy is our true home … to rest in … to go out from … to return to … Mercy accompanying us as we cross the threshold … pass through the gate … sit on our bike shoulder to shoulder with this stranger who is -- Who is he?

2 last thoughts for now …
My guess is that most of the time, we are for the most part generous people. Something of this way has gotten into us! And given privilege has a way of blinding us, it would be easy for us to imagine we are more generous than we truly are. So there are times we miss the mark without even knowing it. And there are other times when I expect for many of us, it’s our sense of inadequacy that get us -- we don’t know how to fix the suffering that we do see.

On my desktop for some time I’ve had this quotation by Anthony de Mello. I think it sounds a word of grace … offers us a way.  Here’s what he says:
“The trouble with people is that they’re busy fixing things they don’t even understand. We’re always fixing things, aren’t we?
It never strikes us that things don’t need to be fixed.
They really don’t. This is a great illumination.
They need to be understood.
If you understood them, things would change.”1

There’s mercy for you!
I wonder who or what awaits your understanding this day … in the course of this week?
What if that was our question as we arose each morning?

 1  Anthony deMello, Awareness, Doubleday, New York, 1990.