Sermon Transcript: March 30, 2025
Our scripture lesson today comes to us from the Gospel according to Luke, Chapter 16. Jesus is telling another one of his parables. We had a nice discussion in adult ed this morning about the purpose of the parables. One of the members of the class said, “I don’t find this very comforting.” We were talking about last week’s parable, commonly known as the parable of the Prodigal Son. And that’s kind of precisely the point of the parables.
They’re actually—sometimes we think of them almost like fables, that they’re kind of meant to teach us a truth or a lesson that we’re supposed to come away with. But actually, they’re really meant to provoke and disturb. And in particular, Luke really loves—and this is very evident in today’s parable—Luke loves reversals. He loves when things get turned upside down. And that very much is the case in today’s lesson.
Luke 16: 19-31:
There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table. Even the dogs would come and lick his sores.
The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he lifted up his eyes and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “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.”
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 of 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.”
He said, “Then I beg you, father, to send him to my father’s house—for I have five brothers—that he may warn them so that they will not also come into this place of torment.”
Abraham replied, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.”
He said, “No, Father Abraham, but if someone from the dead goes to them, they will repent.”
He said to him, “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”
For the word of God in scripture, for the word of God among us, for the word of God within us—
Thanks be to God.
***
Well, March has been Women’s History Month, and I want to thank those who have shared various reflections during our services this month. They’ve been very educational and inspirational.
And on this, the last day of Women’s History Month, I thought I would tell you about a woman named Dorothy Day. Dorothy Day was born in Brooklyn, New York, on the 8th of November, 1897. When she was six years old, her father—who I believe was a sports writer—took a job in California, and they moved to Oakland.
And one of her earliest memories was the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Images of the destruction and of her mother and their neighbors helping the homeless during that time remain stamped in her mind. Her family then moved to Chicago, where they lived for the next twelve years. And even though her family rarely attended church, Dorothy remembers being interested in religion at a young age.
At age eight, she describes herself as “disgustingly, proudly pious.” While in Chicago, she studied the catechism so that she could be baptized and confirmed—which she was—at the Church of Our Savior in March of 1911, when she was thirteen years old.
In her autobiography, The Long Loneliness, Dorothy divides her life into three parts. She describes her first 25 years as a time of searching—searching for a center of meaning and a focus for her energies. During the middle period, she calls it “natural happiness.” She lived in a common-law marriage, gave birth to a daughter, completed her conversion, embraced Catholicism, and turned her life in a new direction.
And the last and longest period she called “love is the measure” and it began when she met a man named Peter Morin. They co-founded the Catholic Worker Movement.
I read Dorothy’s autobiography in seminary. It was part of a religious autobiography class, and it made a profound impact on me. And at the time, I don’t think I could have really articulated why it was so meaningful to me. But all these years later, I realize that at least part of its appeal was that it was the first time I encountered a woman whose faith so closely resembled that of my own mother.
My mother saw the world in stark contrasts—black and white, right and wrong. I remember being in a grocery store with her—and you know how they put all the candy there for the kids, right at your eye level? Well, I picked the candy bar up, and I asked if we could get it. And my mother said no—not surprising—but her reasoning had nothing to do with the nutritional value of the candy bar and everything to do with the parent company, Nestlé, and how they treated women in third-world countries as guinea pigs for testing baby formula.
Imagine a ten-year-old standing in the line at the grocery store holding a candy bar, being told how a mother’s breasts will stop producing milk if they abstain from nursing their children. That was my mother. And while I blushed at the time and was horribly embarrassed, now I am eternally, eternally grateful.
Until I read Day’s autobiography, I had not encountered another woman whose faith and sense of justice were so inexorably intertwined.
Day once stated, “I only love God as much as the person I love the least.” I only love as much as the person that I love the least.
In today’s lesson, we are presented with stark contrast—two men at the exact opposite ends of the wealth spectrum. A rich man dressed in the finest clothes—there was some documentary about the color purple and why it was so associated with wealth and the rich, and just the way that the dye had to be made—it was very time-consuming. And so, that’s why purple is the color that indicates wealth.
So this rich man is—we’re given all of these clues as to just how exorbitantly rich this man is. I’m not even going to go to current events to talk about how rich he is, but you can fill in the blank.
And then at the other end of the spectrum is this poor beggar. But notice—we know the poor beggar’s name, right? Luke tells us. But what’s the rich man’s name? We don’t know that. The passage identifies Lazarus, though he’s the poor beggar. We already get an indication that he’s more than he seems—that he’s important.
But this poor man is so poor that he sits at the gate of this rich man just hoping for some scraps from his table. And then we get—it’s just kind of… I could deal without the details of the dogs licking the sores. Thank you, Luke. But Luke gives it to us anyway.
And every day, these two—they go through this same routine, day in and day out. The poor man lays at the gate, begging, and the rich man ignores him and carries on with his lavish lifestyle. It’s a scenario that’s not unfamiliar to those of us who drive the streets of our own charmed city. People at the corner, holding their signs, asking for scraps.
Now, we might not think of ourselves as lavishly wealthy like our man in the story but globally speaking—we are. We’re in the top 10, 5%, maybe even more. Maybe we don’t have gates outside of our homes—maybe we do—but we have car windows, right?
In other words, we are clearly the rich man in the parable, and not poor Lazarus.
Professor Greg Carey says, That’s an uncomfortable place from which to read this parable. We don’t want the sharp end pointing at us. And clearly—it is. For the story quickly jumps from this life to the life to come. The rich man and Lazarus find their fortunes completely reversed. The rich man is now suffering, and Lazarus is comfy and cozy in the bosom of Abraham.
This parable is about as subtle as the earthquake of 1906, isn’t it?
Not much interpretation is needed—but many questions. Questions especially for those of us who are closer to the rich man than to Lazarus. Questions, frankly, that we would rather not ask ourselves. Indeed, the parable points to a chasm between ourselves and God. The only way to bridge the chasm is to shrink the distance between ourselves and others.
Flannery O’Connor writes, “You will have found Christ when you are concerned with other people’s suffering and not your own.” The parable is asking us to consider that the person lying at the gate or standing on the street corner might not just be some bum, but actually the most important person.
I mean, if we are to bottom line it, there it is. It’s not that complicated, is it? But it sure is hard.
As Rilke once said, “For a human being to love another is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks—the ultimate, the last test and proof. The work for which all other work is but preparation.”
This is not love as a cozy emotion. This is not love as in liking another person. This is love, as Frederick Buechner puts it, “Being willing to work for their well-being—even if it means sacrificing our own well-being to that end.”
This kind of love and compassion seems in short supply these days, doesn’t it? Somehow, cruelty has become fashionable again—making sure we take care of our own first.
Things like being kind towards others, welcoming the stranger, feeding the poor—is suddenly labeled as weak and woke.
Now, I have a hard time understanding how you can read the Gospels and come away with such conclusions. Frankly, I’m not sure how much clearer Jesus can be.
True greatness, Jesus tells us, is found in humility and compassion and service to others. These are the things that bring us closer to God, while placing distance between ourselves and others actually creates a chasm between ourselves and God.
That’s a stark word, isn’t it?
This Lent, I invite us—as uncomfortable as it might be—to consider this chasm. Does God feel far off? Do you wonder if the God of the universe really gives a darn about you? Does your faith feel like it’s hanging on by a string?
Well then—the good news of this parable is that God may not be as far off as we fear. Indeed, if it is to be believed, then God comes to us each and every day in two very distinct ways: in the form of someone whose need we can meet, or in the form of someone offering something of need to us.
In other words, in simply giving and receiving, in loving and being loved—every day, God bridges the chasm. Every day.
Dorothy Day reminds us that in the end, love is the only true measure. Not wealth. Not status. Not power. All of those things come to an end. Only love continues on.
And yes, while we may not always love our neighbors as ourselves—and heck, sometimes maybe we even struggle to love ourselves—the love that God has for us is immeasurable.
And the good news is that there is no chasm in this life or in the life to come that can keep us separated from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Amen.
