The Great Chasm (Proper 21C)

The Great Chasm
Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Proper 21 Year C RCL)
29 September 2013--8:00 a.m. Said, 10:00 a.m. Sung Mass

Parish Church of Trinity, Ashland (Oregon)

Readings:

Amos 6:1a, 4-7; Psalm 146; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31

God, give us hearts to feel and love,

take away our hearts of stone

 and give us hearts of flesh. Amen.

In Shakespeare’s play, Henry IV Part 2, Prince Hal becomes King Henry V.  His former companions, those who had corrupted his youth and led him into ignoble ways, see this as an opportunity to finally aggrandize themselves in a big way.  Sir John Falstaff, Ancient [Ensign] Pistol, Bardolph—they all want a piece of the action around the new king.   But Hal has changed.  The civil war, his coming to terms with his father, and the rigors of becoming the soldier leader that would win at Agincourt—all this has produced a new Henry.  The whole set-up has changed.   Henry’s former companions fail to see the new deal.  They still see an impressionable, malleable Hal, easily led astray, not the Henry who was to win the battle of Agincourt.  Falstaff makes a bet that he can worm his way into the new King’s graces.  But when he first encounters him, Henry is clear:

I know thee not, old man. Fall to thy prayers.

How ill white hairs become a fool and jester.

I have long dreamt of such a kind of man,

So surfeit-swelled, so old, and so profane;

But being awaked, I do despise my dream. …

Presume not that I am the thing I was,

For God doth know—so shall the world perceive—

That I have turned away my former self.

So will I those that kept me company. 

When thou dost hear I am as I have been,

Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,

The tutor and the feeder of my riots.

Till then I banish thee, on pain of death,

As I have done the rest of my misleaders,

Not to come near our person by ten mile.

John Tufts as Henry V at Oregon Shakespeare Festival 2012

 

Even after this certain word from the King himself, Falstaff tells his companions that young Hal is only making a show of honor for the sake of the court, and that he will secretly send for Falstaff to renew their friendship and revelry.   He persists, despite what is in front of his eyes, in trying to pursue his old relationship.  In the end, we hear of Falstaff’s death of some disease he has contracted in his debaucheries.  In Henry V, Henry ends any suspicions we may have that remnants of the old Hal persist by hanging some of his former drinking buddies when they loot French towns in violation of his orders. 

“There are none so blind as those who will not see” goes the old saying.   The point is that willfully ignoring the evidence before your eyes is the most profound sort of blindness. 

Today’s Gospel story is about such a willful blindness.  The tradition behind Luke’s Gospel places it on the lips of Jesus, but the truth be told, it could have been said by many of Jesus’ contemporaries.  A wildly rich and ostentatious man is contrasted with a dirt-poor wretch.  The wretch has the somewhat ironic name, Lazarus, a form of Eliezer, “My God is my help.”  The rich man is unnamed, but in some manuscripts is called Nineveh, or its shortened form Nives, presumably because that would be like calling someone “New York” or “Paris” today.  The word for “rich man” in Latin manuscripts is often taken as the man’s name, Dives (di-ves).

A couple of details are important in understanding the story:  the rich man dresses in purple and fine linen and feasts sumptuously every day.   This means he was wildly rich, and overly ostentatious about it.  Purple dye obtained from the Murex whelk was originally reserved for royalty. Throughout the Roman period, its cost was very high—it was literally worth its weight in silver.   Thus wearing purple was equivalent to our wearing a Saville Row suit costing in the range of $8-10,000, or, for a woman, a designer gown of $20-30,000.   The word translated by fine linen is probably not a flax-based fabric, but a highly densely woven soft Egyptian cotton or, more likely, silk.  Again, the point is its extreme cost.  Dives is a man who would appreciate Dorothy Parker’s advice:  “Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves.” 

The story contrasts this extravagance with the worst sort of poverty right on the rich man’s doorstep:  Lazarus is covered with sores from malnutrition.  He wants to go through the rich man’s garbage for some food, but is too weak:  the dogs get it first, and then proceed to quench their thirst by licking his open sores. 

In all of this Lazarus remains apparently invisible to the rich man in the silk underwear and tailored suit, who can’t be bothered to do even a little to alleviate the suffering on his doorstep. 

But then, the sudden turn-around—they both die and go to their reward.  Lazarus, like the ever-faithful servant Eliezer whose name he bears, ends up with his kind master Abraham; the rich man, cruel master that he is, ends up in Hades, the Greek hell, where he is tormented. 

It is now that we discover that the Rich Man was seeing Lazarus in poverty each day after all.  He sees him from far off in Abraham’s bosom and recognizes him as the familiar wretch who once graced his doorstep.  And, like Falstaff with Henry V, he thinks that relationships haven’t changed.  He still thinks Lazarus is one of his hangers-on, like a servant, however ill he neglected and abused him.  “Father Abraham, send Lazarus on an errand for me, please.  Have him fetch me a drink.” 

“No way,” replies Abraham.  This guy has already suffered hell, now it’s your turn. Besides that, there is a great chasm between you and him.   It’s impossible to cross it.  You’re out of luck.” 

Again, like Falstaff, the rich man persists.  “Well then, if he can’t come here to help me, then send him on an errand to my brothers to warn them.”  He still thinks Lazarus is a step-and-fetch-it, a poor man on his door to be ordered about.   The profound nature of the reversal of fortunes has not sunk in, even though he is now naked amid the flames instead of comfortable in silk pajamas and 1,500 count Egyptian cotton. 

Now if this story were about the architecture of the afterlife, and the fact that there is a heaven and a hell and no possibility of moving from one to the other, Abraham’s reply would have been “that’s not allowed either!”  But instead, he replies, “if only it were that simple!  I could send him, but they wouldn’t believe his warning.  They are as willingly blind as you were in life, and still are!  Look at how they ignore the obvious teaching of the Torah to care for the poor.  Look at how they refuse to really see what is in front of their eyes, just as you did!” 

The chasm between the rich man and Lazarus in death is the same chasm that separated them in life—the rich man’s refusal to see what is in front of his eyes.  He is not compassionate, and unable to feel empathy.  He willingly turns a blind eye to the suffering on his doorstep.  But he in fact does see it.  The contrast between it and his own good fortune gives him pleasure, is part of the delights of extravagance.  After all, he recognizes Lazarus in the afterlife, and treats him as a familiar.  

Some would make this story into a proof-text for the doctrine of an everlasting hell for evil-doers and its unchangeable nature.  I think, however, it is about how hard it is for some of us to change.   As I have said before from this pulpit, my faith in God’s love and benevolence, my trust in the Cross, leads me to hope that in the end, God’s love will triumph, and all people will be made right with God and themselves.   But that doesn’t mean that it will be an easy victory.   What is impossible for us, is possible for God, and maybe even Falstaff or Dives might one day change. 

What is key here is that we stop deceiving ourselves about where we fall short, where we do not show compassion and love.  Simply asking God, or Father Abraham, to fix things for us without us changing how we see things and changing how we behave just delays love’s victory.  Asking God to forgive our sins without having a firm resolve to amend our lives is like asking God to change us without changing us.  It is like Falstaff betting that Hal will come back to him; like Dives wanting to send Lazarus on an errand. 

Sisters and brothers, we often run into compassion fatigue.  We get tired of helping people, or of encountering one more needy request made by what might be a deficient person.  We burn out in our service projects and callings.  God can recharge us.  God will recharge us.  God does recharge us. 

This week, I want us to each consider how we are being blind, whether to human suffering before us, or our own failings.   Starting from the proverb, “there is none so blind as those who will not see,” let us plumb where we suffer gaps in our vision, and then pray that God give us true vision anew.  

In the name of Christ, Amen.

Amen.