As long as we are breathing, bridges are possible

Parable teaches us to reach out to poor, suffering

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Chasm — Luke 16:19-31

Jesus is walking to dinner at “the house of the leader of the Pharisees.” Crowds have gathered around him — “all the tax collectors and sinners” (15:1).

I love the word “all” in that phrase. Really? All the tax collectors and sinners! Not much fun is happening anywhere else then.

Jesus talks of a lost sheep, a lost coin, a lost brother and then he keeps walking and talking. Chapter 16 begins with a story about a dishonest manager; Jesus throws in a note about divorce and then moves on, literally and figuratively.

There was a rich man who dressed every day in the finest of clothes and feasted, not just on special days, but every day. There was a poor man. Lazarus. He lay at the gate of the rich man’s home. The dogs came and licked his sores.

Both men die. Lazarus is carried off by angels to be with Abraham, while the rich man ends up in Hades. From his place of torment he looks up and sees Lazarus lying at Abraham’s bosom and he cries 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 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.”

A great chasm. A rich man covered in fine linen, a poor man covered with sores. A rich man who feasted sumptuously, a poor man whose wounds are food for the dogs. A rich man in torment, a poor man resting in Abraham’s bosom.

We know chasms; we

understand divides.

Who are we in this story? Who has our sympathy?

The rich man in this story is so rich that he is not “one of us.” He does not merely have extraordinary wealth, he ostentatiously displays it. His purple cloth was among the most expensive of textiles. His fine linen was what was used to clothe the high priests, but the priests only wore their linen to serve in the sanctuary. the rich man wears his to sit down to dinner. He is not serving God or neighbor.

The poor man is likewise an extreme. He is not a beggar as some translations have called him. He does not beg. He does nothing. While not “one of us,” he is meant to have our compassion. Before we know of Lazarus’ circumstances beyond the stark notice of his poverty, we learn his name. Almost no one in parables has a name: the rich young ruler, the sower, the prodigal son, the widow, the merchant, and on and on.

Lazarus means “God helps.” This inactive poor man has our empathy.

New Testament scholar Amy-Jill Levine writes: “The parables ... tease us into recognizing what we’ve already always known, and they do so by reframing our vision. The point is less that they reveal something new than that they tap into our memories, our values and our deepest longings, and so they resurrect what is very old, and very wise, and very precious. And often, very unsettling.”

Unsettling. The chasm unsettles me.

This chasm did not spring up after their deaths. It was there every day of their lives. But while they were living there was hope; bridges were possible.

We know about chasms, about divisions, about separation. As names continue to be added to the list of black men and boys who are dead, we know something about chasms. We want to make it a divide between the police and black men, but that’s far too simple.

We know a thing or two about chasms, about divisions, about separation.

When refugees are compared to candy. When too many scream in outrage about people who won’t stand for the national anthem but are silent when unarmed people of color are gunned down. When hate speech seems to litter the very air we breathe, we know about chasms. We know the gaping hole between empathy and blaming, between fear and love, between compassion and rejection. We know chasms.

It’s too late for the rich man. Even in death, he just doesn’t get it. Send Lazarus to wet my tongue; send him to my brothers. You don’t send your equal to fetch and carry. The divide is much larger than whatever separates them physically.

The rich man, who had Moses and the Prophets, didn’t listen. He didn’t listen to admonishments to care for the poor, to love neighbor, to offer shelter to the homeless. Moses, Amos, Deborah, Isaiah, Jeremiah — the prophets tell us again and again to care for the poor, the widow, the stranger and the orphan.

Even in death the rich man doesn’t see the full humanity and dignity of Lazarus. He doesn’t even consider anyone beyond his own family. He is not able to bridge the divide.

“In his white dress shirt, dark tie and slacks, he stands out among the SWAT police and ... civilians. He was on the ground not long after crowds began gathering in downtown Charlotte to protest the policeinvolved shooting death of Keith Lamont Scott.

“His name is Toussaint Romain and he’s a public defender in Charlotte, N.C. He inserted himself between the wall of armored police and the amorphous crowd of demonstrators.

“His reason for being there was simple: ‘We don’t need any more people to go to die, no more people to be arrested. We need to take a stand. People are hurting. People are upset. People are frustrated. People need leaders. I’m not trying to be that leader. I’m trying to prevent people from being hurt’ ,” CNN reports.

He’s standing in the chasm.

It’s not too late. Not yet! We have Moses and the Prophets. We have Jesus reminding us of their wisdom. We have what we need. Now we must act.