The Chasm – Lent 2014 – Week 6

Luke 16:30-31 And that one said, “No, Father Abraham.  But if someone from the dead may go to them, they will repent.” But he said to him, “If they do not hear Moses and the Prophets, neither will they be persuaded if someone rises from the dead.”

As we step into the week that leads to the cross, we come to the final words of this parable—this story we have been reading together during these weeks of Lent.  We come to this statement that some people are so hard-hearted, so deaf that even if someone were to rise from the dead and testify to them it still would not be enough.

Death is a prerequisite for rising from the dead.  And it is Christ’s death that lies most heavily on my mind as I think of this week, this story, and upon separation.  The cross, for me, is a powerful symbol of separation and reconciliation.

Slowly dying, it is remembered, Jesus cries out in a loud voice, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”  Hung between two criminals, Jesus felt the wide chasm between himself and the Source of All Hope.  In fact, it was not only from God that Christ felt separation but from all humanity.  His friends had abandoned him.  The world he had come to redeem in love had not only rejected him but conspired to murder him.

That chasm, it must have seemed, was greater and darker than possible.  It yawned forth, swallowing hope.  And its despair must have been just as deadly as the nails and the wounds.

But on the Sunday following, something amazing, unprecedented happened.  And in an instant, with the sound of a rock rolling upon the spring ground, the chasm was filled with such earth and light that it was as if that great separation never existed.  Nothing, the Risen One declared in His rising—not height, nor depth, nor anything—could separate us from the love of God.

Love has that power: the power to span any chasm no matter how deep it has grown. It is fierce enough that it can bear hope in the darkest of places.  It is, as the old poem says, stronger than death.  And love can overcome the separations our own hard and calcified hearts have established.

But that means we must reach forth in love, stretching our hands not just forward but also to each side—outstretched.  We have to do it humbly and stripped bare with the full knowledge of the possibility of rejection.  But God will not leave us alone in the darkness, separated by chasms or stones.

And when we can’t believe it, there is the One who rose from the dead who will tell us it is true.

The Chasm – Lent 2014 – Week 5

Luke 16:29 But Abraham said, “They have Moses and the Prophets.  Hear them.”

I am an impatient teacher.  My wife often complains that I have an unspoken quota on how many questions any person is allowed to ask.  Though I get mad at her over this statement, I know that I can be less than patient when someone returns to me, again and again, with the same question.  “You already know this,” I will sometimes say.  You’ve heard me say this, tell you this twice (okay, sometimes it’s only once).  You know this.

Maybe it’s my own disposition, but I hear Abraham as a little impatient in this verse.  And why not, this rich man isn’t getting it.  He’s asked that Lazarus—as if he’s a servant—to come and bring him some water.  Realizing there was no way that was going to happen, he starts pleading that poor old Lazarus—again, like he’s his own personal servant—go warn his family about this fate that has befallen him.  Please send Lazarus, he begs, to tell my brothers what has happened to me, what might happen to them.  Oh please, oh please Abraham, however will they know such an awful fate is possible otherwise?

Abraham sighs and says, “You know this.”  They know this.  Moses and the Prophets already told you and your brothers all about how things work.  You’re to reach out to one another.  You’re to care for one another and not let divisions grow into giant chasms so wide and deep they are almost impossible to cross.  Your brothers should love God and love your neighbor.  You already know this.  And if they do not, they need to open their ears and listen.

Irony is defined as an inconsistency between actual and expected events.  This story Jesus is telling is an example.  The rich man, due to his status, is assumed blessed as evidenced by his wealth.  But the way things turn out is that he is, in fact, not blessed and not following in the way of Moses and the Prophets.

Another example would be someone who gets so impatient with people who do not remember something they’ve already been told testing the patience of another by doing the exact same thing.  That someone would be me and the patience I know I must test is God’s.  Day after day I am aware of the things that I allow (dare I say cultivate), which keep others at a distance.  And, in some moment of repentance, I find myself lamenting that separation, that chasm that has formed.  How, I ask, can I bridge that divide?  How can I heal that wound?

And God responds, “You know this.”

The Chasm – Lent 2014 – Week 4

Luke 16:27-28 And he said, “I beg you then, Father, that you might send him to the house of my father.  For I have five brothers, that he might warn them so that they might not come to this place of pain.”

Sometimes, when my wife and I have an argument, our attempts to come together again seem futile.  Maybe we’re both tired or have had one of those weeks where it seems no one gave a hoot about our opinion, but, for some reason, a discussion that should have taken just a few minutes ends up swallowing an entire hour of our night.  And there are times when I want to throw up my hands, leave the room, and give up on ever reaching any reconciliation, ever bridging the gap that night.  There is, it seems, no hope of it.

There’s a shift in the story we’ve been following these past few weeks.  Upon finding himself in that far distant place, the Rich Man begged for aid for himself.  Just a little water upon my tongue, he asked, would cool me.

But, then, Abraham says those fateful words: no one, even if it was their heart’s desire, could cross from here to there.  And following that revelation, we see in this week’s verses, the Rich Man begins to plead for his family.

In one sense, this shows growth.  He is, at least, no longer thinking only about himself.  But this change in focus reveals, to me, something sad—the Rich Man has given up hope, any hope, for reconciliation.

Rightly so, you may say.  He’s made his choices; he lived his life divided from others who reached out to him.  He chose feasts and fancy clothes over love.  In the words of an earlier generation, he made his bed, now he has to lie in it.

And maybe that is true for the world to come.  Maybe there is no hope if one finds themselves on the opposite side of that chasm.  But, either way, it isn’t true on this side of the grave.

On those evenings where my wife and I argue and one of us decides to give up and go on to bed, it doesn’t end like that.  After a few minutes cooling off, we emerge from the bedroom and change the tone of our discussion.  We reach out over the divide, filling in the gorge that’s appeared at our feet.

Paul writes that nothing in all of creation is powerful enough to separate us from the agape of God.  His words are a reminder that God’s love is so fierce and so amazing that it can ascend any height, plunge to any depth, and bridge any canyon.  And if it can do that, then is there ever a reason to lose hope, to stop reaching forth even if it is just for a bit of cool water?

The Chasm – Lent 2014 – Week 3

Luke 16:24-26:  And, when he had called, he said, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus that he might dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; because, I suffer in this flame.  But Abraham said, “Child remember that you, you received the good in life and Lazarus, likewise, the bad.  But now he is comforted, but you suffer pain.  And, besides, in the midst of us and you a great chasm has been established that even those who want to pass from here to there are not able; nor, those there cross over to us.

While I love the movie “The Shawshank Redemption” I’m not a fan of the novella upon which it was based.  One reason for this is that it lacks, I think, the sense of justice that makes the movie so satisfying.  Those who received the bad now receive the good, and those who enjoyed the good things…well, let us say that by movie’s end they suffer pain.

In this twenty-first century world, Jesus’ parable has a ring of justice to it.  Oh I know, and the commentaries remind me, that the first-century hearers of the tale would have been shocked by the rich man’s suffering.  During that time, it was believed the prosperous on earth were showing outward signs of God’s blessing.  But here, some twenty centuries later, it is not shocking but satisfying.  The mean man who ignored poor Lazarus all these years is getting his.  Let such justice roll down like waters, I find myself thinking.

Do not think here that I’m going to critique the desire for justice in the world (this one or the next one).  Such a desire is a good thing.  It can wake us up to notice who is at the feast and who is begging for crumbs.  It can cause us to act on behalf of those who are receiving all the bad.  And, on the best days, it can help us ease the suffering in this life.

But it can also create a chasm between us.

Too often when I hear a story on the news of some money-grubber who has tricked the elderly out of their savings or some heartless monster that has treated dogs or cats like things rather than the beloved, fuzzy part of God’s creation, I want justice.  I want due punishment meted out.  I want them to find themselves looking from afar at the aged and animals gathered around and cherished at Christ’s table.

Rightfully so that I or any of us desire to see criminal acts stopped and restitution made.  But what that desire, unchecked, does to me is not so right.  I, of course, see myself at Christ’s side, looking far off at this one, this monster that has treated one of God’s beloved in such an inhumane way.  I laugh at them as the flame rises, burning away everything they had.  I feel a deep satisfaction as they begin to cry out in the pain they have brought upon themselves.

Before I know it, a chasm deeper and wider than the eye can comprehend has formed at my feet.  If left unattended, its sides will continue to steepen and its gulf widen.  Who knows how long it will take, but sooner or later that separation, that great difference between myself and this one upon whom I so long for justice to roll down will be impossible to cross.

And, at that point, who knows which side of that gorge I will find myself upon.

The Chasm – Lent 2014 – Week 2

Luke 16:22-23 And it happened, the poor man died, and he was carried by the angels into the bosom of Abraham.  The rich man also died and was buried.  And in Hades, lifting up his eyes, himself in torment, he sees Abraham from a distance and Lazarus in his bosom.

Christmas may be out of place in Lent, but when I read about the rich man, at his death, simply being buried I cannot help but think of Scrooge.  The Ghost of Christmas-Yet-to-Come presents a future where Dickens’ Scrooge dies alone.  There are no mourners at his grave.  In fact, those who hear of his death are only concerned with dividing up his estate.

There’s nothing in the words or the story that Jesus tells to give us any indication that our rich man suffers the same fate as Scrooge was foretold, but it certainly wasn’t as glorious and glamorous a passing as Lazarus’.

And what happens to him?  Why, our poor man is borne up on wings of angels to what is often translated as Abraham’s Bosom.  That word for bosom also means breast and it reminds me of the image of the Beloved Disciple, at the Last Supper, reclining against Jesus’ breast.  It implies a place of honor at the feast.  In my contemporary mind, it calls up a sense of comfort, safety, and love.

But what of our rich man, the nameless soul who was not carried by any angelic beings but only buried, alone, in the dirt?  Is there anyone with him?  Or are the only others in sight—Abraham and Lazarus—so far, so very far away?

I’ve begun to wonder if this was his torment.  After a lifetime of ignoring people, of stepping over and around those near to him, was this the sight that Hades wrought to torment him?  In the end, after keeping his distance for so many years, did the rich man find himself truly seeing how far he’d separated himself from others?

Scrooge, at his sad and lonely grave, begins to weep.  He, like our rich man, recognizes the distance he has allowed to grow between himself and those around him.  Facing a tangible reality of that separation, Scrooge vows to live.  He promises to live life and cherish not just it but the people in it.  He swears, having seen, finally, how far away he has pushed and pulled himself away from those around him.

I have to wonder, have I?  Have I seen the distance I’ve allowed—deliberately or through negligence—to creep between myself and others?  Most certainly, I haven’t.  If I had, I wouldn’t hesitate to bridge that distance and bring them close.

But do I have the courage to bring them so close that I must dare the vulnerability not just to recline and rest upon their chest but to allow them to rest upon mine?