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?