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?

Second Sunday of Advent

Scrooge, in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, truly finds the spirit of the season while standing over his own grave. Despite the reminder of the past and the reality of the present, he only feels the "comfort and joy" of the Yuletide when he is face to face with mortality. For me, it is mortality that is making this season so darn difficult.


This Advent will mark the first year since my father-in-law passed. Anyone I've ever talked to or any book I've read on the subject tells you that it's the second holiday that is the most difficult. This rings true for me. The relief and rejoicing that the suffering was over along with the shock of his passing made last Christmas easier than this one. And while Scrooge, after getting a healthy dose of mortality, woke the next morning to dance around the room and be very merry indeed, I'm struggling to hold on to a taste of that familiar feeling of Christmas.


I have been attempting for over a week to write about what I suppose is something I am not alone in struggling with during this time of year. But either the emotions are too close or I have been too intent on finding some comfort to share—comfort I struggle to find myself.


Last night, as I sat on the couch in a bad mood because one more draft had gone south, I thought about the line from "I Wonder as I Wander." Specifically, I thought about how Jesus "had come for to die." There was a time when I didn't care for that line. It sounded too much as if all Christ's earthly ministry was just extraneous material.


But then my wife reminded me that being born meant dying. There is no other way out of this side of reality (aside from the Parousia—the Return, which seems so very distant). And God knew that getting involved with mortal flesh meant dying in some form or fashion.


I suppose there was also the other side of that coin—experiencing the death of someone near and dear. It is, I believe, very different to encounter death on the Heaven-side of things than on the Earthly. I have to wonder if God-Enfleshed struggled to find joy or simply ached when those he'd come to love were no longer within reach of an embrace or able to sit across the table at dinner.


Somewhere within this, I must think there is comfort for those who are grieving. Perhaps it is in the knowledge that, in the Incarnation, we have been given the gift of a God that knows how difficult it is to face joyful times with a heart that is missing pieces. Maybe it is just that surely Jesus felt as we do and is forgiving when we must leave the room when the angels begin singing.


Or it could be simply a hope that, like Scrooge, our mourning will, eventually, be turned to dancing.


Comforter, comfort those who are missing someone.