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?

The Chasm – Lent 2014 – Week 1

Luke 16:19-21:  And there was a rich man.  He dressed in purple and fine linen celebrating all day sumptuously.  And there was a poor man named Lazarus—thrown at the entrance—covered in sores, desiring to be satisfied with the fallings from the rich man’s table. Even as the dogs came, licking his sores.

Lent is a time to think about separations, the things that divide us from one another.  First among those thoughts are those things that separate us from God.  But as the two commandments—love God, love your neighbor—are connected, so are our thoughts about what separates us from each other—the people who surround us and come in contact with us each day.  In this Lenten season, I invite you on a journey with me through a story that, I find, is all about separation.

You’ve heard this story before, and if you haven’t I imagine you’ll immediately pick a good guy and bad guy out of these first two verses  With just two descriptive terms, Jesus has given us free reign to picture this Rich Man—nameless, faceless to us—just as we like.

To me he’s one of those big bank people.  He made out like a bandit during the housing crisis a few years ago, was probably one of those responsible for the subprime loans and other financial shenanigans that caused your 401K and mine to lose half their value.  Oh yeah, I know this guy.  He’s got two or three houses, a private jet, clothes that cost more than my car.  He’s probably got friends who call up Congressmen every time a new tax comes up just to make sure he doesn’t have to give up one penny of his fortune.

He’s greedy, willfully blind to the need in the world around him, and I can’t help but snicker a little that one day he’ll be begging across the length of some deep, vast chasm.

At least, I do until I remember that’s not what this story is about.

Lazarus, we are told, deeply desires to be satisfied from the fallings from the rich man’s table.  The “desire” here is the same the prodigal son feels when he is starving and coveting what the pigs are fed.  We know for what his heart longs, for what would bring him joy.

But what is the desire of the rich man?  We know he has blinded himself to the suffering and need of Lazarus just outside his door.  Day after day he maintains the separation, the chasm that separates himself from Lazarus.  But who remains separate from him?  Who is blind to his suffering and need?  From whose table would the fallings—the crumbs—be enough?

I have no idea if this Rich Man or any of the nameless, faceless wealthy in our world today are longing for something.  But I do know that when I let my prejudice, my anger blind me, I will not ever reach out across the divide that separates us.  And I will never know if it is my table from which they long to fill themselves.

A Christmas Prayer

God of Love, You didn’t have to come, there didn’t have to be a Christmas.  But for Your own reasons, You did and we come together remembering that you came, you come, you will come.  Come to us now as we gather today to celebrate You, to celebrate Love among us.  Lift our hearts in joy to sing with shepherds, angels, and animals.  And when the day ends, give us starlight to guide our way.  This and the whisperings of our hearts we ask in the name above names, Jesus.  Amen.

Advent 2012

    John 3:26-30

    What does it mean to be a light but not the light?

    When Jesus shows up on the scene, John confidently declares that this is the Light. This is the person before whom he had prepared the way. And he heroically declares that "He must increase, but I diminish." (John 3:30).

    Every evening in Advent we turn off everything, and, in darkness, light a candle through the nights leading up to Christmas. Those little lights, fragile as they are, are quite powerful. They push and hold back the darkness of our living room. And as the weeks go on, one is joined by two, three, and four and they shine even brighter. They cannot overcome the darkness, but they can succeed in holding it at bay.

    But when I turn on the switch, bringing electric light back into the room, those lights, which so recently seemed bright, seem dim. I realize that they are not as powerful as I'd thought. They have been diminished against the greater light. As we go about preparing dinner, it is easy to forget that they still burn in their corner by the hearth. And do I even notice the difference in the room when their light has been snuffed out?

    John was a light. In any other tale, he would be the lead. His story would fill chapters. But in this tale, he was just a small light who came to shine and declare the coming of the Light that would dispel all darkness. And when that Light came, he knew that he would be diminished in its glow. I wonder if he knew, when the tale was told, that he would be merely a minor character—a footnote to the greater tale.

    What does it mean not to be the light? What does it mean to be diminished by another's glow that is brighter than our own, to disappear when the time comes for them to shine? Do I have the strength and courage to flicker and struggle only to be forgotten in the corner while someone else shines brightly? Can I live with (if I'm lucky) being barely a footnote to another's story? Can I live with a life that is forgotten, even for the contribution I made in making a way for whoever came after?

    Those around him said to John, this is someone you talked about. This is someone who might well be no one if you hadn't talked him up. He is outshining you. He's going to eclipse you. He'll make everyone forget about you.

    "Then my joy is complete," he replied.

    Can mine be complete out of love for another?

    What does it mean to be a light but not the light?

Third Sunday of Advent

The prayer traditionally read this week begins "Stir up your power, O Lord." It's a real rousing beginning, and one that, for me, conjures up the idea of a coming storm. I think of too-warm weather, a sepia colored world, wind that slowly keeps rising, and a general feeling of tension in everything as creation waits for the clouds to break and the rain to pour down, drenching everything and everyone in its wake.


I must admit my thought of hard rain and the relief that comes when the gathering storm finally gives way provides a window into my own spiritual life. I had hopes that this season of Advent would be a time when my parched soul might find an end to its long drought. Maybe it's just that in these weeks when the message of God's love plays from every store PA system and non-stop-til-Christmas on the radio I thought that the withering and weak spirit within me might at last be stirred up and I could feel, again, the wonder that is a relationship with Christ.


However, with two weeks behind, I have yet to feel even a twinge of life from beneath my breast, much less a sense of being stirred up. And rather than rain that cures the dry, cracked ground, I find myself confronted by night after night of cold, clear stars: stars which, even though they are fire, are too far away to kindle anything within me.


I shouldn't, I suppose, be surprised at this. God really isn't one for getting stirred up. When people begged and hoped for a great champion to throw off the Roman yoke, they got a child who grew up to talk about love and peace. And as I look west for a sign of clouds growing and billowing on the horizon, there are only soft sunsets that give way to clear, cold nights that reveal the universe.


Earlier this year I would have responded to all this with anger, shaking my fist at the sky. Now, I suppose God has worn me down. Now I merely turn and go back inside, sheltering the tiny candle flame of hope that sputters in the gentle, chilly breeze. And this week, I pray for that stirring up, even as I'm coming to believe that God just doesn't work like that. That no matter how much I need a rain that saturates me from head to toe, I will walk out each night to find only dry air. As much as I need some hint that Christ is close to me, is still near, there is just the cold and starry night. While I am ready to welcome the billowing and powerful clouds of the storm, I see only clear skies.


And I wonder, staring at the crystal clear constellations, who could ever find hope in the stars of Christmas night?


Stir up my soul, O Lord.

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.