Some texts in the Bible are a little frightening, like God raining fire and brimstone down on Sodom and Gomorrah, Pharoah’s army drowning the Red Sea or the walls of Jericho tumbling down. While these are scary enough, the gospel story of the Rich Man and Lazarus is the text that terrifies me. The way Jesus tells the parable the Rich Man ends up in torment after death NOT for anything he did, but for what he didn’t do. As near as we can tell the rich man was a nice guy. He certainly cared about his brothers. He knew his Bible: he knew Abraham, Moses and the prophets. There is no evidence that he violated any commandment or spoke any harsh words. We can suppose that he worshiped God as any good Jew would. What lands him in hell was what he failed to do: he failed to see a poor man named Lazarus, lying at his door. It’s not that he was mean to him or harsh towards him. The rich man was so wrapped up in himself and his world that he simply ignored the needs of someone outside of his circle. No doubt entering or leaving he averted his face so he wouldn’t have to look at the pleading eyes right in front of him. He failed to understand that what he possessed was not his to squander as he wanted but from God meant for a divine purpose. For what he failed to see, to understand, to do he paid the price of damnation.
This text terrifies me because the parable suggests that omission can be as damning as commission. Avoiding doing wrong is not enough. We also must do what is right. What, or better, who am I missing in what God wants of me? Have I grown too focused in my little world that I am not seeing something God wants me to see and not doing what God wants me to do? To lessen some of the terror of this parable three important lessons need attention. First, the poor man has a name, Lazarus, and the rich man knows his name. In all the parables that Jesus told this is the only time a character is named. In the other parables the protagonists are generic: a sower, a merchant, a woman baking bread, a father with two sons. Even here the rich man is not named but the poor man is. We should take from this that when Jesus calls us to expand our circle of care he is asking to do something specific. In Jesus’ time as in ours the needs are seemingly endless. We don’t know what to do about “poverty,” about the large volume of those seeking help, about those suffering bodily or mentally. By naming the poor man as Lazarus Jesus instructs us not to make our immediate concern dealing with an unnamed, generic, poor, suffering individual. Rather, we must ask ourselves what is the name, who is the specific person that demands my attention?
The second thing to notice about the parable is that the poor man, Lazarus, is “lying at the door.” When I was a student at Catholic University of America, Mother Teresa gave a moving talk about her mission and spirituality. After her presentation there was time for questions and one of the students asked her: wouldn’t it be better to change the conditions which produced poverty instead of treating the victims of poverty after the fact. Mother Teresa answered that in the providence of God she was sure that it was someone’s vocation to improve society in a way that eliminated or, at least, reduced poverty. She prayed every day that whosever vocation it was would step up. However, her vocation was different. She had reached the point where she could no longer walk past one more poor person. She felt called to respond to the need which was right in front of her. That seems to be the point of the parable as well. We can’t do everything but we can do something, something for the needs which are in our face. There are lots of Lazarus’ out there but it is the one lying at our gate, the one we can call by name that has a claim on us. The rich man blew it. He knew Lazarus and his situation but did nothing and that was what got him condemned. Who is at our door?
The third notable aspect of the parable: all Lazarus wants is “to eat his fill of the scraps which fell from the rich man’s table.” One thing that inhibits our responding to the needs in front of us is that we can only do a little bit. We can only give scraps – a little kindness, a little help, a little time — and we get discouraged because it doesn’t seem like much in the face of so much suffering. A story: an old man was walking the beach. A big storm has passed. The beach is littered with starfish in both directions as far as the eye can see. A boy approaches. His pants are rolled up halfway to his knees. He bends down, picks up something, then flings it into the sea. The old man watches awhile. Finally, he calls out, “Hey, sonny, what are you doing?” Comes the reply: “Throwing starfish back into the ocean. They got stranded on the beach from the tide. When the sun gets high, they will die unless I throw them back.” The old man replies, “But there must be hundreds. I’m afraid you won’t be able to make much of a difference.” The lad bends down, picks up yet another starfish and throws it as far as he can into the ocean. He turns, smiles, and says, “It made a difference to that one!” Church, we are called to make a difference. Who in your circle of care is hurting, in need, suffering? Who is Lazarus for you?
