READING: Luke 16:19-31
[Jesus said:] 19“There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. 20And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, 21who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. 22The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. 23In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. 24He called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.’ 25But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. 26Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.’ 27He said, ‘Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house—28for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.’ 29Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.’ 30He said, ‘No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.’ 31He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’ ”
When I was in grade school, they showed us a movie I will never forget. To the best of my recollection, it was called “Zero.” The movie tells the story of a young boy, probably about 10 or 11, who is on his way to school one day on the bus, when he suddenly stands up and desperately asks to be let off. He stumbles down the stairs, takes a couple of steps, and collapses in the snow. With no warning, he is gone. And one of his previous teachers, who happened to be following the bus to school that day, as he runs to help after the boy falls, realizes he doesn’t remember who he is. The bus driver and the students on the bus don’t know his name, or anything about him. It’s as if he had been invisible, right in plain sight. A zero.
So begins a journey of transformation for the teacher, who gets to know the boy’s parents, and through their stories gets to know the boy who nobody seemed to really see. His mother loved him, but was distracted by the challenges of her own life. His stepfather barely used his name, and talked to him only to tell him he was doing something wrong. He had no friends. His teachers forgot him as soon as he passed through their class—he was quiet, did at least the minimum, and caused no trouble.
A look at the boy’s school records showed that he had been quite different when had been younger—engaging, outgoing, positive, contributing energy to the classroom. And slowly, bit by bit, year by year, he had withdrawn, to the point where he became almost invisible.
Who are we willing to see? Who are we unwilling to see? Listen to the language we use to talk about those in our world who we wish would just go away. When politicians and business leaders talk about the challenge of homelessness in the city, so often I hear them say things like, “’It’ prevents people from wanting to come downtown.” Them being there makes tourists afraid. The homeless bring crime, and are always asking for things. Isn’t there somewhere else for them to go, where they wouldn’t be in the way? People who spend time on the street, because they have no where else to go, will often talk of the pain of being invisible, as people passing by intentionally look the other way.
We talk about refugees seeking asylum at our borders as if the violence, poverty, oppression they are facing doesn’t matter. As if the hopes and dreams and dignity and gifts and resources they bring don’t exist. As if they are not our problem. They need to go somewhere else. There is a chasm between us and these children of God, just as deep and wide as the invisible chasm between the rich man and Lazarus, a chasm that, Jesus tells us, we are called to cross while we still can.
And as the school year begins, and we all settle into our fall routines of class and work and activities and family, this comes much closer to home. We can probably all look around our cafeterias or classrooms or workplaces and find them—the invisible ones. The ones whose clothes are a bit too shabby, or the ones who don’t have “cool” or “interesting” things to say, or the ones who haven’t “bothered to learn our language well enough,” or the ones who are too fat or too skinny . . . the ones who are just too different from us for us to understand, too different to be welcomed. We don’t use their names, most of the time, have you noticed that?
Jesus is different. We have seen that before! And today, as we listen to our Gospel story, we are reminded of how very differently Jesus sees things. To start with, Jesus gives the poor man—the one without, the one who doesn’t have decent clothes, the one who begs, the one covered with sores—Jesus gives him a name. Lazarus. Say that with me. Lazarus.
In contrast, the rich man in Jesus’ story does not have a name. Not because the rich man doesn’t matter, or because God doesn’t love him, but because Jesus wants us to get it that this story is about seeing Lazarus. Seeing the one who everyone else was so intent on ignoring.
Lazarus, who spent his life desperately hoping for crumbs from the table, finds that in God’s eyes, he is seen. He has a name. He has dignity, and worth, and is welcome, and has a place, whether his fellow children of God have granted it to him or not.
This is such a challenging message, for we human beings, who, just like the rich man in the story, are prone to separate ourselves from those not like us, especially those whose suffering disturbs or frightens us. Jesus make it clear, over and over we fail to see the human dignity and worth of those right in front of us. And Jesus makes it clear, we are called to see them. Called to know their names, and their stories.
This is not an easy task. But there is good news, too. When we are at our most vulnerable, our most wounded, our most exhausted, when we have been rejected or discounted, God sees us. God knows our name. God cares about our pain, and sees us in all of our humanity. We are never invisible to God.
Knowing that, we are sent out to see those around us, especially the invisible ones. Those who are different, who don’t quite fit in. The student who always sits alone in the cafeteria, or has no one to play with on the playground. The co-worker who avoids the water cooler or coffee room. The family living in their car until they can afford to get an apartment again.
Who, in your world, is invisible? Who, this week, can you choose to see the way God sees each one of us—with love, compassion, dignity, and worth?
[Jesus said:] 19“There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. 20And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, 21who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. 22The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. 23In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. 24He called out, ‘Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.’ 25But Abraham said, ‘Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. 26Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.’ 27He said, ‘Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house—28for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.’ 29Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.’ 30He said, ‘No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.’ 31He said to him, ‘If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.’ ”
When I was in grade school, they showed us a movie I will never forget. To the best of my recollection, it was called “Zero.” The movie tells the story of a young boy, probably about 10 or 11, who is on his way to school one day on the bus, when he suddenly stands up and desperately asks to be let off. He stumbles down the stairs, takes a couple of steps, and collapses in the snow. With no warning, he is gone. And one of his previous teachers, who happened to be following the bus to school that day, as he runs to help after the boy falls, realizes he doesn’t remember who he is. The bus driver and the students on the bus don’t know his name, or anything about him. It’s as if he had been invisible, right in plain sight. A zero.
So begins a journey of transformation for the teacher, who gets to know the boy’s parents, and through their stories gets to know the boy who nobody seemed to really see. His mother loved him, but was distracted by the challenges of her own life. His stepfather barely used his name, and talked to him only to tell him he was doing something wrong. He had no friends. His teachers forgot him as soon as he passed through their class—he was quiet, did at least the minimum, and caused no trouble.
A look at the boy’s school records showed that he had been quite different when had been younger—engaging, outgoing, positive, contributing energy to the classroom. And slowly, bit by bit, year by year, he had withdrawn, to the point where he became almost invisible.
Who are we willing to see? Who are we unwilling to see? Listen to the language we use to talk about those in our world who we wish would just go away. When politicians and business leaders talk about the challenge of homelessness in the city, so often I hear them say things like, “’It’ prevents people from wanting to come downtown.” Them being there makes tourists afraid. The homeless bring crime, and are always asking for things. Isn’t there somewhere else for them to go, where they wouldn’t be in the way? People who spend time on the street, because they have no where else to go, will often talk of the pain of being invisible, as people passing by intentionally look the other way.
We talk about refugees seeking asylum at our borders as if the violence, poverty, oppression they are facing doesn’t matter. As if the hopes and dreams and dignity and gifts and resources they bring don’t exist. As if they are not our problem. They need to go somewhere else. There is a chasm between us and these children of God, just as deep and wide as the invisible chasm between the rich man and Lazarus, a chasm that, Jesus tells us, we are called to cross while we still can.
And as the school year begins, and we all settle into our fall routines of class and work and activities and family, this comes much closer to home. We can probably all look around our cafeterias or classrooms or workplaces and find them—the invisible ones. The ones whose clothes are a bit too shabby, or the ones who don’t have “cool” or “interesting” things to say, or the ones who haven’t “bothered to learn our language well enough,” or the ones who are too fat or too skinny . . . the ones who are just too different from us for us to understand, too different to be welcomed. We don’t use their names, most of the time, have you noticed that?
Jesus is different. We have seen that before! And today, as we listen to our Gospel story, we are reminded of how very differently Jesus sees things. To start with, Jesus gives the poor man—the one without, the one who doesn’t have decent clothes, the one who begs, the one covered with sores—Jesus gives him a name. Lazarus. Say that with me. Lazarus.
In contrast, the rich man in Jesus’ story does not have a name. Not because the rich man doesn’t matter, or because God doesn’t love him, but because Jesus wants us to get it that this story is about seeing Lazarus. Seeing the one who everyone else was so intent on ignoring.
Lazarus, who spent his life desperately hoping for crumbs from the table, finds that in God’s eyes, he is seen. He has a name. He has dignity, and worth, and is welcome, and has a place, whether his fellow children of God have granted it to him or not.
This is such a challenging message, for we human beings, who, just like the rich man in the story, are prone to separate ourselves from those not like us, especially those whose suffering disturbs or frightens us. Jesus make it clear, over and over we fail to see the human dignity and worth of those right in front of us. And Jesus makes it clear, we are called to see them. Called to know their names, and their stories.
This is not an easy task. But there is good news, too. When we are at our most vulnerable, our most wounded, our most exhausted, when we have been rejected or discounted, God sees us. God knows our name. God cares about our pain, and sees us in all of our humanity. We are never invisible to God.
Knowing that, we are sent out to see those around us, especially the invisible ones. Those who are different, who don’t quite fit in. The student who always sits alone in the cafeteria, or has no one to play with on the playground. The co-worker who avoids the water cooler or coffee room. The family living in their car until they can afford to get an apartment again.
Who, in your world, is invisible? Who, this week, can you choose to see the way God sees each one of us—with love, compassion, dignity, and worth?
