Bridging the chasm

Thumbnail Image by Karl Egger from Pixabay. Free for use under the Pixabay Content License

Clare L. Hickman

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Ferndale

September 28, 2025—Proper 21C

1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31

            It’s the little details of that story that make it so brilliant, the glimpses we get, that flesh out this rich man, and his boatload of “main character energy.”

It’s there, in the phrase, “at his gate,” in which we can picture him, walking past this huddled figure, day after day. Unseeing, distracted by the very important business of his life. Not wanting to look at, catch the smell of, allow even the hem of his robe to touch this person, whose skin has been ravaged by the elements, who’s being sniffed at by the dogs who eat the leavings of the street. Irritated, perhaps, that the grandeur of his home is being sullied. Confident, certainly, in his own superiority. Guilty, maybe, when he hears the rabbis talk in the synagogue, about God’s command to leave the edges of your wealth for those in need.

Still, he walks past. Day after day.   

But the real kicker, the real “main character energy” of this guy, comes on display when the story has him dead and in Hades. Where he is in torment, but he looks up to see the beggar, borne by angels to the bosom of Abraham. [By the way, don’t bother thinking too hard about how this cosmology works, This isn’t really a story about the afterlife: it’s just (another) parable about the effect money can have on the human soul.]

Does he use this moment to wonder why he, a man so clearly successful and therefore beloved of God, should be in Hades, and this worthless beggar is in the bosom of Abraham? He does not. Instead, he calls to Abraham, telling him … telling him “Send Lazarus down here to cool my tongue with a little bit of water.”

We’ll get back to the “go fetch” element of this in a bit. First, I want to take a moment to admire the narrative surprise we get, when we learn that: the rich man knows the beggar’s name! We’ve imagined him passing by an anonymous bundle of rags, pretending not to see. We imagine that, honestly, because we’ve done it. Right? But now we discover that he knows the man, or at least knows of him. Maybe it was the manager of his household, or other servants, mentioning Lazarus. Asking whether they might give him some table scraps, perhaps. Conversely, suggesting they might want to have him removed, forcibly.

Then again, it could just be that this a small town, a tight-knit community, where everyone knows everyone. Knows their struggles and their tragedies; sees their joys and successes. Maybe these two grew up together. I find myself imagining that they were childhood friends. Playing together, studying Torah together, evading parents to go on adventures together. And then something happened to put them on different paths. An illness or an accident on one side. A more lucrative choice of occupation on the other. Families of different economic classes, that didn’t matter when they were children, but created more and more of a separation as they got older. Different feasts to go to. Different opportunities to pursue. Creating awkwardness and envy and guilt, until it’s easier to just not see each other any more. The differences growing into a chasm.

There is a chasm, the story tells us, shows us, between the rich and the poor. Between those who have so much that even the crumbs from their table could fill the bellies of entire families of starving people … and those starving people.

And there is a chasm in the hearts of those who have hardened themselves against that fact. A chasm we see in the rich man, as he suffers in Hades.

Tell Lazarus to fetch a bowl of water and come serve me, he says.

Let that sink in a minute.

He’s being tormented in Hades. He sees Lazarus tended by angels. And still, STILL, he thinks it’s Lazarus’ job to serve him. Still thinks he’s somehow better than Lazarus.

Honestly, I’m impressed it even occurs to him to send a message to his brothers (though let’s be clear, he still wants to send Lazarus on this errand). Still, it’s good to see that he realizes just enough to know that there was something HE did to create this chasm, this suffering in his life.

Perhaps it was an echo of something he studied in Hebrew School. Something from Deuteronomy commanding him to love his neighbor. Amos declaring woe on those at ease on beds embossed with ivory.

“Go and tell my brothers that God actually meant all of those things!” he implores Abraham. Raise someone from the dead if you have to, so that they’ll take it seriously!!

But it’s all already there in the law and the prophets, Abraham replies. There’s no need for anything more. Your brothers know what to do. They know what not to do. And if they’re paying any kind of attention, they’re already living with the consequences. With the chasm that is growing in their soul, if they’ve been building the same kind of walls you did.

Walls of fear, and greed, and guilt, that require a person to protect their sense of self by cultivating a deliberate blindness to the lives of others. Walls of blame and scorn. Walls of indifference. Walls created from the myth of their own exceptionalism. Walls that become so complex and sophisticated that they don’t even see them anymore, don’t realize that the walls are blocking out the sacred commands to love and serve that should be keeping them up at night, because they have strayed so far.

What does it do to a person’s soul, to push down those words, to block out those words of Moses, the words of the prophets, the words that Jesus echoed so forcefully, and the letter to Timothy lays out so clearly? What damage is done to our souls, when we do so? If we harbor a sneaking suspicion (let alone an open declaration) that we are somehow superior to someone who is unhoused or unemployed; someone of a different race, nationality, or gender; someone with less education; or of another political party?

Or … what wound is inflicted on our own humanity if we too demand that others cater to our needs, bend to our desires. I’ve seen people become unreasonably angry when they aren’t getting the service (in a store, in a restaurant) they believe they are owed. Because, I suspect, they are the ones with the money; they are paying that person to serve them. And money—when it becomes a god, becomes the root of all evil—can override the command to mutual love, and mutual service.

But Moses reminds us. The prophets remind us. Jesus, over and over and over, reminds us. As does our own soul, which feels the damage on the one hand, and the life and healing on the other. When we act in the ways the letter to Timothy describes; When we live with faith, love and gentleness … rich in good works, generous, and ready to share … [we] take hold of the life that really is life” (1 Tim 6:11,18,19b). A life of wholeness, a life that is wholesome, a life that is holy. May you live your life on the right side of the chasm, my friends. Amen.