The Rich Man, Lazarus, and Spectacles: A Parable of Faith - Luke 16:19-31

Jesus was not the first person to tell the story of Lazarus and the rich man. Though the details vary, versions of this story can be found in Egyptian priestly literature, for example, and there are at least seven versions of it in old rabbinical texts. In fact, the story was told all over the ancient near east. Perhaps the story is found everywhere because the rich man and the poor man are found everywhere, then and now (Fred Craddock, 2011).

Like any good preacher, Jesus stole the story, made a few changes, and called it his own. And I think he had some fun with it, too. Take the rich man’s purple robes and sumptuous feast - the details are meant to be over the top. I picture the rich man basically wearing a fancy silk chasuble around the house, eating Beluga caviar on a Tuesday just because he can. And the details describing poor Lazarus are extra, too. Not only is he hungry, he’s also covered in sores that the dogs lick. You cannot unsee that detail. And you simply cannot miss the point, that the rich man has failed. He has  not shared what he has to alleviate the poor man’s suffering. He comes under judgement for it, dying and going to hell, as the story goes. This powerful tale hits home for us, no matter how much or how little money we have. We all feel the weight of it because Lazarus is still at the proverbial gate. And, not a single one of us gets everything right in the moral life. Hearing about Lazarus and the rich man can be very unsettling.

If that were the end of the story, well, it would be depressing. But Jesus, of course, is no ordinary preacher just riffing on an old morality tale. He takes it to a whole different level. This isn’t just about poverty and riches or what to do when people ask for money at intersections in our city. It’s also a parable about faith, and what it takes for us to have it.

“Father Abraham,” cries the rich man, “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.” It’s funny that he still thinks he’s in charge, or that Lazarus ought to serve him. He’s clearly not getting the message yet. Abraham says simply, “It’s too late. A great chasm has been fixed between you down there and Lazarus up here.” So the rich man tries a different angle, asking Abraham to send Lazarus to his five brothers, so that they don’t suffer the same eternal fate. Abraham says, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.” In other words, they should read their bibles to find out what to do, because it’s all in there.

Deuteronomy 15:7 says, “If there is among you any in need… do not be hard-hearted or tight-fisted toward your needy neighbor.” Isaiah 58:7 says, “Share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked… cover them.” This is basic Torah stuff, a blueprint for how to be a good and faithful person, loving God and our neighbor. How should we live? It’s all in the book (Amy-Jill Levine, Short Stories by Jesus).

But the rich man finds the suggestion that his brothers should just read their bibles inadequate. So he makes a third request. “If someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.” Not true, says Abraham. “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”

This, to me, is where the parable gets really interesting. The rich man worries that the bible will not be enough for the bothers to change their ways. To change their hearts, he thinks they need a spectacle, in the form of someone rising from the dead. They will need a spectacle in order to have faith. Unfortunately, that thinking does check out. We, too, are steeped in a spectacle-loving culture. Picture mega churches with pastors in the fanciest suits. Or political rallies that too easily conflate love of God and love of country. Or celebrity gossip articles about the royal drama behind the scenes at a beloved monarch’s funeral. We are surrounded by spectacles claiming some kind of religious import. And sometimes we love the spectacle more than the religious part. Most of us know more about the size of Kim Kardashian’s new house than about what Deuteronomy says about taking care of those in need. But faith, true faith, is usually a much quieter affair.

Consider when someone did rise from the grave. God could have made the biggest spectacle of all time out of that, timing it with vast crowds and a whole lot of divine pyrotechnics. But instead it happened quietly, even without witnesses at first. The risen Jesus could have marched right into the Temple or gone back to Pontius Pilate to announce his return from the dead (Craddock). But instead he appeared over time to his friends, bringing them to faith and joy, one by one.

Sure, sometimes God can do things in a big, dramatic way. But most of the time, in most of our lives, the word of God comes to us not in grand spectacles but in holy, ordinary ways. Our hearts get moved. We see that our neighbor is suffering and do something to help. We hear the word of God coming through to us in the pages of scripture. We feel God’s presence on an ordinary Sunday in September. Sometimes, we sense a call. I wish I had a dramatic call story about priesthood - a flash of light or a booming voice from heaven. Instead, it came to me simply, quietly in my prayers. I had the sense of a door opening in front of me and a desire to step through it. I felt God’s presence in that. I think that’s how God tends to work. God comes down our streets to our houses and finds us, quietly moving our hearts toward how God wants us to live, no spectacle required (Craddock).

The extraordinary preacher Fred Craddock once described his own joy in how God comes to us in a story from his childhood. He and his big sister would play hide and seek on the farm for hours. It was something to do, thought he knew that she cheated. She would start counting, “1, 2, 3, 4… 97, 98. 99, 100, ready or not, here I come!” One day he found the best hiding place, under the porch. He was small enough to fit behind the wooden porch steps. She’ll never find me, he thought. And then he worried, she’ll never find me! So he stuck out his toe, which she eventually saw. “You found me,” he said, with relief. He could have kept himself hidden behind the steps, much like the rich man with his hard heart, walled up in his house. But he wanted to be found. We all want to be found. Like a toe poking out from under the porch, God can work with even the smallest openings in our hearts, no spectacle needed.