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A Sermon Preached at St. Christopher's Episcopal Church, Oak Park, IL
on the 18th Sunday after Pentecost, September 30, 2007 (Proper 21, Year C, RCL)
by the Rev. J. Paris Coffey

The Story of the Rich Man and Lazarus - Luke 16:19-31

Visiting with a parishioner over lunch last week, our conversation turned to the new Ken Burns' series, The War. As many of you know, this 7-part/15-hour PBS special tells the story of WWII from the personal experiences of citizens in four American towns. Following a brief overview, the series begins in depth with the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. "That was the date," my lunch-mate revealed, "that my son's teacher said was the start of WWII, until my 12-year-old raised politely his hand and said, "Excuse me, but I think the war actually started in 1939." His teacher replied curtly that that was technically true, but that for OUR country it began in '41.

It's a somewhat isolationist view, but one that Ken Burns allows was also present at the time. "Most Americans," he explains, "were just beginning to recover from the Great Depression. Events overseas seemed impossibly far away, until Pearl Harbor opened the eyes of American citizens." Admiral Yakamoto, chief architect of Japan's attack, realized this as well, acknowledging with some trepidation that Japan's successful hit "may have only awakened a sleeping giant." His fear turned out to be valid, for on that day America woke up - or woke up again - to the painful reality that we do not and cannot live in isolation, although it's tempting.

In fact, it's especially tempting when 24-hour-a-day news leaves our heads spinning not just with local problems but global ones: crime, homelessness and murder right here in Oak Park; a growing deficit and declining services in America; war in Iraq, Israel, Darfur and other places too numerous to mention; or disease and hunger throughout the world that surely match that of Lazarus. It's enough to make us bury our heads in the sand, or as the rich man does in today's Gospel, to put blinders on to everyone's needs except our own and our family's.

Actually, the rich man seems to go one step further, walling himself off in a gated community where he's wholly absorbed in his own world. He is a sleeping giant of conspicuous consumption, who feasts sumptuously every day and dresses in purple and fine linen. Purple dye came from exotic shellfish and so was available only to the very rich. Consequently, his clothes say, "THIS is a man of power and wealth, capable of greatness." Certainly the rich man could do great things with his wealth if he had eyes to see the needs of those around him. The fact is, though, he doesn't, passing daily by Lazarus who lies bleeding and hungry at his gate.

Indeed, the rich man passes by without even acknowledging Lazarus' presence, and this is the rich man's sin. It's not the sin of having money, power and position; it's not even a sin of hatred or deliberate cruelty. Rather, the rich man's sin is one of indifference. He fails to notice Lazarus at all, sleepwalking through life without seeing or caring for the needs of one beyond his own immediate family, especially someone like Lazarus. For the rich man, Lazarus is simply an inescapable part of the social structure, always present but never fully seen. He's someone to be stepped over as though he isn't there, much like the homeless of our own day.

After all, most of us today have experienced having to step over or around the homeless, or at least avoiding the eyes of panhandlers on the street. We're uncomfortable - it's hard to know what to do - and so we try to avoid an encounter altogether, or hand out a dollar or two, suspecting it will be spent on cheap wine. Neither response, though, fully satisfies us, for we feel guilty if we look away, but equally uncomfortable with a handout that won't put a dent in the need. In fact, we suspect the need may not even be real, since panhandlers are sometimes scam artists out to make an easy buck.

It's not hard to understand, then, why we close our eyes and hearts to those around us, thinking that if we close ourselves off we won't feel quite so vulnerable. Indeed, we may feel temporarily secure if we cocoon ourselves in with worldly comforts and draw the shades on the world. Luke's parable, though, cautions us against drawing the shades or closing our eyes as the rich man did to his brother Lazarus. Actually, "Brother Lazarus" is a misnomer, since the rich man doesn't think of Lazarus as brother. He doesn't even think of him at all, at least until the rich man dies. Even then, though, even in death - when the rich man finally sees Lazarus resting in Abraham's arms - he sees him not as an equal but as a servant.

"Send Lazarus to fetch me some water," the rich man begs Abraham. "Send Lazarus to my brothers so that they may repent." The rich man himself, though, hasn't repented, and so Abraham tells him that Lazarus can't respond. "A great chasm has been fixed between you," Abraham says, but it is the rich man who has fixed it. He has cut himself off from his own heart, a heart that might have grieved over the suffering of yet another brother - for Lazarus is indeed his brother. Abraham calls the rich man child when he speaks to him and the rich man calls him father, and yet the rich man is unable to see that Abraham is also Lazarus' father - that he and Lazarus are brothers in God.

In fact, this is the overriding message of this parable - or warning if you will. It is a warning to remember that we are all brothers and sisters in Christ and as such, called to help each other. The name Lazarus means "God helps," but the truth is that God's help usually comes through us - through our intentional care of one another - of families, yes, but of neighbors as well. Lazarus is the rich man's neighbor, and yet the rich man feels no responsibility for him. Even in death, when he feels responsible for his brothers, he feels nothing for Lazarus, his neighbor.

It is a very different way of living than the way of Christ. It's also a different way of living than the life found by Lafcadio Hearn when he went to Japan on assignment in 1890. An American journalist, Hearn longed to escape Western materialism. He found his escape in Japan where the beauty and tranquility of the land and gracious customs and values of the culture called him to remain for the rest of his life. There he used his keen intellect and poetic imagination to interpret Japan to the West, chiefly through stories and legends. One of these stories I want to share with you this morning from a chapter entitled "A Living God" in Hearn's book, Gleanings in Buddha-Fields.

It is a story meant to celebrate Japanese values that once included a mandate of mutual help and kindness towards one's neighbors, a mandate taken seriously by a farmer named Hamaguchi Gohei who, 100 years before, lived high above a seaside village in Japan. One autumn evening an earthquake shook the little village and the farmer's field. It was a mild tremor, but one that caused the farmer to turn immediately towards the sea. Below, the villagers seemed oblivious to the tremor, since earthquakes were common in those parts. Hamaguchi, though, noticed the sea moving against the wind away from land, and knew his neighbors were in danger. He'd never seen a tidal wave before, but knew that one was on its way and so he called to his grandson, "Make haste. Bring me a torch."

The farmer waited. Around him stood fields of rice - harvested, stacked and ready for sale. It was worth a fortune. "Burn the rice," Hamaguchi said to his grandson, who stood bewildered with his torch, looking at his grandfather's crop. "Make haste," the old man shouted, and as the dry stalks blazed, the farmer listened to pealing bells below. "Fire! Fire!" the bells announced to villagers, and as the people hurried up the cliffs away from the sea they shouted, "We must save Hamaguchi's fields." When the villagers arrived, though, and saw that the blaze had started with the old man's torch, they thought him crazy. Hamaguchi, though, simply pointed out to sea as a great swell of water struck the shore like thunder, tearing village homes to matchsticks. No one spoke as the sea drew back with a roar, striking again and again, until finally the rich farmer - standing among his neighbors as poor as the poorest among them - said, "That, my brothers and sisters, is why I set fire to my fields."

It was a godly act, an act of Christ, if you will. It was an act reminding us, as today's Gospel does, that we are family meant to care for one another with resources given to us by God. If one life is threatened, all are threatened; if any suffer, all suffer; if one is hungry, all are hungry because we're bound together in God. Indeed, we're bound in a God who tells us that appearances to the contrary, one person can make a difference if we will open our eyes, wipe away the sleep of isolation or insulation that shuts us off from God and one another, and offer help in Christ's name. To be sure, it isn't easy. It's easier to bury our head in the sand. It is, however, transforming, for it is in service to one another that we discover the depth of God's grace and fullness of love that spills over from us onto the world.

Amen.