Once upon a time there was a man
named, Lazarus, a name that means “God helps.”
He was a poor man—not a rich man or a middle-class man—a poor man. And unlike many people think and assume, his
poor estate was not due to anything he had done wrong, not due to his lack of
ambition. Every day that Lazarus lived
on this earth presented an opportunity every day for someone to draw closer to
God and cross the great divide between here and there. But it did not happen.
The most unfortunate thing about
Lazarus’s poor estate was that—the worse things got for him, the more and more
he lost his gateway to humankind. His
family disowned him. So the family
hospitality most of us have when tough times hit—his safety net for food and
shelter and grace was gone as he tried to get back up on his feet.
Those former friends and
acquaintances who did recognize Lazarus along the streets would stay as far
from him as they could. For they worried
that “poor” might be a communicable disease with no vaccine available. Those who were not former friends or
acquaintances could not say that they knew a poor person. But they also did not question when their
government, their schools, and their churches equated wealth with virtue.
So that everyone felt safe, secure,
and justified in finding no way from here to there--the respectable people in
the community, those who shall go unnamed in the story but are regularly
celebrated, spent a great deal of time digging a huge gulf between Lazarus and
the community. Middle-class folk never
ceased in complaining how they were the ones ripped off by the government as
they brought their new big screen TVs, home security systems, and vacation
homes—necessities for life, ways to differentiate themselves from people like Lazarus.
While the middle-class people employed
people like Lazarus to dig the gulf, they acted unaware that they paid to construct
it, grateful that they did not have to soil themselves to increase its breadth
and width. They could often be heard
saying, “People like Lazaraus get free hand-outs and the rich get better taxes.”
Almost all of them knew nothing of Lazarus’s life as he went without health
care, injured by his work on the gulf, sacrificed by his mining of the
gulf. They knew nothing of Lazarus. And the gulf between Lazarus grew and grew.
Lazarus rummaged through his shirt
pocket to find his yearly application for the drug assistance he would need for
his medical cocktail. “Where is
it?” Lazarus screamed. “I need that medicine.” And as he grew desperate, the wind picked up
the misplaced application that had found temporary lodging on his pant leg. And the wind blew the application toward the
street. The wind does blow where it will
irrespective of poverty or position.
An elderly man, beginning to cross
the street, picked up the application, crumpled it in his hand, and put in his
coat pocket. “My application!” Lazarus
gasped, wide-eyed. The man, hearing
Lazarus, turned, recognizing that the paper belonged to Lazarus. “Even beggars shouldn’t litter,” he
admonished, wagging his finger at Lazarus as he crossed the street. “Save the environment, you know!”
And the gateway or gulf became a huge
chasm. Lazarus felt himself falling into
it. “No, my application,” Lazarus began
heaving, sobbing as he fell to his knees, “my application.” And the old man looked back just long enough
to wag his finger again.
The Medical Assistance program would
certainly not pay for his medicine now.
His counselor was not paid to hear his excuses. He punched in and out of a thankless job. He had to have that application. The sickness contributed with everything else
to weaken his already ravaged body, his PTSD growing more severe every year
since his army deployment, his body ragged and sacrificed from the cancer he
inherited while mining. His mind withered. Lazarus was beginning to lose
hope. “I will die alone—utterly alone.
In the midst of Lazarus’s despair, he
picked himself and headed to find hospitality at the home of Gretchen
Democrat. Lazarus knew that if he
knocked upon Ms. Democrat’s door, he could get some bread for the night. Although it was something, the bread never
filled him. On the contrary, the bread
still left him begging at the gateway that had become a gulf that the
respectable people were making sure was a chasm.
He knew very well that the food given
to him was only the garbage of Gretchen Democrat. And that this confirmed his status as a dog
barking at the gate. Less than a dog
actually, for Lazarus was given scraps the dogs would not eat. Lazarus slept at the door of Gretchen
Democrat that night but was told to move along the next day. It would not look good to associate one’s
status with the status of a man like Lazarus, a dog like Lazarus, not even a
dog like Lazarus. It was important that
Gretchen Democrat not know Lazarus as anything less than a dog. And the respectable people kept digging the
chasm wider and wider.
The next evening Lazarus was so tired
that he feel upon the doorstep of Donald Republican. With the little energy Lazarus had left, he
knocked on the door of Donald Republican.
But the butler of Mr. Republican told Lazarus that Donald did not give
scraps to poor people such as Lazarus, for it only encouraged their dependence. “But I’m dying.”
The butler shook his head. “The poor,” the butler politely told Lazarus,
“are addicts to the welfare system. They
must pick themselves up by their own bootstraps. God helps them who help themselves.”
Lazarus began to cough
miserably. “Excuse me,” Lazarus
apologized, “excuse me, but I am dying.”
“That is quite alright,” the butler
replied, “What was your name?”
“Lazarus.”
“Oh, should I tell Mr. Republican you call called or
would it be better just to say that nobody came calling today.”
“Either way, Lazarus or nobody,”
Lazarus coughed again, “what is the difference?”
“You are quite right,” the butler
responded. “I know Mr. Republican knows
your name but he does not personally know you nor any other poor person. You would be nobody to him.” He began to turn on his heel and then quickly
turned around. “Oh, and please, if you need somewhere to sleep, please do it on
the other side of the gate, beyond the gulf, further out past city walls and
way past the chasm the respectable people have been digging. We will let you pass in the morning if we
need any goods or services.[1]
And Lazarus slept outside the city
wall that night—utterly alone. The chasm
created by the respectable people became his shroud, covering him and
enveloping him in morning mist. For the
world we create here moves and shapes the eternal in equal and dynamic
ways. Lazaraus went from something lower
than dogs to a nobody, to utterly alone, to welcomed and given hospitality in
the home of Sarah and Abraham.
Rock a
my soul in the bosom of Abraham,
Rock a
my soul in the bosom of Abraham,
Rock a
my soul in the bosom of Abraham,
Oh, rock
a my soul.
So high,
you can’t get over it,
So low,
you can’t get under it,
So wide,
you can’t get around it,
You
gotta go through the door.
In the eternal, the chasm made it
impossible for Gretchen Democrat and Donald Republican to receive the welcome
and hospitality of God.
Knowing
that Lazarus had been welcomed, the respectable people called upon Lazarus, as
they had always done in our world, asking him to once again do their
bidding. But the chasm that segregates
the desperately poor outcast, Lazarus, and the wealthy mansion owners is
uncrossable because it has been designed that way by its architects.[2] They did not call Lazarus kin or friend or
brother, but asked Abraham to send him as servant and pet to relieve their
pain, warn their relatives, to leave the hospitality of God to once again serve
them.
They
begged Father Abraham to have Lazarus do their bidding. When he refused, they begged Abraham to send
Lazarus to their families. Certainly
their families would listen to someone come back from the other side.
But Abraham reminded
them of Moses and the prophets and the lessons learned in the wilderness. Moses and the prophets had made it
clear. Life is a gift that begins with
rain and ends with bread, that life is full and abundant. In this rich and full and abundant life, we
are to gather only what we need as the Children of Israel were instructed with
the manna in the wilderness. Had they
done that? Would their families turn
from their ways to do that?
Moses
and the prophets had taught that this goodness and abundance was not to be
stored up must be circulated and redistributed so all, especially someone like
Lazarus, that they might know the abundance and goodness of God.
Finally,
Abraham reminded the respectable people, children he called them, they were not
to see others as merely a means of production but as people of delight--worthy
of rest, play, and celebration.[3] “But even now, as children, that is
impossible for you as you see not only me but Lazarus as those people who
should labor on your behalf and do your bidding.” Moses and the prophets were available to
you. Moses and the prophets will be
available to your family members.
So high you can’t get over it,
So low you can’t get under it,
So wide you can’t get around it
You gotta go through the door.
But the respectable people will never
go to the door to find Lazarus waiting there, walk to their gate to see the
dogs lick his sores there, knock down the city walls to find Lazarus waiting
outside the city of Sodom. And there is
Lazarus waiting for their hospitality as counseled by Moses and the
prophets.
Never
did the people repent. Never was the
chasm crossed, hoping their charitable donations might suffice. But they did not.[4] Moses and the prophets forever outside earshot
of those who are the architects of the chasm.
When will we stop digging?
[1]
During the day, the poorer people in the community were let in through the
walls to provide the goods and services the elites wanted; at night, they were
locked out. See, Bruce Malina and
Richard Rohrbaugh, Social Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels (Minnesota,
Augsburg Fortress, 2003).
[2]
Ched Myers, Healing Affluenza and Resisting Plutocracy: Luke’s Jesus and Sabbath Economics (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2025), p. 163.
[3]
Ibid, pp. 38-39.
[4]
John Doinic Crossan has called charity as the last defense against injustice.
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