The One Whom God Helped: A First-Person Account (sermon, September 26, 2010)

Luke 16:19-31

Thank you so much for having me with you today. It’s truly a privilege to be here and share my story with you.

Did you notice what is unique in this parable that Jesus tells -- the one about me? Maybe you didn’t realize that usually, when Jesus tells parables, he never refers to people by name. But in this parable, when he tells my story, he gives me a name. That has always made me feel good. After all, in my lifetime there were so many people who looked right past me as if I wasn’t there, as if it was easier just to pretend like I didn’t exist. Something about hearing Jesus speak my name when he told my story, well, it gave me a sense of peace and pride like I’d never known before. But if you’ve spent any time at all around Jesus, then you probably know: he has a way of doing that.

I’m assuming most of you don’t speak Hebrew, and if that’s true, then you probably don’t know what the name Lazarus means. It means “the one whom God helped.” When I first got sick, when I lost my job and then when I lost the ability to even walk and I had to count on my neighbors and my family to carry me each day to the rich man’s gate where I begged, there were a few months there where I hated my name. Clearly, God had no interest in helping me. Or so I thought. And I wasn’t alone in that thought, either. Most people believed that God was punishing me, sometimes even I believed that, although I didn’t know why. I had always tried to live a faithful life, studying and keeping God’s laws, observing the Sabbath, giving what I could to help those in need.

So when I first got sick, my name, Lazarus -- the one whom God helped -- just seemed like a cruel joke. Especially when I was reduced to begging at the gate of the rich man. Now, I don’t know exactly how it is in your time, but when I was alive, most of the wealthy people felt entitled, they believed that they had earned what they had, that it belonged just to them. They looked down on the rest of us, as if it was our fault we hadn’t been more successful. And when I got sick, they sure looked down on me, as if I had done something to deserve the terrible sores that broke out all over my body.

You heard about it in the story, how I used to go to the gate of the rich man every day. I didn’t want money, all I wanted was a little bit of food to take away the gnawing hunger that made my stomach ache constantly. And the rich man had huge banquets every day -- even on the Sabbath! I had friends and family, but they were poor, too. I didn’t want to take from them what little food they had. I would have eaten the leftovers from those daily banquets the rich man had; I would have even eaten the scraps off the plates!

Back then, villages were different than they are today -- everything in your country is so big! -- they were very small, even the most lavish houses. And the rich man’s house was certainly lavish by our standards -- he had not just a house, but also a garden, and all if it surrounded by a gate. The rich man and his family and friends would have their meals outside in the garden, just beyond the gate. It was close enough that I could hear them eating and drinking and talking and laughing. I could see them as they came and went through the gate. Surely they could see me, too, but if they did, they preferred to ignore me. I guess it was easier that way.

You heard Jesus talk about it in the story, and he wasn’t exaggerating. As I lay there at the rich man’s gate, the only positive attention I got was from the dogs. In fact, it was because of those dogs that I actually started to believe again that maybe God was helping me in spite of my suffering, that maybe my name wasn’t so ironic after all.

I guess I need to explain that, because most of you probably don’t think it’s a positive thing that the dogs were licking my sores. I know it sounds kind of gross, but the truth is, those dogs showed me the only bit of kindness I knew.

You see, those dogs weren’t pets -- the rich man had dogs because he had the biggest house and property in town. They were guard dogs and they were not friendly; in fact, they could be vicious -- I saw plenty of evidence of that. But for some reason, after I’d been coming and lying at the gate for a couple of months, hoping against hope that the richest man in town might take pity on me, they began showing me a kind of mercy that their master did not. And when they licked my wounds, it was a good thing. It actually relieved my pain, if only for a short time, and sometimes even helped the wounds to heal. And frankly, it meant something to me that a creature -- any creature -- would treat me kindly.

Once the dogs began showing me kindness, it restored a sense of dignity to me, as shameful as it was to lay there every day, begging. And gradually, the frustration I felt with the rich man and his rich friends dissolved. That’s how I knew that God was helping me, even in my suffering. Because the anger and frustration I felt never could have gone away on its own.

You see, even though the rich man and his wealthy colleagues pretended like I didn’t exist, I couldn’t bring myself to hate them. A lot of people have asked me why, once I got to heaven and received mercy and comfort from Father Abraham, why I didn’t gloat over the fact that the rich man was condemned to a life of torture in Hades. The truth is, I felt sorry for him. I don’t think he was a bad person, but all that money, all that wealth, just made it hard for him to see clearly. I mean, even in Hades, when he saw me up in heaven with Abraham, he still seemed to think that I was beneath him even then, and that he could order me around, to get him water or to go warn his brothers. And the truth is, I would have. I would have gladly helped him. Because maybe then he would have seen the truth: that none of us are so different from one another. Even in my earthly suffering, I eventually came to see that God helped me -- even me. I had a place to go each day and even though sometimes it was awful to hear the rich man and his friends feasting just beyond the gate, sometimes it wasn’t so bad. I could close my eyes and pretend I was one of the ones feasting. And the dogs comforted me. Even in my suffering, I was still Lazarus, the one whom God helped. And, of course, once my earthly suffering was over, I received eternal comfort and peace in heaven.

Which brings up a question: why would I ever come back? Especially when, in the story Jesus tells, Abraham refuses to let me go back to the rich man’s brothers and warn them to change their ways. Well, I’m not back to warn you. You’ve got the Bible, you have the words of the prophets like the ones your pastor read from the book of Amos. You have the words of Jesus. And all these make it pretty clear that God wants justice, and for us to have justice on earth, the ones who have the most are going to have to recognize that what they have comes from God, and God calls them share with the ones who have the least. But, like I said, I really didn’t come back to talk about that.

What I want to tell you is this. I’m not the only one named Lazarus. The truth is, no matter what name your parents gave you, you are one whom God helps. We all are. That’s what I came to realize when I discovered that I could find peace even in the midst of my suffering. Our God wants, more than anything else, to be with us in all things, in every circumstance. If you are one of the fortunate ones, someone who has material resources, enough to share, then you will experience God’s love when you help God’s people, especially the ones who are suffering. If you are one of those in the midst of a time of terrible suffering, for whatever reason, then God especially longs to be with you and to give you some measure of comfort in the midst of your suffering, something that tells you that you are one whom God loves and you never have to doubt that. And God is preparing a place for you where you will know peace and comfort and an end to suffering, just as I have.

I guess I’m really here because God’s love -- the kind of love that Jesus shows us -- is contagious. I want to tell my story because I want to spread that love around. If you’re here today, it must be, at least in part, because you have experienced that love -- in some way, it has touched your life. So I want to tell you to share that love, spread it around however you can, tell your story to whomever will listen. Who knows? You might just bring comfort to one who has forgotten or who never knew that we are all Lazaruses -- those whom God helps.


Endnote:
Credit goes to Kenneth Bailey’s chapter on this parable in the book Jesus through Middle Eastern Eyes which offered excellent historical background and informed my interpretation of this passage.