Sermon: “Lazarus” Lent, March 30, 2025

Luke’s Gospel: Jesus and the Outsiders, Outcasts, and Outlaws

Scripture: Luke 16:19-31

Preacher: Rev. Ryan Slifka

Title: “Lazarus”

Once upon a time “there was a rich man,” Jesus says. Once upon a time “there was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen… and who feasted sumptuously every day.”

Today’s scripture is a parable told by Jesus. One that begins with a description of a very wealthy man. And not only is this man very wealthy, he’s also powerful. The purple he wears indicates he’s a high-ranking member of a noble family.1 He’s got the strings if you need them pulled. And not only is he very wealthy, and powerful, he also has very expensive tastes. Nothing off the rack, only tailored suits. And he’s a foodie–indulging in every meal on Prime Rib and Shark Fin soup. Eugene Peterson in his Message translation says this fellow is the very definition of what we might call “conspicuous consumption.” This is a man with the appetite and the means to enjoy the finer things in life.

Contrast this fellow, though, with another one. A man named Lazarus. You may remember Lazarus as the name of another fellow who Jesus raises from the dead in John’s gospel. The connection is uncertain. What is certain is that Lazarus’ life represents the exact opposite of the rich man’s. He’s not only poor, he’s wretched. He’s sick, covered in sores. He spends his time begging at the rich man’s gate. Hoping for the discarded bread ends from the rich man’s table.2 And I mean discards–he hopes for the bread that this fellow and his wealthy friends use to wipe the grease for their fingers. And to top it off, the only friends he has, it seems, are the street dogs who come to lick his sores.

If there were ever complete opposites in life it’s Lazarus and the rich man. One has everything, the other has nothing. For one life is very good. For the other it’s completely wretched.

Now, an event comes along, however. One that changes all this for both of them. And that event? It’s death.

Poor Lazarus, dies, we’re told–probably of exposure out in the street. But when he does he’s guided immediately by an angelic escort to be with Abraham, the father of the faith.  The King James Version says he is taken to be in the “bosom,” the embrace of Abraham. This is the place of “highest bliss,” the place of paradise. The man whose life was a living hell, is delivered to the comfort of heaven.

Then it’s the rich man’s turn. He dies, and everyone who’s anyone shows up to his elaborate state funeral, though he’s buried with an honour guard with a giant granite tombstone. We don’t see however, that he’s fallen through a trap door to a very different place than Lazarus. Our translation is literal–Hades. Which is the Greek word for the realm of the dead. In this place, we’re told, the rich man is being tormented. By an unbearable heat–hence why some translations flat out call it “hell.” And to top it all off, as he lay there tortured by thirst, he can see Lazarus and Abraham just chilling together in joy. I like to imagine them both sipping from one of those giant fountain pops from 7-11. Just to rub it in.

So why’d this happen? Why the sudden reversal of fortune?

As the rich man is languishing, he reaches upwards, calling to Abraham. “Please, Father Abraham,” he says. “Show a little mercy. have Lazarus climb down here with some water, just a cup, a thimble, even a finger-dip, just to give me a few seconds of relief.”

But no can do, says Abraham. “You lived on top of piles of good stuff in life, and he lived under piles of evil stuff in life. Now he’s comforted, and you’re in agony. Besides,” continues Abe. “There’s this mighty gulf between you down there, us up here. Nobody can cross in either direction.” Basically, Abraham tells this guy the gate between himself and Lazarus’ suffering in life has become fixed in death. One between him and paradise.

The juxtaposition is a stark one: Lazarus who spent his life begging, now has everything. Whereas the rich man who had everything now has nothing. Lazarus who spent his life in pathetic suffering, has now inherited eternal joy. Whereas the rich man who spent his life in ease and luxury, finds himself suffering. Without hope of relief. All on account of the way he stuffed his face and blew the bank. While Lazarus went hungry. Alone on his doorstep.

Now, it’s at this point in the parable where my heart rate starts a pumpin’. I don’t know about you, but the first thing this parable sparked in me was a certain joy. I just imagined all those billionaires out there with everything, ending up with nothing. Oh boy, I thought, rubbing my hands together with glee. I can’t wait ‘til they get their come-uppance. Their eternal reward for all their greed and sumptuous living. What Roman Catholic bishops declared the “preferential option for the poor” on full display. My inner Marxist just tingled at the thought.

As therapeutic as this might have felt, though, I came to a realization: I’m no Lazarus. You know, I live in the wealthiest time in human history. I have a home, and a family, health. The fullness of my life, wallet and fridge would be the envy of the rich man in this parable, and most in the scriptures. While my fashion sense has much to be desired, the sheer quantity of my shirts and shoes would boggle even Father Abraham’s mind—who was also rich by the way. More often than not, I step around and over folks like Lazarus.

I’m reminded of the funky words of that 20th century saint of the church Curtis Mayfield when he sang “if there’s hell below/then we’re all gonna go.” It makes me feel less tingly, and more guilty. More worried. Judged. Condemned.

Now, a straightforward reading of this parable would tell us this: that Jesus is telling this parable for the sake of the wealthy then and the wealthy now. To open the gate to the Lazaruses in our lives and to start sharing some of our Guccis and gift cards, and send our Skip the Dishes to those who have not a pot to pee in. Get sharing, or else!

But, the thing is I think we know this, at least church people know this. We’ve heard the commandments, we’ve heard Jesus’ teachings on the dangers of wealth. Like even in the parable—the rich man begs for Abraham to send Lazarus to warn his brothers so they don’t end up like him. And Abraham says that they’ve already got Moses and the prophets. Basically the Old Testament is dripping with this teaching. Love God, love your neighbour. Care for the widow, the orphan and the stranger. “They should listen to them.” Says Abraham. And then the rich man is like “no you don’t understand, they’ll listen if there’s some kind of supernatural intervention to tell them!” And Abraham replies that not even the threat of a fiery inferno from a raised Lazarus will make them change their minds!

Like, then what’s the point of this story Jesus is telling, then? Like if an encounter with a ghost from the nether-realm with the threat of hell won’t change our minds, you think telling a parable will?

Well, it’s true! Because Christians believe that somebody did come back from the dead. Jesus. We have all of Jesus’ teachings, just like our grandparents in faith had the law of Moses. But we still don’t do it!

Why? The Apostle Paul, literally one of the Saints of the Church puts this bluntly in Romans 7 when he says “ For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.” And he saw the risen Jesus face-to-face! If anybody had all the right information and the will to act on it, it was him! Because as right as the law may be, as true as Jesus teachings are, the fact is that simple information does nothing to change our behavior. We can have all the right information in the world, affirm all the right information in the world. Even the fear of eternal damnation! And still do nothing to break down the gate between Lazarus and us.

So what will change us, then? The answer is Love. It’s love. Love, love, love… love is all you need.

Now, I know this is such a mushy, cheesy word. It could mean anything from how much I enjoy a Costco hot dog to how much I swoon when my wife Cheyenne looks me in the eyes.

But the love we’re talking about is beyond that.

You see, in the parable there is a gate between the rich and the poor that will not be passed. The gate between human beings, our hurts and our pain. And there’s a chasm between the bosom of Abraham, the paradise of eternal life, and the Hades of infernal death. One that can not be crossed by the rich man, or Abraham, or Lazarus, no human being on their own.

But there is someone who can cross the gulf. And that someone is Jesus Christ. God in the flesh.

And the good news of the gospel is not only this someone can cross it. But that this someone has crossed it… in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. We’re gonna say it later in the service in the Apostles’ Creed—that when he was crucified he “descended to the dead.” Other translations say he “descended into hell.” That between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, Jesus went into that place of separation.

Regardless of the translation, what it means is this: that the hell we’ve sentenced ourselves to through our own selfishness, our own hardheartedness, and pride. The gates of selfishness we’ve erected to keep each other out, the gates of protection we’ve put up to keep God out… as far as we might flee from God’s presence. Jesus has been there.

On the cross our Lord died a wretch like Lazarus. On the cross he not only went to the grave, but, unlike Lazarus, he ascended not to paradise, but instead forsook paradise and, like the rich man, he descended to the place of thirst and fire and separation and pain. Jesus who was rich, became poor for our sake, so we might become rich. Jesus, the only one who perfectly loved God and neighbour, in him God met the death we were destined for in the form of his Son, and bore all the consequences of the hell we were headed for… in our place.

Why? Out of love. “God so loved the world,” says Jesus in John’s gospel. “God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, not to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him.”

This is what we mean when we say that “Jesus died for our sins.” That our God knows our weakness. Our captivity, our selfishness, and inability to do what is required of us. He knows we can’t save ourselves from the consequences of our hard-heartedness, our lack of love for our neighbours. So, out of love, he’s taken them into himself instead. Every last one. Bridging the unbridgeable chasm to paradise.

This is where the change comes in. 1 John 4:19: “we love because he first loved us.” That when we know the depth of God’s love for us, a love so deep that it would abandon the bosom of Abraham for the brazing, blazing flame of all our worst, for us. One we do not deserve, nor could we possibly earn. It changes us in a way that no fear or guilt or law ever could. The late great Bishop and anti-apartheid activist, Desmond Tutu, once put it like this: “we are not good so we will be loved, but we can be good because we are loved.” No longer do we see the world as zero-sum game, a war between the rich and poor. No longer do we see life as survival of the fittest, nor as an endless, impossible demonstration of our own goodness, but the domain of grace. With its only true and proper response being gratitude.