He was not a bad or evil man.
He paid his taxes. Obeyed the law.
What he had, he had earned honestly. He had not unduly exploited or oppressed others in the pursuit of his wealth. He was what might even be called a God-fearing person.
But he was wealthy and lived very comfortably. He dressed in purple and fine linen, in accord with his station in life. And according to the parable he ate sumptuously each day.
He lived in a large, comfortable house with a high wall surrounding it. There was a gate in the wall from which he entered and left, and at this gate there laid a rather decrepit and not very attractive or appealing beggar. He was clothed in dirty and soiled and tattered rags with sores on his body which dogs would lick when he slept.
It was unfortunate that there were such poor souls. But what could he do about it. That’s just the way things were.
If he allowed the poor man Lazarus “who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table” to get inside his gate, chances are he’d have a legion of other beggars lined up to grab what he threw away. And that was not a very attractive prospect. Surely something that would drive down property values in this exclusive and part of town.
And besides, how did he know that the beggar deserved anything more than his apparent lot in life? Was he poor because he was lazy or didn’t have the gumption to better himself and get a hold on his life.
Although he couldn’t help thinking and wondering to himself why God allowed such wretched creatures to live in such depraved circumstances. And when his conscience occasionally made him feel just a little uncomfortable, he’d say to himself, “well, I guess that just the way the world is. Not much I can do about it.”
I used to walk each day - Monday through Friday - from Grand Central Station to my office at 52nd and Third avenue. And then back again each evening to catch the 6:05 or 6:20 train to Fairfield in Connecticut - thinking thoughts not entirely unlike those of the rich man in Luke’s parable in this morning’s lesson.
Like the rich man I too experienced a certain unease, if not revulsion, at the condition of the growing number of men and women who seemed to come out of nowhere each day. Bag ladies and derelicts in the morning - searching through garbage cans put out by restaurants and fast food stores the night before for scraps of food. And then in the late afternoon and early evening the outstretched hands of beggars as I made my way, along with hundreds of others, back to Grand Central Station for the trip home to Connecticut.
The faces after a while became familiar. The frightened but sad looking young woman in her thirties at the corner of 52nd and Third avenue. The shuffling and threatening big black man on 49th between Third and Lexington.
And then the gauntlet of outstretched hands, some with metal or styrofoam cups , offered tentatively or thrust defiantly at those of us who had other things on our minds as we made our way along the now narrow sidewalk of Lexington Avenue from 46th Street to the entrance of the station.
Once inside, one felt a little safer and more comfortable. Now there were only three or four more to pass before turning right into one of the gates leading to an air-conditioned train to be back among the normal, civilized folk with whom one traveled each day to and from New York.
But now, according to the parable, the rich man has died. And to his great surprise he is in Hades. It is hot. And he is tormented by the heat. And from there he looks up to heaven and sees the beggar, the familiar Lazarus, - the poor, decrepit, once-repulsive beggar who had taken up residence at his gate for so long - comfortably at the side of Father Abraham.
And so he calls out to Abraham, “Father Abraham 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.”
And Abraham answers: “child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. And besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.”
What exquisite irony! The rich man who hardly had the time to acknowledge the very existence of the poor Lazarus, now cries out for his aid and help. He who had little mercy for the homeless, diseased mendicant now begs for mercy from the very one he had neglected.
Let me tell you my Lazarus story.
It was too late to catch the 6:20. I had had to review with the general counsel that late afternoon a presentation to the board of directors who were meeting the next morning. And so I left the office about ten of seven, just enough time to make the 7:05 train if I hurried. With briefcase in hand I made my way along Third Avenue, turned right at 46th Street and with about five minutes to spare walked quickly toward Lexington Avenue.
The streets were still crowded as I made my way past slower walkers. And then…..about fifteen paces short of the corner where I would turn South on Lexington Avenue, I felt a crushing blow to the top of my head. As if a steel safe or an oversized cinder block had fallen from above and crashed with exquisite accuracy on the top of my head.
It knocked me to my knees as I felt myself about to loose consciousness. My only thought was, my gosh is this where it’s all going to end - here just off the corner of 46th and Lexington Avenue. Who would have thought my life would end this way.
Miraculously, I didn’t pass out. At least I don’t think I did.
And as I watched my briefcase skid ahead of me, knocked loose from my hand, I realized that this maybe wasn’t the end.
A woman from behind lifted me gently from the sidewalk. She said something about a white guy with long frizzy hair. She said he had hit me with a metal pipe, ran around the corner and was heading South on Lexington. “He had a dazed look about him,” she said.
I reached with some hesitation to the top of my head. It was warm and moist and when I brought my hand into view it was covered with blood. I held a handkerchief over it, applied pressure and hoped the bleeding would stop.
She helped me across the street to a public telephone. Called 911 and waited with me until an ambulance arrived. I then noticed that she was a black woman and remembered how she had said it was a white man with long stringy hair with a glazed look about him.
We soon heard the bleeping sound of a New York ambulance. And the next thing I remember was being bandaged around the head in the ambulance.. We had to wait for a policeman - I think there were two - to question me and make their report. And then with sirens sounding I was on my way to the famous emergency room at Bellevue Hospital.
The two attendants helped me to walk into the emergency room. It was a sight I shall long remember. Injured people were all about. Some handcuffed to litters, others to chairs, and what seemed like at least fifty to a hundred others walking around in various stages of illness and injury.
When the harried admitting clerk at the desk asked me if I had insurance I said, “Of course.” She looked at me sympathetically and said, “You know, it’s going to be about 12 to 16 hours before they get to you. I’d suggest you go to University Hospital down the street.”
I’m not sure how I got there, but some two or three hours later, with 8 or 9 fresh stitches in my scalp I called Susan, told her what had happened, and then called a dial-a-cab to take me home. Sitting in the back of the cab on I-95, I offered a prayer of thanks for my safety and figuratively shook my head over this bizarre and extraordinary experience.
But I couldn’t help thinking about the poor soul who had attacked me. I couldn’t give the police much of a description and thought to myself: “I hope he doesn’t hit too many others as he had me.”
I wondered why he had picked me. Could I have reminded him of someone else: His father, or a psychiatrist, or someone who had hurt or mistreated him in some way in the past.
Then it occurred to me that perhaps this was his demented way of trying to say, “ Hey look at me. I’m a person, don’t you see me? Don’t you see that I’m a person like you.”
And I thought of all the other faces of the lost and destitute that I avoided each day. Which of them might be him.
And I thought also of the anonymous, black woman who had come out of nowhere to minister to me. Who picked me up, called an ambulance and waited with me as I tried to maintain my consciousness.
And I thought of the chasm that separated me from her, as well as from those who I tried each day to avoid and ignore as I rushed to and from work.
Some days later there was an article in the New York Times about those who wander the streets of New York without a home and an organization called The Coalition for the Homeless. The article ended with a suggestion by the writer that each of us might begin to make a connection with those we encounter by picking out someone who we pass each day.
“It’s simple” the article said. “ It won’t take much time. Just break stride long enough to identify a homeless person. You don’t have to address the one you choose, or hand him money. (that’s for advanced learners). But remember him. Will he be in the same spot the next morning? Look around for him. If you miss him for a day or two, maybe you’ll wonder whether he’s alright. When you see him again, be glad. Think kindly; say a prayer for him. In this season of giving, give him a window into your heart.”
Soon thereafter, I had my homeless person. I looked for him each day just inside the door to Grand Central. At first I gave him a quarter or two. Then I would say hello each evening and say a prayer quietly for him. When he was missing for a day or two, I worried about him and then when he returned, I would tell him that I had missed him. In the next year I had several others whom I greeted each day, prayed for and gave a small gift most days.
They became like secret friends. I wondered about them. Who they were. What they were like as children. Their families. What had led them into their present derelict state. I never learned anything about them. But they became people to me. People whom I cared about and prayed for. People whom I know God loves.
You know the chasm that separates us from the poor, the weak, from people of other colors, and nationalities, from those who live in the inner city, can, by the grace of God, be joined. And in overcoming that chasm we may just find that God is there. That in overcoming our separation from others, God is encountered in a mysterious and holy way. And that the separation we experience from others is the very thing that has been separating us from God. And that in overcoming that separation, we enter more fully into a new relationship with God who is with those whom we are most distant from.
But what Christ’s parable points us to is that there may come that day, that eternal moment, when the chasm between us and those whom we have been most separated from will become fixed as it was for the rich man and Lazarus.
But because God is love and he gives us the capacity to overcome our estrangement, we have hope.
Mother Teresa of Calcutta often said that we will never know the debt that we have to the poor (and I think she would allow me to add to that the weak, the homeless, and the least among us) - that we will not know our debt to the poor until we are in heaven. And I think what she meant by that is that it is through those to whom we reach out and care that we encounter and serve our Lord.
And that in overcoming our separation from the poor, the weak and those who are different from us, we enter into the life of God. And share in the eternal purposes for which God has created us.
By reaching across the chasm of our separateness, we may just find that that is where Christ is. That by reaching out to the poor, the homeless and those most in need, we will find God… waiting for us.
Amen