CROSSING THE CHASM
(The following sermon was preached by Pastor Barbara Melosh on September 26th, 2010.)
There was a rich
man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every
day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who
longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the
dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by
the angels to be with Abraham.
The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was
being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side.
He called out, “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.” But Abraham said, “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. 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.” He said,
“Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house— for I have five
brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place
of torment.” Abraham replied, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should
listen to them.” He said, “No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from
the dead, they will repent.” He said to him, “If they do not listen to Moses and
the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the
dead.”
-- Luke
16:19-31
The Ausable Chasm! Ever been there? I
remember my excitement on the way there, when I was nine or ten years old. I was
traveling with my aunt and uncle and cousins, and my aunt and uncle had
announced we were stopping at this Ausable Chasm. What’s that? we wondered.
“Wait and see!” they answered. Ausable Chasm. I loved the name, those mysterious
words, like a magical incantation. When we finally arrived I ran up to the iron
railing, and looked down the gorge. At one end a waterfall erupted over the rock
and jetted a hundred and fifty feet down to the bottom of the chasm, carved into
the rock by the Ausable river. On either side, layered sandstone rose in steep
cliffs, framing the stomach-lurching drop.
There’s a chasm in the parable Jesus
tells today, but it’s not in upstate New York. This one is in Hades, the abode
of the dead.
This is a story about the things that
separate us from one another, and from God. It’s a story about the things we do
and the things we leave undone; and the difference they make. It’s a story about
consequences, about our daily choices about small things; how small acts of
neglect and disregard become habits; how they can take us away from the life
that really is life—and instead, carve a chasm that cannot be crossed.
“There was a rich man…” Sound
familiar? More than one of Jesus’ parables starts this way; Jesus had a lot to
say about the uses and abuses of wealth. This man dresses in purple and fine
linen, and every day sits down to a feast. Meanwhile, right outside his gate is
a poor man named Lazarus—the only person in all of Jesus’ parables who has a
name. Covered with sores, he spends his days yearning for even the scraps from
the rich man’s table, too weak even to drive off the dogs who come to lick his
sores. Now we don’t hear that the rich man does anything unkind. He doesn’t kick
the man on the ground, or call the police, or even tell him to move on. He
doesn’t seem to notice him at all, though it turns out he knows his name.
Both men die, and they meet again in
Hades, the place of the dead. Now the prophesies of Mary’s song and the sermon
on the plain have been realized; the rich are thrown down, and the lowly are
lifted up. Lazarus has been gently carried by the angels and brought to Abraham,
the father of God’s chosen people. The rich man is suffering, tormented with
flames.
But some things haven’t changed. The
rich man may be in hell, but he still thinks he can get room service! He calls
out to Abraham, “Send Lazarus over with some cold water, even a drop on his
finger would do! I’m parched!” and notice how he doesn’t speak to Lazarus, even
now? Instead, he automatically goes to the guy in charge and asks him to order
Lazarus to wait on him.
Abraham is nice about it, but firm at
the same time, “Hey, you’ve gotten your share and more, my friend, and now
Lazarus is comforted and you are in agony.” Well, the rich man knew that, but
what he hears next is worse. He’s beyond help, out of reach.
Abraham tells him, “….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.”
Now I don’t know about you, but that
chasm terrifies me. I don’t want to look over the edge into the darkness, down
into the raging current. And I don’t want to hear a story where Jesus seems to
be saying, “You’ve had your chance. No more fresh starts. It’s too late.”
But the truth is, sometimes it is too late. Like
the rich man, the “haves” of this world neglect the poor, year after year, until
the gap between the rich and the poor is bigger than ever—a chasm between us and
God. Sometimes, closer to home, we wear down people we love like water on stone,
with resentment and blame, with encouragement withheld, or maybe most of all by
that blindness that can set in when you are looking at someone you think you
know, until you don’t see them at all anymore. Day by day, we carve out a chasm
between us, one grain of sand at a time. We let a little misunderstanding turn
into an unspoken grievance, then a grudge, and on and on into a lifetime of
bitterness, until a small distance has become a chasm we can’t cross. Sometimes
that chasm gets worn through rock by shame and guilt; we know we’re wrong but we
can’t bring ourselves to ask for the
forgiveness that would lead us to healing and reconciliation. Sometimes it is
fear and anger and hopelessness that cut a chasm into our lives, when we are
overwhelmed with suffering, when we cry out for God, and feel like our prayers
are dropping into emptiness, into a vast and terrifying silence.
At the edge of the
abyss, we come to know our own helplessness, our absolute dependence on God. We
cannot save ourselves. We cannot save our families—the rich man tries that, one
last effort to make things work, his way. On our own, we can’t cross that chasm.
But the one who
tells this story has crossed it for us, crossed over from death to life. He lays
that cross over the chasm, the cross, a bridge to bring us safely back to where
we belong.
Cross over, and
never be alone again. Cross over, into the open arms of Jesus. Cross over, from
death into the life that really is life.
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