Our Lord’s parable of Lazarus and the rich
man is unique among the parables, for in this parable alone one of the
characters has a name. The parable
begins, “There was a rich man, who was clothed in purple and fine linen and who
feasted sumptuously every day. And at
his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus”. Compare how the parable of the Prodigal Son
begins: “There was a man who had two
sons”. One might ask, “What were their
names? What was the father’s name? Where did they live?” It doesn’t matter; all that mattered were
their actions. In all the Lord’s parables
the characters are nameless—the prodigal son and his father, the sower who went
out to sow, the man who sowed good seed in his field, but whose enemy came by
night and sowed tares in it—none of these characters have names. We ask therefore: why is the poor man in our parable given a
name? The name “Lazarus” of course is
from the Hebrew “Eleazar”, meaning “God helps”, but this doesn’t explain why he
alone is named in all the parables—especially, one might say, since God clearly
did not help him during his life, but
left him to die by the gate of the rich man.
I
suggest that the poor name is given a name to reveal the magnitude of the
rich’s man’s sin. For consider it: the rich man left a man suffering outside his
very gate whom he knew by name. The poor man was not just another anonymous
and nameless beggar in the street, someone whom the rich man quickly passed by and
who then vanished from his consciousness.
The rich man was on a first-name basis with the poor man. And yet despite this, he still did little or
nothing to help him. Every day the rich
man feasted sumptuously, and then wiped his mouth and hands with bread (the
ancient equivalent of a napkin), throwing aside the scraps. (These were the kind of crumbs falling from
the table which the Canaanite woman mentioned in Matthew 15:27.) The poor man was so hungry that he would’ve
been grateful even for these, but there is no hint in the parable that he ever
was given them. Rather, the rich man
finished his sumptuous meal, adjusted his purple and fine linen, walked past
Lazarus lying at his gate and went on with his sumptuous life. He may or may not have greeted Lazarus as he
passed by; but it is clear that he never gave him alms or brought him past his
gate to enjoy food from his table.
Instead he let him die at the edge of his property.
A
look at the rich man after he himself died reveals that he was something of a
slow learner, and that death produced no real change in his heart. To his perplexity, after what was doubtless a
great and splendid funeral where his friends declared how wonderful he was, the
formerly rich man finds himself engulfed in flame in the next world, and more
perplexing still, sees Lazarus far away, feasting at the head table lying in
the bosom of no less a celebrity than Abraham himself (the ancient Jews
reclined at such feasts, so that one literally reclined on the bosom of the
diner feasting next to one; compare John lying on Jesus’ bosom in John
13:23). But does the rich man
repent? Does he apologize to Lazarus for
his appalling neglect and ask his forgiveness?
Does he congratulate Lazarus on his current blessedness? No, none of this. In fact, he
doesn’t speak to Lazarus at all—instead, he speaks to Abraham. And, showing how hard and unrepentant his heart
still is, asks Abraham to send Lazarus far from the festal table to minister to
him. The request is stunning—the rich
man requests that Lazarus cease feasting, traverse the long way across the
chasm, brave the fire, all to do a service for the man who let him starve and
die at his gate, and in all this he still doesn’t even speak to Lazarus! The rich man apparently assumes that Abraham
will send Lazarus to do the job as if Lazarus were just a lackey or a
slave. Not surprisingly, Abraham
demurs. And even then the rich man asks
that Abraham send Lazarus from the table to visit his brothers and to do a
service for them—still saying nothing to Lazarus. The rich man is a slow learner indeed.
What
is the lesson for us? Our Lord tells the
parable not to give us an inside peak behind the scenes at the next life, but
to give us an urgently needed lesson for this one. The rich man’s sins and punishment show what
happens when we store up our treasure and use it all for ourselves, ignoring
the plight of the poor at our gate.
Placing the parable in the wider context of Luke’s Gospel allows us to
see the central point: You cannot serve
God and Mammon (Luke 16:13), however much the Pharisees who were lovers of
money (v. 14) or the American Dream say otherwise.
We
need to remember this parable the next time we visit the mall and encounter
someone asking for the morsels that fall from our festal table (or “spare
change”, as it is called in our culture).
It is true that they may possibly use those morsels in ways that are
less than helpful to them, but of course we also use our resources in ways less
than helpful to us. We remember here the
words of C.S. Lewis when he was rebuked by a friend for giving spare change to
a beggar. “He’ll just use it for ale”,
said his friend. Lewis paused and
responded, “But if I kept it, that’s what I would use it for.” We give our morsels to the poor not just to
help them, but to help ourselves transcend our insular selfishness and remember
our essential solidarity with the poor.
It is as Solomon said: “The rich
and poor have this in common: the Lord
made them all” (Proverbs 22:2). We too
easily rush past the poor man, not realizing he is our own flesh and blood, one
of our own family. The question, “Could
you spare some change?” should remind us of another question: “If anyone has the world’s goods and sees his
brother in need, and yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love
abide in him?” (1 John 3:17) We may
think that we know nothing about the man or woman accosting us in the parking
lots of our nation and asking for our help.
But we do know something about him—we know his name. His name is Lazarus.
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