Pentecost 16, Year C, Track 2
Amos 6:1a, 4-7
Psalm 146
1 Timothy 6:6-19
Luke 16:19-31
Today’s parable, as I mentioned last week, is a classic example of the inverted kingdom that Christ proclaims throughout Luke, where the lowly are exalted and the mighty are brought low. However, this particular example stands out because Jesus employs the kind of vivid afterlife imagery that is not often seen in the Gospels. We know very little about either character in this parable until they both find themselves on the other side of death, experiencing dramatically different outcomes.
Jesus describes their lives on earth almost as a passerby in the scene. We can imagine the high wall and tall gate keeping the rich man secure from any unwanted interaction with the outside world. Inside, he can feast lavishly and dress in fine clothes, and he doesn’t have to think about much more than his own pleasures. He doesn’t have to think about or see poor, hungry, sickly Lazarus lying outside his gate. But as the passerby, Jesus only sees Lazarus. By cutting himself off from the reality of hardship and suffering in the world, the rich man has also inadvertently cut himself off from seeing the incredible, life-changing power of Christ at work.
This parable is typically called “Lazarus and the Rich Man,” or “Dives and Lazarus.” “Dives” is not a name, though, but simply the Latin word for “rich.” The rich man goes unnamed, while Lazarus is the only named character anywhere in Jesus’ 46 recorded parables. There is significance there. This could have been the Parable of the Rich Man and the Poor Man, but it isn’t. In Isaiah 40, when the prophet speaks God’s comfort to a scattered people, he implores the readers to regard the stars of the heavens, saying, “Lift up your eyes on high and see: Who created these? He who brings out their host and numbers them, calling them all by name; because he is great in strength, mighty in power, not one is missing.” Isaiah 43 begins similarly: “But now thus says the Lord, he who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel: Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are mine.” There is a power and intimacy in being named by God. It makes us feel seen, known, connected, and cherished.
As we find out later in the parable, the rich man also seems to know Lazarus’ name. When the rich man looks up from Hades to see Abraham and Lazarus, he calls out to Abraham, saying, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue.” We don’t know how the rich man knew Lazarus’ name or the nature of their relationship. From this request, though, we can see that even in the afterlife, he regards Lazarus as a lesser, a servant tasked with making him more comfortable. His first regard is for himself, and he would have Lazarus traverse the chasm of Sheol to wait on him.
A couple of years ago, Nobel Prize-winning economist Matthew Killingsworth set out to study and find an answer to the age-old question, “Can money buy happiness?” Surveying over 33,000 Americans with an annual household income of $85,000 or more, his team found that yes, it absolutely can. They determined that people generally fell into two groups: those whose happiness increased linearly with increasing income, and those who began to experience a greater sense of well-being after reaching a certain income threshold, typically around $100,000 per year.
How does money buy happiness? Because money buys food, shelter, and medical care. Money buys opportunities for educational and cultural enrichment that keep kids out of trouble. Countless studies have demonstrated the developmental effects of financial scarcity, and I have personally experienced some of these impacts firsthand in my early life. There comes a point, however, when money can’t buy happiness anymore, where the returns diminish precipitously. Anyone care to guess what that household income threshold might be when those returns start to diminish? It’s $500,000 a year. Now, that is a lot of money. In about two years, you’re already a millionaire. However, it would take 800,000 years, earning $500,000 a year, to accumulate as much wealth as the current richest person in the world. At what point is that number utterly meaningless? At what point does that money cease to have any real, practical value for an individual?
In his words of caution to the wealthy members of the church of Ephesus, Paul tells Timothy, “They are to do good, to be rich in good works, generous, and ready to share, thus storing up for themselves the treasure of a good foundation for the future, so that they may take hold of the life that really is life.” Take hold of the life that really is life. A life lived for the self is not a life. A life lived for others is a life lived exponentially.
Now, I know our congregation is familiar with this lesson. To my knowledge, there are no secret billionaires among us, so it may be challenging to connect with and relate to this parable. We’ve spent our entire lives hearing that the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil. So rather than considering this passage from the perspective of you as an individual, I’d invite you to ponder it from the perspective of us as the church. As you all know, thanks to some extraordinary generosity shown to St. Luke’s in the past year, we are financially better off than we have been in many years. It’s also true that we know a significant portion of that money will likely be allocated towards much-needed repairs and replacements on the church property. That’s a practical and judicious use of those funds, I’d say. But then what? What comes next? That’s my charge to each of you as you leave here today: to think and pray on what comes next, what helps us take hold of the life that really is life. Amen.