The Other Lazarus
Luke 16:19-31
Gospel Reading for the Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (Year C)
There was this guy named Lazarus and he died. But before you think you know where the story is going, this guy was not that Lazarus. Jesus never wept over him. He never came back from the dead. In fact, being the protagonist of a parable, this Lazarus is about as flesh and blood as Harry Potter or Scout Finch. That fictionality does not make our other Lazarus any less real.
The man Jesus brought back from the dead was kind of like a MacGuffin, a device that served to propel the gospel plot forward. Lazarus was evidence that Jesus was sent by God. In fact, Jesus gives this reason out loud in front of a crowd. Where Lazarus comforts, Other Lazarus confronts. He is the poor man begging at the gates. He is the literal neighbor living in the shadow of comfort. When he dies he goes to Abraham's side. The rich man heads to the less desirable place of the dead.
What arrests my attention is the factor behind the destinations for the two men. I am not sure we can say that this is a doctrinal statement on where we go when we die. But in the context of this story, each man's destiny is determined by their station in life. Abraham tells the rich man that he received good things in his life and Lazarus was the recipient of terrible things. And thus their roles have been reversed in the beyond. Abraham implies that the rich man could have avoided his fate had he listened to Moses and the prophets, had he been a good neighbor to Lazarus when they were on earth.
That gives me pause as someone who is relatively well off. It makes me stop and think as I reflect on the people in my life who can sit in the place of Other Lazarus. I try my best to follow Jesus, who followed the Law and the prophets, but is it enough? Afterlife aside, am I loving my neighbor as I should? Not just the poor neighbor, but the oppressed and marginalized, the hurting and lonely.
I have a new office in our home and one of the things I am enjoying is decorating the space. I have placed books, Lego sets, and Funko Pops on the shelves. My wall has photos of family, places that I have traveled, artwork my siblings have given me, diplomas, etc. Across from my desk on the wall, hangs a cross that we got from a church in Reykjavik and a small colorfully-painted tile depicting Assisi. On the floor beneath them is the one item in here that I haven’t yet put up: my certificate of ordination.
I was ordained as a minister ten years ago today. It was a step with which I struggled for awhile. My Baptist roots fostered in me a firm belief in the priesthood of all believers. If you say that you are a follower of Jesus, then you are a minister. So the hierarchy implied by being called “Reverend” made me feel a little uncomfortable. I did not use the title for myself often unless I was writing my Congressperson. Despite these qualms, I did ultimately pursue ordination. I am glad that I did. I am just not totally sure what to make of it now.
I don’t serve as a vocational minister anymore; not in a church, not as a chaplain, not in some sort of parachurch organization. I am an Administrative Assistant in a hospital Spiritual Care department. In fact, I haven’t even attended a church service in maybe a year and a half save an Ash Wednesday service that I snuck off to at the beginning of Lent. I did officiate a wedding in a church over the summer; an experience that I loved and was very meaningful for me. But I don’t really know what to do about that ordination certificate. Or church.