Luke 16:19-31
In his parables, Jesus often likes to get us riled up with righteous indignation, before going in for the kill. This parable of Lazarus and the rich man is a good example. Here, Jesus is in the middle of a long monologue to his disciples, sparked by some Pharisees who were indignant about who Jesus was associating with: “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them,” they complained (Luke 15:1). Which set Jesus off on a tirade of several parables.
We encounter this parable, and we are appalled: at the rich man, so indulgent with his fine clothes and food; at the misfortune of Lazarus, who suffered and starved at the rich man’s gate. We are indignant that the rich man, even from the flames of Hades, still considers Lazarus to be his inferior. He looks up to heaven and asks Abraham to send Lazarus to give him a drink and ease his agony—something the rich man was too ignorant or unwilling to do for Lazarus when he had the chance on earth.
Yet in this parable, the rich man, self-centered as he was, found it in him to think of his five brothers who were still living. Couldn’t Abraham send Lazarus to them as a warning? But Abraham reminds him that his brothers have “Moses and the prophets”, and if they wouldn’t accept that witness, then even one resurrected from the dead wouldn’t be enough to change their hearts.
Here I stand two thousand years after Jesus first told this parable. Not only do I have Moses and the prophets, I also have the Gospels and the rest of the New Testament. I have the witness of theologians and saints and everyday Christians across time and place. I have two thousand celebrations of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead. Is my heart still hard?
Yes, it is. Several weeks ago, I was walking to buy something to eat, and a man I vaguely recognized, who I am pretty sure sleeps on the street at least some of the time, asked me for some cash. I had some money on me that I didn’t need, and I could have let him have it. But reflexively, I said no. I don’t know why. But that’s what I said to him. And he and I went on our ways. Soon after the man left, I knew I was wrong not to share what I had with him. I tried but could not find him later. Regardless, the money wasn’t mine anymore, and I gave it to a local group that directly serves and cares for people suffering in poverty.
All of this to say, I unfortunately can identify with the rich man (and his brothers) in this parable. I am so rich with God’s grace—I have access to so much information and spiritual formation and testimony and guidance from other disciples as I try to follow Jesus. I have the Eucharist. I have Jesus’ promise to be with me always in the presence of his Holy Spirit. And yet, there are still parts of my heart which are hardened toward him and his beloved people. This is a sad and painful truth about me, and about all of us. Lent brings us face to face with the suffering our sin unleashes into the world. Like a journey through one of Jesus’ parables, in Lent we move from righteous indignation about others’ sins to deep sorrow over our own.
Can we be saved from hardness of heart? Yes. There is no sin, no hardness of heart, which Jesus has not already overcome through his life, death, and resurrection. This parable is, well, a parable, meant to induce a longing for God’s merciful and just work in us. But perhaps, for the remainder of Lent, do not be so quick to look for a way out. Instead, trust that in the midst of grief over our sins, hardness of heart, and regret for that hardness of heart, there is Jesus, clearing a path back to himself through his own suffering, death, and resurrection.
Meditation by the Reverend Micah Cronin
Associate Rector, St. George’s by the River, Rumson
Diocese of New Jersey