Journey to the Cross: Seeing and Being Seen

Have you ever pulled off the freeway onto an off-ramp and seen someone standing there asking for money? Or pulled up to a stoplight and, as you wait, you're approached by someone begging for loose change with a sign that says “Please help me!”? What do you do? How do you respond when you see someone suffering? Do you roll down your window and give them some money? Or do you, perhaps, as I often do, roll your window up a little and turn your eyes away. Because, you know what will happen if you make eye contact, right? They’re sure to think that maybe, if they ask you a little more, you’ll see them. You’ll see how they’re suffering. And, maybe, you might be moved to help.

This is our story today. It’s not a story that’s often read as part of the lectionary. Because it’s a hard story. But, it seems like we’ve been hearing a lot of hard stories this year. Hard stories in the midst of what has been a long, hard year.

Our reading is from the 16th chapter of Luke. 

“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 (NRSV)

To begin with this morning, I’d like to place this parable in its context in Luke. Just a few verses earlier, Jesus has been teaching his disciples about the power of wealth and power. Ending his teaching with this infamous, often misquoted, verse: “No slave can serve two masters; for a slave will either hate the one and love the other, or be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and wealth.”

Immediately after, the Pharisees, who have been listening in and about whom Luke writes explicitly that they were “lovers of money,” - the Pharisees begin to ridicule Jesus. In response, Jesus tells this story about the rich man and Lazarus.

What’s immediately striking about this parable is who is named and who is not named in the story. Usually, in scripture, those who are without power are unnamed. But, it’s different here. The rich man. The wealthy man. The man who dresses in purple and, literally, the softest underwear. The man who feasts daily. Who kills the fatted calf like the father in last week’s story, not just for a special celebration, but every single day. Every day this man feasts sumptuously. In our world today, he might be a one percenter. A Jeff Bezos or Elon Musk of our day. Yet, this one - this ultra rich man in our story - is unnamed. 

By contrast, it is the poor man who is named. Lazarus. Lazarus, meaning “my God helps.” He is the one who is named. Lazarus, a beggar. Who is covered in sores from a skin condition. Who is licked by dogs.  Not dogs like ours, who lick us out of affection. But wild dogs. Filthy, garbage-eating mongrels who roam the streets. These are the dogs licking the sores of Lazarus, who is the one named in today’s parable.

Each day, Lazarus lies outside the gate of the wealthy, unnamed man. Begging for food. Asking just for scraps from the man’s sumptuous table. And he receives nothing.

Then, the story changes. Both men die. And, in another of Luke’s great reversals, Lazarus is carried away to the bosom of Abraham - a place in Jewish legend of great bliss. The rich man is buried and finds himself in Hades - the nature of which continues to be debated today. Wherever it is, the rich man is in a place of “torment,” our text tells us. 

Now, if we were to give the rich man the benefit of the doubt, maybe, while he was alive, he was so far removed from the grittiness of life - maybe, just maybe, he never saw Lazarus lying outside his gate. There’s no mention of this in the first part of the story. So, maybe he really isn’t such a bad guy after all. Just a little gluttonous. But, not as bad as we might first think. 

Soon, though, that theory is blown apart. Because, we read in verse 24, that the rich man looks up, sees Abraham and Lazarus, and asks - no, orders, Abraham to send Lazarus to dip his finger in water and cool his tongue. He knew who Lazarus was. Had likely seen him, his skin condition, the dogs licking his wounds. Had likely heard him begging just for scraps. And he has done nothing. Then, on top of this, fails to understand that he no longer has power or control. Even as he orders that Lazarus be sent to help him.  

Are we like this rich man? Have we heard the cries of those struggling in this past year? Have we seen them? Have we looked them in their eyes and said, “I see you. I see your pain. I hear your cries.” Or do we, like the wealthy man, like me, turn away. Pretend not to notice. Never look them in the eyes, because if we did. If we truly did, we could no longer ignore them. Or walk away. Or do nothing.

It may be overwhelming for us. When we think of all the people in need or the injustice that plagues entire systems in our society, it may be overwhelming. That there’s nothing you or I can do to change things. That we’re just one or just a few people. What difference can we really make?

But, the rich man was only one person. And Lazarus was also one person only asking for a little. How might the story have ended if, just one time, the rich man had seen - really seen - Lazarus. Seen his suffering. Seen his need. And made one small gesture. A few scraps from his table. 

Jesus was one person, too. Who continues to transform our world.  Jesus. Who sees us. Who calls us to his side. Who welcomes and comforts us. And who sends us to welcome and comfort - to see and to hear the unnoticed in our world. 

Will this past year change us? Will this experience change us? Will it change how we respond? Will we see and hear and act in new ways when we move beyond this pandemic? 

I hope so. 

I hope that, in these next months, our prayer may be that the Holy Spirit push us to new places. To new people. To new life. In and through Jesus Christ. Amen.

Preached March 14, 2021, online with Grace & Glory and Third Lutheran churches, Goshen/Louisville, KY.

Fourth Sunday of Lent

Readings: Luke 16:19-31, Psalm 41:1-3

Invitation to Abundant Life: In Jesus (Part 1)

Grace and peace to you from our Savior Jesus, the Messiah, who is Christ, the Lord. Amen.

A couple of weeks ago, when we heard the story of Nicodemus, I mentioned a commentary by Lindsey Trozzo, a professor of biblical ethics and rhetoric at Baylor University. In it, she suggested thinking of the Gospel of John as a multi-act play or a TV mini-series. As each chapter unfolds, we hear and see a new interaction. Sometimes it’s between Jesus and his disciples. Sometimes it's between Jesus and the Jewish leadership. Sometimes, as in last week’s lesson, it’s between Jesus and someone we might consider an outcast. With each interaction, with each encounter, it's as though a new act or a new episode begins. Each building one upon the other. Each part of a plot line that will, I suspect, eventually reach a turning point--a climax in theatre language--a point of great tension.

Today’s lesson offers us one more act from the Gospel of John. Another episode in the mini-series. An episode in seven scenes. 

Scene 1 (Read John 9:1-7). Our first scene opens upon Jesus, a blind man, and the disciples. Jesus sees the man. Blind from birth. A man who has never had sight. Not once seen a sunrise. Not once seen a wildflower. Not once seen the face of someone he loved.

Jesus sees him, though. The disciples do, too. But their focus isn’t on him, but on his sin. “Who sinned, Jesus? Was it him? Or his parents? Who sinned that he was born blind?” It’s an assumption made by them. That anyone with or stricken by a physical ailment or disability must be suffering because of sin--whether their own or that of a previous generation. It’s an assumption we still make today, don’t we? Of others. Sometimes, of ourselves. “What did I do wrong, God, to deserve this cancer?” we might ask ourselves.

But as we learned last week, sin, in John, isn’t a moral category. In John, sin is a category of relationship. And for this man--this blind man--his disability is an opportunity for God’s work to be revealed in him. An opportunity for relationship--for relationship with God present in the Word made flesh. Right there in front of him.

So, Jesus takes the dust of the earth. And with the dust and with his saliva, Jesus makes mud and rubs it onto his eyes. He sends him to wash. He does. And then he returns. With full eyesight.

Do you notice how the man listens to Jesus’ voice and follows his direction? Do you notice how the same dust that God used to create new life in Genesis gives this man new life, too? 

Scene 2 (Read John 9:8-12). As our second scene opens, Jesus and the disciples are no longer present. The man is, though. The man who is no longer blind. And with him a variety of people, moving in and out of the scene. Notice that all of the verbs in this scene are in the present tense. They describe what had been his daily reality.  Sitting. Begging. Every day and all day, fully dependent on others for his own survival. 

His neighbors cross-examine him. They ask how he regained his sight. “The man called Jesus,” he says. Do you notice here how he knows Jesus’ name?

What’s the first thing you do when you meet someone for the very first time? You ask their name. Knowing someone’s name is the first step of entering into relationship, isn’t it? “The man called Jesus,” he says. He now knows Jesus. The man.

But the man who now sees does not yet know Jesus, the divine. Not yet, at least.

Scene 3 (Read John 9:13-17). “He is a prophet.” This man, now called “formerly blind,” is truly beginning to see. As our scene develops, we watch the relationship grow and new understanding dawning.  The blind man is now beginning to know Jesus, the divine. And to witness to him. 
It’s not clear in our text whether he has even yet actually seen Jesus. He heard his voice and followed his request. Yet, even though Jesus is not physically present in this scene, the man’s “sight”--his spiritual eyesight is growing. Especially as he begins to witness to Jesus’ presence in his life.

In contrast, the Pharisees continue in their own spiritual blindness. “On a Sabbath!” They proclaim, stuck in their religious rules. Speaking of Jesus, they ask, “How can a man who is a sinner perform such signs?” How ironic it is that they, and not the formerly blind man, are the ones who lack true sight! 

How is your eyesight lately?

Scene 4 (Read John 9:18-23). In our fourth scene, the Jewish leaders don’t believe him at first--that he was ever blind. It is his parents who confirm this. “He was born blind.” When they are asked how his sight has been restored, they point back to their son. They do this, because they are afraid--afraid that if they say that Jesus has done this--that the Messiah has done this--they will be banished from the synagogue and, with it, from their entire social, religious and communal life.  
Do you recall, when we first began reading this gospel, who John’s audience was? The gospel was written for a group of believers who, because they chose to follow Jesus, had been cast out of the synagogue. Who chose to leave their families for good. Who in faith chose to separate themselves from every aspect of their lives. To follow Jesus.

I wonder if we would make the same choice.

Scene 5 (Read John 9:24-34). This second dialogue between the blind man and the Pharisees is longer. It will be the last. They ask him the same questions, as though he will give different answers. They lack eyesight. They don’t hear him witness to them.  

In his testimony, the blind man names it. It takes hearing. And sight. He calls out their deafness and their blindness to the reality that God--that their God, the God of Moses--is the one who has done this. The one who is revealing Godself in a whole new way. If only they would look and listen.

They don’t. They cast him out of the synagogue.

Scene 5 (Read John 9:35-38). As our next scene opens, Jesus, who has been absent since the healing, hears that the man has been cast out of the synagogue. He searches for him as the Good Shepherd searches for his sheep. He finds him. And when he does, Jesus asks him, “Do you believe? Do you believe in the Son of Man?” 

“Who is this Son of Man?” the blind man asks. We’ve heard this question from the beginning of the Gospel. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Nathaniel asked. “How can this be?” Nicodemus asked. “Can he be the one?” the Samaritan woman wonders.  Who is Jesus? 

“I AM.” In these words, Jesus fully reveals himself to the man, just as God revealed himself to Moses. What else is there to say, but “I believe!” 

This is what true relationship with Jesus looks like. What full recognition of Jesus is. It is an individual and gradual process that happens in dialogue with God. And, yes, sometimes even in confrontation. 

When we say, “Lord, I believe,” we are not only confessing our faith. Like the blind man, we are claiming our relationship with Jesus. We are stepping right into the arms of Jesus, our Good Shepherd. Who hears us. And sees us. And loves us. Just as we are.

I bet you thought it was over, didn’t you. That this episode had reached its climax with the blind man’s confession of faith and claim of relationship. But there is a twist in this plot.

Scene 6 (Read John 9:39-40). “I came into this world for judgment.” Jesus says. What? What happened to his words in John 3:17, “God did not send the Son in the world to condemn the world…”?

Judgment in John is not an outward condemnation. It is self-condemnation. Not believing in Jesus brings judgment upon oneself. It isn’t judgment from Jesus or from God. But self-imposed judgment. It is about how we respond to Jesus as the Word made flesh. It is that moment of judgment--that moment of crisis--for everyone who has an encounter with Jesus. A moment that demands a response.

This week, with Ash Wednesday, we begin the season of Lent. Lent is a time for us to step back a bit. To check our hearing and our seeing. To check our response to Jesus. To see how we are living as his disciples. To see how we are witnessing to him. 

“I came into this world for judgment so that those who do not see may see, and those who do see may become blind.” 

“Surely we are not blind, are we?” the Pharisees asked. We ask.

How does Jesus respond to them? To us? The answer will come in our seventh and final scene. To be continued on Ash Wednesday. Be sure and tune in. Amen.

Preached February 11, 2018, at Grace & Glory Lutheran Church.
Transfiguration Sunday
Readings: Psalm 27:1-4, John 9:1-40.