Lazarus at the Gate

Lazarus at the Gate

I have been thinking a lot about Lazarus lately—not the guy raised from the dead (despite my focus on advance directives), but the poor man, full of sores, in Luke, Chapter 16.

In Luke’s story, Jesus tells the crowd about this fellow Lazarus, who lay at the gate of an unnamed rich man, wanting only the food that fell from the rich guy’s table. When Lazarus and the rich guy die, Lazarus goes to the bosom of Abraham; the rich guy goes to hell. From hell, the rich guy calls to Abraham, asking him to send Lazarus his way—to bring some water to cool the fires just a little.

There’s a lot to hang on just in that part of the story—why isn’t Lazarus a little more ambitious, the way the rich guy still treats Lazarus as errand boy, even in the afterlife—despite L’s impressive new friends. But it’s Abraham’s reply that catches my attention: first, he says that everybody gets a mix of comfort and of torment (hint: get the torment out of the way in this life), and then he says: “Besides all this, between us and you a great chasm has been fixed, in order that those who would pass from her to you may not be able….”

So, in this version of the afterlife, the architect imagined that the folks in heaven may feel some compassion for the souls in hell, may want to help them out, to comfort them a little. These kind urges were predicted—and have been disallowed.

This kicks me right back to those words about forgiveness, and the lack thereof: what we hold on earth will be held in heaven.

For years now, I’ve been trying to define my place in relationship to churches. I tried leaving the church of my childhood and looking for another. I tried on the title of “believer in exile,” coined by John Spong, for folks who valued Christianity, if not most Christian churches. I found an organization that defines itself as “standing at the door,” and thought maybe I could see myself that way: a sort of bridging-person, announcing the happenings in churches to the folks outside, reminding folks inside churches of the crowds beyond their doors, maybe bringing them together.

But the churches, like the rich guy, have these gates. And I know quite a few folks who have been hurt too deeply by the folks inside, to ever even want to cross that threshold. They’ve been sexually harassed by priests and brothers; told they’re sinful, worthless from the pulpit; had their families—gay, divorced, inter-religious, multi-ethnic—insulted during Sunday school. There’s something very strong and right about these folks deciding that they won’t risk themselves, their families, any more. Remember Lazarus—he didn’t want to be a rich man, he just wanted what the rich guy wasn’t using, anyway.

When Girlfriend and I had our commitment ceremony, the church that welcomed us told us we would have to stand outside the doors the trade our vows. We ended up inside, but had to huddle away from the altar, as far from that holy place as we and our friends could possibly fit.

It felt quite holy anyway---crowded near the doors there with our friends and families, who led the prayers themselves and prompted all our promises. When I see it in my mind’s eye now—the little bit of jostling, the rustling of folks and prayer books, the smiles and the tears so close—no pews between us in this space—it is the altar that feels lonely and left out. My sense of what is holy doesn’t match up with a god perched up on that special table, who might be smudged somehow if our love got too close—and could be tricked by promises exchanged a few small steps away.

Girlfriend and I and our community did fine below the altar, on whatever scraps of holiness slipped down to us that day.

But I worry, for the churches. What of their gates and chasms? What are they keeping locked inside, what has already slipped away? The parable suggests the time for tearing down the gates is limited—that the chasms will one day be fixed, forever. The story also seems to say a one-way drawbridge into membership is not the only way to come together; this is the lesson that I fear is getting missed. Jesus consistently reached out to those outside. Not to bring them to the temple, but to learn and honor, change and heal. He did not convert folks into Judaism…he brought something new. This is the lesson that I fear is getting missed.

It’s got me thinking about Lazarus, and rich guys, what might have been, and what just might be possible one day.

[To read the story yourself, see Luke 16:19+.

If you want to hear more about our commitment ceremony,

you can find my diary of the time here.

The piece about the altar rules is called “Where God is Non-Denominational.”]