The deed in the jar
Commentary
If I've read it once, I've read it a dozen times: the religious thriller, where the plot hinges on a secret ancient document that, if discovered and publicized, would change the face of Christianity, topple powerful religious figures, and shake the commitment of the faithful. The premise rests on a sort of reverse fundamentalism: The notion that any such document, if proven genuine, must be telling the absolute truth (and of course it must -- otherwise why would all those evil clerics have conspired to keep it hidden?). That the notion is ridiculous, the supporting historical research fatuous, and the whole notion more amusing than convincing, doesn't stop people from taking such ideas seriously -- witness the recent flap over The DaVinci Code by Dan Brown.
The discoveries of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi documents have lent a certain plausibility to the fictive premise. Ancient documents last a long time in simple earthenware jars in the desert, where the dry air does minimal damage to the material. The Bible tells us that Jeremiah sealed land deeds in a jar "in order that they may last for a long time" (Jeremiah 32:14). If that jar were still there today, the documents inside would probably still be legible!
God's deeds are as durable as anything to be found in a jar in the desert. Jeremiah's documents proved that there was a future for God's people. They symbolized the promise of hope when the view of the horizon was dim. Our lections build on this fundamental connection between possessions and the promise of God: The epistle speaks of the role of wealth in regards to faith, while the Gospel Lesson illustrates that role with a kind of fable. In all three lessons, God's faithfulness proves to be more durable than any part of the creation that can be "owned" by human beings.
Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15
The graphic on the cable news channel would have been, "Jerusalem Under Siege." Throbbing music would have let us know the seriousness of our situation, while an ancient version of Ted Koppel would have intoned the number of days since the armies of Nebuchadrezzar had cut off all exit from the city. However, none of us would have needed ancient cable news to tell us what a mess we were in. It was obvious to everyone who lived in Jerusalem.
It was obvious most of all to Jeremiah, who was not only under siege, but in prison. Accused of treason and insurrection, Jeremiah had been put in jail for trying to leave the city for his hometown of Anathoth during a break in the siege (Jeremiah 37:11-21). Apparently the Babylonians had a bit of a problem with the Egyptian army in the summer of 588 B.C., and this permitted a temporary lull in the fighting. Jeremiah, in attempting to leave Jerusalem, had looked like a deserter. Since he was already in trouble with King Zedekiah for prophesying against the king and the city, this was a fine chance for the king to shut him up.
Yet, not even a king can chain the word of the Lord, which came to Jeremiah in the bleakest of situations. The command came to perform yet another symbolic act (cf. 13:1; 18:1; 19:1). Now it becomes clear what business Jeremiah had in Anathoth: God wanted him to buy a field there. Jeremiah was to exercise his "right of redemption" by buying the land of his cousin Hanamel; this "right of redemption" was part of the ancient Jubilee law, which helped to keep land from leaving the family or clan (32:6-8; cf. Leviticus 25:25-32).
The details give us a unique insight into the procedures of property transfer in ancient times. Jeremiah counted out the purchase price in weight (coins were not yet in use), then wrote up the deed, sealed it, and had witnesses write over the seal to authenticate it. The reference to two deeds in the text is clarified by archaeological evidence: The deed was written twice on a single sheet, with a gap between. The upper part was then rolled, sealed, and witnessed, while the lower section, which may have been only an abstract, without all the legal details, was left loose for easy reference. In this way, the integrity of the deed could be assured. The deed was left in the safekeeping of Jeremiah's secretary, Baruch, and placed in an earthenware jar -- the ancient equivalent of sealing it in Tupperware (32:9-13).
Only at the end of the lection do we learn the point of this symbolic action: "For thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel: House and field and vineyards shall again be bought in this land" (v. 15). The direst of crises, in great personal and political turmoil, Jeremiah has indulged in an act of unprecedented faith: he has bought a plot of land! Even though he was in jail, his city surrounded by an enemy -- and Jeremiah was himself convinced that the king and city would fall! It was a bit like putting in a buy order from within the Alamo. The subsequent prayer of Jere-miah (32:16-25) and God's response (vv. 26-44) reveal the plan: The city will indeed fall, but it will rise again. There is a future for Jerusalem and Judah, and thus a reason to put faith in the future by putting good money in a plot of land. Where Jeremiah had tried to take the back door out of city and into Anathoth, he was now showing that there was a back door open to the people as a whole. God will not totally abandon this people, and the apparent inevitability of defeat will not cloud God's purpose. "See, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh; is anything too hard for me?" (v. 27; cf. v. 17).
1 Timothy 6:6-19
God's deed is secure in the jar. That much we have learned from Jeremiah. From 1 Timothy we learn that the terms of the deed are modest indeed. God's gift is never more than we need. The desire for more actually proves to be harmful to our progress in the faith.
Sometimes it's not until the end of a letter that we learn what the rest was about, and this is the case with 1 Timothy. Behind all the concern with good teaching and the credentials of teachers turns out to be a conviction about the corrupting influence of the desire for wealth. Excessive wealth, and the disparity between rich and poor, has shown itself to be a problem for the community (cf. 2:9; 3:3, 8; 5:4, 8, 13, 16, 17, 19-20, 24-25; 6:1-3, 5, 9, 10, 17). The false teachers, whose negative attitudes show them for who they really are, seem to think "godliness is a means of gain" (6:5). This kind of polemic was standard in the ancient world; one's enemies were commonly cast as insincere "lovers of money" (cf. our Gospel Lesson today).
The epistle gives this polemic some teeth, by placing it in philosophical and theological context. The word "gain" or "profit" moves subtly from a financial connotation in verse 5 to a spiritual one in verse 6, where it is connected with "contentment" or "self-sufficiency" (autarkeia). Autarkeia was a technical term in Stoic/Cynic philosophy that signified the willingness to be satisfied with what fate had bestowed on you, an acceptance of a life of simplicity and philosophical contemplation. The epistle co-opts this philosophical term and gives it a theological twist, as "self-sufficiency" becomes "God-sufficiency," rooted in the fact of creation: "For we brought nothing into the world, so that we can take nothing out of it" (v. 7). The Christian is a sort of philosopher who recognizes that God's provision of food and clothing (or "shelter," skepasma, v. 8) is all that is needed for a contented, faithful life.
Conversely, the desire for wealth is a snare and a trap. Perhaps the most-often misquoted verse of the Bible is "For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil" (v. 10). The epistle does not cast money itself as an evil, but the excessive desire for it, and the belief that it can add anything of value to the gift God has given us in creation. The root problem is desire, which is so often "senseless and harmful," and leads to temptation, ruin, and despair (v. 9). Such craving proves to be a form of self-torture for those who "pierced themselves with many pains" (v. 10). As an old monk explains to a young protege in the film Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter ... and Spring, "Lust awakens the desire to possess, which ends in the intent to murder." Our epistle agrees with this Buddhist sentiment to the extent that the murder involved is one's own self-destruction.
Such a fate poses a sharp contrast with that of Timothy, the "man of God" (v. 11). The virtues developed by one who engages in the contest of faith by following the example of Jesus, who confessed the good confession under Pontius Pilate, will lead that person to a spotless end, overflowing in praise of the wonders of God (vv. 11-16). Even so, the epistle does not leave the subject of money, but includes a final command -- not to those who desire to be rich, but to those who are actually wealthy: They are to make themselves rich in the good works of a rich God, rather than in the paltry excuse for wealth that may be taken from them at any moment (vv. 17-18). The false sense of security engendered by the illusion of wealth should not make anyone haughty; on the contrary, generosity and sharing are called for. This is the way to build up the true treasure of spiritual wealth, and to "take hold of the life that really is life" (v. 19).
Luke 16:19-31
The familiar parable of the rich man and Lazarus rounds out this trio of lessons on the subject of possessions and faith. More a fable or moral tale than a conventional parable, the story in Luke was explicitly directed against the enemies of Jesus, the Pharisees, construed as "lovers of money" (16:14), and is part of a larger section dealing with the spiritual implications of wealth (cf. 14:7-24; 15:1-32; 16:1-13).
Luke's storytelling is marvelous and could hardly be improved upon by the preacher; the main task of today's sermon may well be simply getting out of the way of the story. The contrast between the unnamed rich man and the beggar named Lazarus is skillfully drawn in parallel lines. Where the rich man is clothed in kingly and opulent robes, Lazarus has nothing to cover his open wounds. Where the rich man sits every day at a sumptuous banquet, Lazarus would be happy to eat the bread that the banquet guests used as napkins to wipe the grease off their hands. Where the rich man lived in a gated community, safe from any bother outside, Lazarus was besieged by mongrel dogs that regularly attacked him (16:20-21). Certainly, with such a disparity between rich and poor, there is no justice at this gate (cf. Amos 5:12, 15). Even in death, inequality reigns: The rich man receives a funeral, but Lazarus is apparently left unburied (v. 22). The ironically named Lazarus ("God has helped") has received no help in this life.
It is only in the shadowy realm of the dead, Hades, that the situation is reversed. Angels have carried Lazarus to "the bosom of Abraham"; in other words, he is now feasting at the heavenly banquet as an honored guest, one of the chosen people. The rich man is in torment. Yet even here he has not lost the arrogance that allowed him daily to step over the body of Lazarus without a second thought -- he still thinks that Lazarus (yes, he knows his name) is there to run errands for him! (vv. 23-24). He who showed no mercy now demands mercy. At this point in the story, we learn that the drastic reversal is neither unmotivated nor cruel: The rich man is getting what he deserves for his refusal to share his worldly goods with his neighbor. He loved his money more than his fellow human being. Now the gate between them, which he so easily could have opened, has become an impassable chasm (vv. 25-26).
Even in torment, the limits of the rich man's compassion are evident. It is limited to his immediate family, and he still wants Lazarus to do his bidding! (vv. 27-28). The idea that someone might return from the dead to warn the living was as common in ancient culture as it is in our own (cf. the enduring popularity of Dickens' A Christmas Tale). Abraham's reply is that the brothers had the same thing he had to teach him to care for the poor -- the writings of Moses and the prophets (v. 29). "They should listen to them," says Abraham, because to listen is to obey (a fundamental Lukan theme, cf. 5:1, 15; 6:17, 27, 47-49; 7:29; 8:8-15, 18, 21; 9:35; 10:16; 11:28; 14:35; 19:48; 21:38; Acts 2:22, 37; 3:22-23; 4:4; 7:2; 15:7; 18:8). The rich man's objection underlines his own failure to "repent" (v. 30; cf. 10:13; 11:32; 13:3-5; 15:7-10). Abraham's ironic reply points beyond itself to the larger story: "If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead" (v. 31; cf. 9:22; 18:33; 24:9, 46; Acts 1:22; 2:24, 32; 3:22, 26; 13:32).
By the end of the story, we have learned much about the relation of wealth and spirituality, much to the same effect as in 1 Timothy -- excessive wealth proves to have a numbing effect on the conscience, the love of money being the root of all sorts of evil. But we have not learned one thing: the name of the rich man. The ultimate contrast between these two people is that Lazarus, the poor man, is named before God as a specific, unique human being, while the rich man, unfortunately, could be any one of us.
Application
In Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, Indiana Jones finds himself in a secret cave filled with dozens of bejeweled chalices. One of these is said to be the Holy Grail, the chalice that Jesus drank from at the Last Supper. The challenge is to pick the true from the false. "Choose wisely," says the guardian, "for as the true grail will bring you life, the false grail will take it from you." Jones correctly bypasses the alternatives and picks the simple, worn cup of a carpenter. The bad guy goes for the gold, and is not so lucky.
The Bible does not give us a dualistic description of the world, with material things subordinated to the spiritual. In fact, it tends to tell us the opposite -- that the world is good, created by God, the things in it put there for our use. This is why the story Jesus told about the rich man and Lazarus had a certain amount of shock value in its day; the assumption of the hearers would have been that a rich man was blessed by God and given the goods of creation in exchange for his virtue and good works.
That wealth can actually work the opposite way is well attested in scripture, however. It is not that money and things are inherently bad, but that as humans we need to find meaning in life, and often the goods at hand prove to be suitable surrogates for the God who should take center place in our lives. Idolatry is at the heart of the problem of possessions and faith, and the reason that so often there is a correlation between our spirituality and our material generosity.
The problem is that money can make us numb -- numb to God, numb to our neighbor. Wealth can work against both of the two basic commandments, to love God and neighbor. It is not that the wealthy cannot love, but that the desire for wealth can take on a life of its own, crowding out "the life that is really life." When we let our desires and cravings loose, we enter a vicious circle, with the poor, the needy, and God standing outside the circle. This is why giving is a spiritual discipline; it breaks wealth's hold on our spirits by reminding us that God has provided for our needs, that God's promise to care for us is inviolable, and that we need no more than we need.
I once offered a congregation this recipe: If you don't want to hear the cries of the poor, put a couple of $100 bills into the Cuisinart, add your favorite food, some wine, and mix to the consistency of cookie dough. Then stick some of that glop in your ears. You won't hear a thing.
As for you, O people of God: keep your ears clear, because the cries for justice at the gate come from the mouth of God.
Alternative Applications
1) Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31. Make the good confession. Jeremiah was in jail in part for bucking the local politicians; he preached against Zedekiah and prophesied the downfall of Jerusalem. The role of the prophet is to confront unpopular causes that are nonetheless right. Thus, Timothy was told to engage in faith as if it were an athletic struggle; in some situations, it is imperative that God win. This was the point of Timothy's call, and his confession of faith (made at baptism, or perhaps ordination). Such a confession is rooted in Jesus' own confession and witness of faith (1 Timothy 6:12-13). Even Lazarus in Jesus' story is cast in the role of witness (Luke 16:28). While for many Christians, the image of the "witness" has a negative connotation (obnoxious people going door-to-door, two-by-two), our lections show that "witness" can be as simple as offering a poor man languishing outside our gates a loaf of slightly used bread.
2) 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31. Invest in your own future. Financial advisors tell us to invest in ourselves -- take a little bit out of each paycheck and have it automatically invested, so that by the end of our working careers we will have become automatic millionaires. Perhaps churches should work up automatic pledging plans, similar to what is offered by mutual funds. In giving of our wealth we are investing in our spiritual future, in a very concrete fashion. We are building faith by demonstrating it. We break the hold that excess wealth has over us by breaking the craving that always says, "There must be more." Come to think of it, however, perhaps we should forget the automatic pledging plan. The would-be automatic millionaire signs up for the automatic withdrawal because it is supposed to be less painful that way. But the spiritual benefit of giving comes in part from knowing what we are missing.
Preaching The Psalms
Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16
The writer of this psalm deftly employs a striking image that at once offers us hope in times of trouble, but at the same time redefines for us what it means to be a human being in the world.
The writer begins by comparing our situation in life to that of a captured bird. We are victims of our own weakness as well as the crafty wiles of the "fowler" (v. 3). We are so gullible. The snares out there are legion. From get-rich-quick schemes, to amazing diets, to the lure of drugs and alcohol, to the temptations of illicit sex -- there are traps everywhere, and we, like mindless birds, walk right into them.
But the "fowlers" who set the traps know us pretty well. They know just how to package their traps, to make them seem enticing. They know just how to market their snares to convince us we can't live without them. How ironic and sad it is to discover that what was sold to us as necessary to make life meaningful becomes a trap that makes life miserable. (Anyone making monthly payments on a multi-function exercise machine knows exactly what I am talking about!)
There is subtle subtext to all this, not from the psalmist, but from the depths of our own being. It's bad enough to live in the trap we find for ourselves, but we compound the problem by despising our bird-brained existence. There is a tendency, fueled by a judgmental religious and political culture, to condemn ourselves relentlessly for the stupid things we do. We are just dumb birds and deserve whatever trap we fall into.
That's our mistake. The psalmist does not take us there. Our birdlike vulnerability is simply part of the human situation. It is something to be aware of and learn from, it is not a matter for self-loathing. In fact, it is as a bird that the psalmist offers us the gracious help of God. "Under his wings you will find refuge" (v. 4).
We are little birds with big problems. Every predator on the block has a trap waiting for us. Because we are weak and vulnerable, and sometimes not too smart, we fall into those traps.
But God is a big bird, smart and cunning. God is able to thwart the fowler's snare by sharing wisdom and experience with us. God helps us overcome some of our stupidity. And for our weakness, for those aspects of our bird-brained existence that we cannot school away, God offers us refuge.
There is a certain theological elegance in all this. We speak freely, and correctly, of being created in God's image. That idea points to lofty possibilities for our existence as humans. But according to the psalmist sometimes God takes on our image, becomes like us. When we act like birds, for instance, God becomes a bird and dwells among us, and we behold God's glory as we find shelter beneath wings of grace.
The discoveries of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi documents have lent a certain plausibility to the fictive premise. Ancient documents last a long time in simple earthenware jars in the desert, where the dry air does minimal damage to the material. The Bible tells us that Jeremiah sealed land deeds in a jar "in order that they may last for a long time" (Jeremiah 32:14). If that jar were still there today, the documents inside would probably still be legible!
God's deeds are as durable as anything to be found in a jar in the desert. Jeremiah's documents proved that there was a future for God's people. They symbolized the promise of hope when the view of the horizon was dim. Our lections build on this fundamental connection between possessions and the promise of God: The epistle speaks of the role of wealth in regards to faith, while the Gospel Lesson illustrates that role with a kind of fable. In all three lessons, God's faithfulness proves to be more durable than any part of the creation that can be "owned" by human beings.
Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15
The graphic on the cable news channel would have been, "Jerusalem Under Siege." Throbbing music would have let us know the seriousness of our situation, while an ancient version of Ted Koppel would have intoned the number of days since the armies of Nebuchadrezzar had cut off all exit from the city. However, none of us would have needed ancient cable news to tell us what a mess we were in. It was obvious to everyone who lived in Jerusalem.
It was obvious most of all to Jeremiah, who was not only under siege, but in prison. Accused of treason and insurrection, Jeremiah had been put in jail for trying to leave the city for his hometown of Anathoth during a break in the siege (Jeremiah 37:11-21). Apparently the Babylonians had a bit of a problem with the Egyptian army in the summer of 588 B.C., and this permitted a temporary lull in the fighting. Jeremiah, in attempting to leave Jerusalem, had looked like a deserter. Since he was already in trouble with King Zedekiah for prophesying against the king and the city, this was a fine chance for the king to shut him up.
Yet, not even a king can chain the word of the Lord, which came to Jeremiah in the bleakest of situations. The command came to perform yet another symbolic act (cf. 13:1; 18:1; 19:1). Now it becomes clear what business Jeremiah had in Anathoth: God wanted him to buy a field there. Jeremiah was to exercise his "right of redemption" by buying the land of his cousin Hanamel; this "right of redemption" was part of the ancient Jubilee law, which helped to keep land from leaving the family or clan (32:6-8; cf. Leviticus 25:25-32).
The details give us a unique insight into the procedures of property transfer in ancient times. Jeremiah counted out the purchase price in weight (coins were not yet in use), then wrote up the deed, sealed it, and had witnesses write over the seal to authenticate it. The reference to two deeds in the text is clarified by archaeological evidence: The deed was written twice on a single sheet, with a gap between. The upper part was then rolled, sealed, and witnessed, while the lower section, which may have been only an abstract, without all the legal details, was left loose for easy reference. In this way, the integrity of the deed could be assured. The deed was left in the safekeeping of Jeremiah's secretary, Baruch, and placed in an earthenware jar -- the ancient equivalent of sealing it in Tupperware (32:9-13).
Only at the end of the lection do we learn the point of this symbolic action: "For thus says the Lord of hosts, the God of Israel: House and field and vineyards shall again be bought in this land" (v. 15). The direst of crises, in great personal and political turmoil, Jeremiah has indulged in an act of unprecedented faith: he has bought a plot of land! Even though he was in jail, his city surrounded by an enemy -- and Jeremiah was himself convinced that the king and city would fall! It was a bit like putting in a buy order from within the Alamo. The subsequent prayer of Jere-miah (32:16-25) and God's response (vv. 26-44) reveal the plan: The city will indeed fall, but it will rise again. There is a future for Jerusalem and Judah, and thus a reason to put faith in the future by putting good money in a plot of land. Where Jeremiah had tried to take the back door out of city and into Anathoth, he was now showing that there was a back door open to the people as a whole. God will not totally abandon this people, and the apparent inevitability of defeat will not cloud God's purpose. "See, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh; is anything too hard for me?" (v. 27; cf. v. 17).
1 Timothy 6:6-19
God's deed is secure in the jar. That much we have learned from Jeremiah. From 1 Timothy we learn that the terms of the deed are modest indeed. God's gift is never more than we need. The desire for more actually proves to be harmful to our progress in the faith.
Sometimes it's not until the end of a letter that we learn what the rest was about, and this is the case with 1 Timothy. Behind all the concern with good teaching and the credentials of teachers turns out to be a conviction about the corrupting influence of the desire for wealth. Excessive wealth, and the disparity between rich and poor, has shown itself to be a problem for the community (cf. 2:9; 3:3, 8; 5:4, 8, 13, 16, 17, 19-20, 24-25; 6:1-3, 5, 9, 10, 17). The false teachers, whose negative attitudes show them for who they really are, seem to think "godliness is a means of gain" (6:5). This kind of polemic was standard in the ancient world; one's enemies were commonly cast as insincere "lovers of money" (cf. our Gospel Lesson today).
The epistle gives this polemic some teeth, by placing it in philosophical and theological context. The word "gain" or "profit" moves subtly from a financial connotation in verse 5 to a spiritual one in verse 6, where it is connected with "contentment" or "self-sufficiency" (autarkeia). Autarkeia was a technical term in Stoic/Cynic philosophy that signified the willingness to be satisfied with what fate had bestowed on you, an acceptance of a life of simplicity and philosophical contemplation. The epistle co-opts this philosophical term and gives it a theological twist, as "self-sufficiency" becomes "God-sufficiency," rooted in the fact of creation: "For we brought nothing into the world, so that we can take nothing out of it" (v. 7). The Christian is a sort of philosopher who recognizes that God's provision of food and clothing (or "shelter," skepasma, v. 8) is all that is needed for a contented, faithful life.
Conversely, the desire for wealth is a snare and a trap. Perhaps the most-often misquoted verse of the Bible is "For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil" (v. 10). The epistle does not cast money itself as an evil, but the excessive desire for it, and the belief that it can add anything of value to the gift God has given us in creation. The root problem is desire, which is so often "senseless and harmful," and leads to temptation, ruin, and despair (v. 9). Such craving proves to be a form of self-torture for those who "pierced themselves with many pains" (v. 10). As an old monk explains to a young protege in the film Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter ... and Spring, "Lust awakens the desire to possess, which ends in the intent to murder." Our epistle agrees with this Buddhist sentiment to the extent that the murder involved is one's own self-destruction.
Such a fate poses a sharp contrast with that of Timothy, the "man of God" (v. 11). The virtues developed by one who engages in the contest of faith by following the example of Jesus, who confessed the good confession under Pontius Pilate, will lead that person to a spotless end, overflowing in praise of the wonders of God (vv. 11-16). Even so, the epistle does not leave the subject of money, but includes a final command -- not to those who desire to be rich, but to those who are actually wealthy: They are to make themselves rich in the good works of a rich God, rather than in the paltry excuse for wealth that may be taken from them at any moment (vv. 17-18). The false sense of security engendered by the illusion of wealth should not make anyone haughty; on the contrary, generosity and sharing are called for. This is the way to build up the true treasure of spiritual wealth, and to "take hold of the life that really is life" (v. 19).
Luke 16:19-31
The familiar parable of the rich man and Lazarus rounds out this trio of lessons on the subject of possessions and faith. More a fable or moral tale than a conventional parable, the story in Luke was explicitly directed against the enemies of Jesus, the Pharisees, construed as "lovers of money" (16:14), and is part of a larger section dealing with the spiritual implications of wealth (cf. 14:7-24; 15:1-32; 16:1-13).
Luke's storytelling is marvelous and could hardly be improved upon by the preacher; the main task of today's sermon may well be simply getting out of the way of the story. The contrast between the unnamed rich man and the beggar named Lazarus is skillfully drawn in parallel lines. Where the rich man is clothed in kingly and opulent robes, Lazarus has nothing to cover his open wounds. Where the rich man sits every day at a sumptuous banquet, Lazarus would be happy to eat the bread that the banquet guests used as napkins to wipe the grease off their hands. Where the rich man lived in a gated community, safe from any bother outside, Lazarus was besieged by mongrel dogs that regularly attacked him (16:20-21). Certainly, with such a disparity between rich and poor, there is no justice at this gate (cf. Amos 5:12, 15). Even in death, inequality reigns: The rich man receives a funeral, but Lazarus is apparently left unburied (v. 22). The ironically named Lazarus ("God has helped") has received no help in this life.
It is only in the shadowy realm of the dead, Hades, that the situation is reversed. Angels have carried Lazarus to "the bosom of Abraham"; in other words, he is now feasting at the heavenly banquet as an honored guest, one of the chosen people. The rich man is in torment. Yet even here he has not lost the arrogance that allowed him daily to step over the body of Lazarus without a second thought -- he still thinks that Lazarus (yes, he knows his name) is there to run errands for him! (vv. 23-24). He who showed no mercy now demands mercy. At this point in the story, we learn that the drastic reversal is neither unmotivated nor cruel: The rich man is getting what he deserves for his refusal to share his worldly goods with his neighbor. He loved his money more than his fellow human being. Now the gate between them, which he so easily could have opened, has become an impassable chasm (vv. 25-26).
Even in torment, the limits of the rich man's compassion are evident. It is limited to his immediate family, and he still wants Lazarus to do his bidding! (vv. 27-28). The idea that someone might return from the dead to warn the living was as common in ancient culture as it is in our own (cf. the enduring popularity of Dickens' A Christmas Tale). Abraham's reply is that the brothers had the same thing he had to teach him to care for the poor -- the writings of Moses and the prophets (v. 29). "They should listen to them," says Abraham, because to listen is to obey (a fundamental Lukan theme, cf. 5:1, 15; 6:17, 27, 47-49; 7:29; 8:8-15, 18, 21; 9:35; 10:16; 11:28; 14:35; 19:48; 21:38; Acts 2:22, 37; 3:22-23; 4:4; 7:2; 15:7; 18:8). The rich man's objection underlines his own failure to "repent" (v. 30; cf. 10:13; 11:32; 13:3-5; 15:7-10). Abraham's ironic reply points beyond itself to the larger story: "If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead" (v. 31; cf. 9:22; 18:33; 24:9, 46; Acts 1:22; 2:24, 32; 3:22, 26; 13:32).
By the end of the story, we have learned much about the relation of wealth and spirituality, much to the same effect as in 1 Timothy -- excessive wealth proves to have a numbing effect on the conscience, the love of money being the root of all sorts of evil. But we have not learned one thing: the name of the rich man. The ultimate contrast between these two people is that Lazarus, the poor man, is named before God as a specific, unique human being, while the rich man, unfortunately, could be any one of us.
Application
In Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade, Indiana Jones finds himself in a secret cave filled with dozens of bejeweled chalices. One of these is said to be the Holy Grail, the chalice that Jesus drank from at the Last Supper. The challenge is to pick the true from the false. "Choose wisely," says the guardian, "for as the true grail will bring you life, the false grail will take it from you." Jones correctly bypasses the alternatives and picks the simple, worn cup of a carpenter. The bad guy goes for the gold, and is not so lucky.
The Bible does not give us a dualistic description of the world, with material things subordinated to the spiritual. In fact, it tends to tell us the opposite -- that the world is good, created by God, the things in it put there for our use. This is why the story Jesus told about the rich man and Lazarus had a certain amount of shock value in its day; the assumption of the hearers would have been that a rich man was blessed by God and given the goods of creation in exchange for his virtue and good works.
That wealth can actually work the opposite way is well attested in scripture, however. It is not that money and things are inherently bad, but that as humans we need to find meaning in life, and often the goods at hand prove to be suitable surrogates for the God who should take center place in our lives. Idolatry is at the heart of the problem of possessions and faith, and the reason that so often there is a correlation between our spirituality and our material generosity.
The problem is that money can make us numb -- numb to God, numb to our neighbor. Wealth can work against both of the two basic commandments, to love God and neighbor. It is not that the wealthy cannot love, but that the desire for wealth can take on a life of its own, crowding out "the life that is really life." When we let our desires and cravings loose, we enter a vicious circle, with the poor, the needy, and God standing outside the circle. This is why giving is a spiritual discipline; it breaks wealth's hold on our spirits by reminding us that God has provided for our needs, that God's promise to care for us is inviolable, and that we need no more than we need.
I once offered a congregation this recipe: If you don't want to hear the cries of the poor, put a couple of $100 bills into the Cuisinart, add your favorite food, some wine, and mix to the consistency of cookie dough. Then stick some of that glop in your ears. You won't hear a thing.
As for you, O people of God: keep your ears clear, because the cries for justice at the gate come from the mouth of God.
Alternative Applications
1) Jeremiah 32:1-3a, 6-15; 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31. Make the good confession. Jeremiah was in jail in part for bucking the local politicians; he preached against Zedekiah and prophesied the downfall of Jerusalem. The role of the prophet is to confront unpopular causes that are nonetheless right. Thus, Timothy was told to engage in faith as if it were an athletic struggle; in some situations, it is imperative that God win. This was the point of Timothy's call, and his confession of faith (made at baptism, or perhaps ordination). Such a confession is rooted in Jesus' own confession and witness of faith (1 Timothy 6:12-13). Even Lazarus in Jesus' story is cast in the role of witness (Luke 16:28). While for many Christians, the image of the "witness" has a negative connotation (obnoxious people going door-to-door, two-by-two), our lections show that "witness" can be as simple as offering a poor man languishing outside our gates a loaf of slightly used bread.
2) 1 Timothy 6:6-19; Luke 16:19-31. Invest in your own future. Financial advisors tell us to invest in ourselves -- take a little bit out of each paycheck and have it automatically invested, so that by the end of our working careers we will have become automatic millionaires. Perhaps churches should work up automatic pledging plans, similar to what is offered by mutual funds. In giving of our wealth we are investing in our spiritual future, in a very concrete fashion. We are building faith by demonstrating it. We break the hold that excess wealth has over us by breaking the craving that always says, "There must be more." Come to think of it, however, perhaps we should forget the automatic pledging plan. The would-be automatic millionaire signs up for the automatic withdrawal because it is supposed to be less painful that way. But the spiritual benefit of giving comes in part from knowing what we are missing.
Preaching The Psalms
Psalm 91:1-6, 14-16
The writer of this psalm deftly employs a striking image that at once offers us hope in times of trouble, but at the same time redefines for us what it means to be a human being in the world.
The writer begins by comparing our situation in life to that of a captured bird. We are victims of our own weakness as well as the crafty wiles of the "fowler" (v. 3). We are so gullible. The snares out there are legion. From get-rich-quick schemes, to amazing diets, to the lure of drugs and alcohol, to the temptations of illicit sex -- there are traps everywhere, and we, like mindless birds, walk right into them.
But the "fowlers" who set the traps know us pretty well. They know just how to package their traps, to make them seem enticing. They know just how to market their snares to convince us we can't live without them. How ironic and sad it is to discover that what was sold to us as necessary to make life meaningful becomes a trap that makes life miserable. (Anyone making monthly payments on a multi-function exercise machine knows exactly what I am talking about!)
There is subtle subtext to all this, not from the psalmist, but from the depths of our own being. It's bad enough to live in the trap we find for ourselves, but we compound the problem by despising our bird-brained existence. There is a tendency, fueled by a judgmental religious and political culture, to condemn ourselves relentlessly for the stupid things we do. We are just dumb birds and deserve whatever trap we fall into.
That's our mistake. The psalmist does not take us there. Our birdlike vulnerability is simply part of the human situation. It is something to be aware of and learn from, it is not a matter for self-loathing. In fact, it is as a bird that the psalmist offers us the gracious help of God. "Under his wings you will find refuge" (v. 4).
We are little birds with big problems. Every predator on the block has a trap waiting for us. Because we are weak and vulnerable, and sometimes not too smart, we fall into those traps.
But God is a big bird, smart and cunning. God is able to thwart the fowler's snare by sharing wisdom and experience with us. God helps us overcome some of our stupidity. And for our weakness, for those aspects of our bird-brained existence that we cannot school away, God offers us refuge.
There is a certain theological elegance in all this. We speak freely, and correctly, of being created in God's image. That idea points to lofty possibilities for our existence as humans. But according to the psalmist sometimes God takes on our image, becomes like us. When we act like birds, for instance, God becomes a bird and dwells among us, and we behold God's glory as we find shelter beneath wings of grace.
