Sermon: Longing to be seen, heard, known and loved (Sept. 25, 2016)

Pentecost 19C

September 25, 2016

Luke 16:19-31

            Perhaps you have heard about the event currently happening in North Dakota. As you likely know, North Dakota is rich in oil, and a pipeline, called the Dakota Access Pipeline Project, has been proposed to transport crude oil from North Dakota to Illinois, where it can connect with other pipelines. Advocates argue that this will be nationally, economically, and environmentally beneficial. However, North Dakota is also home to some 30,000 Native Americans, who live on sacred land, much of which the US government has agreed to protect. And the proposed pipeline threatens this land, and in particular, their water supply. In response to the proposal, Native American tribes from around the country, and their non-native allies, have joined forces to “Stand with Standing Rock Sioux Nation,” and protest the pipeline. The fight has been a hard one, as protests often are, complete

with arrests and violence, and blocking the media from getting any word out. Of course the interest in the land is primary for these people who have lived on that land long before America was America; they believe that this sacred land is infused with the spirit of God, such that to harm the land is to harm the very face of God. But what I have been struck by, as I read articles and watch interviews, is the deep desire of these people, often overlooked, to be seen and heard. Their lives, their values, their history: they want to be seen, and their story heard, and their values acknowledged.

            If you weren’t familiar with that event, I’m sure you are familiar with the Black Lives Matter movement, which has arisen in the past few years in response to instances in which black lives seem somehow less important than white lives, including instances of police brutality, an unjust criminal justice system, higher poverty rates and poorer schools among communities of color, and more. Black communities and allies have rallied around the refrain that “black lives matter” – not more than any other lives, of course, but just as much. I don’t know whether it is an increased awareness of the issues, or an actual increase in instances, but it seems every couple of weeks we have another instance in which we are faced with the question, “If that person were white, would this tragedy have turned out differently?” This week, there were two: first the shooting of Terence Crutcher, an unarmed black man whose car broke down, and, although his hands were up, at the first possible sign of threat (he reached into his car), he was shot and killed. Then it was Keith Lamont Scott, whose story remains somewhat unclear, but we know he was a man with a traumatic brain injury who was

waiting to pick up his son when he was shot and killed. Whether you are on board with Black Lives Matter as a movement or not (and I know, it makes a lot of us very uncomfortable, and we have been concerned and turned off by some of the more extreme tactics used to make a point), its core message does share something with the Native Americans protesting in North Dakota: after years of being treated as disposable, as somehow less than white people, people of color are making an effort to be seen by their compatriots: to be seen, to be understood, to be recognized, to be valued for who and what they are.

            These two modern examples can offer us a helpful glimpse into our parable today. On the surface, the story of Lazarus at the Rich Man’s Gate seems very simple to understand: the rich man should have been more generous in his life, and helped Lazarus. We should take advantage of the opportunity to serve the poor right now, or else we will burn in eternity like the rich man. Well, there is some truth to that, I suppose: God’s mandate to care for the poor is certainly apparent throughout Scripture. But this fire-and-brimstone, “do this or else” theology is not very hopeful, nor gracious, nor Lutheran! Our Lutheran theology insists that we are not saved by our works, by what we do or don’t do, but rather by grace and faith alone. We do good works, Martin Luther says, because we are already saved, not in order to be saved.

            Ok, well, another possible interpretation of the parable is: wealth is a sin if you keep it all for yourself. Ok, again, there is some truth to that – in fact, we talked about it last week – but I think there is more to this parable than that. Because think: the rich man did feed Lazarus, with the scraps from his table. Lazarus hung out there because he got a fair bounty from the scraps from the rich man’s sumptuous feasts. The rich man knew he was sitting there (he even knew his name, as we see when he addresses him by name in Hades), and he might have shooed him away, but he doesn’t. Maybe, in fact, the rich man thought he was being charitable to poor Lazarus, because he was providing him essentially every meal from his own leftovers.

            No, I think the heart of this parable goes even deeper. I think the rich man’s sin was not withholding his wealth. I think it was withholding his compassion. It was an unwillingness to see, to know, to understand Lazarus’ life, his plight, his struggles. The word “compassion” means “to suffer with.” Com = with, and passion = suffering. Com-passion. The rich man, though willing to share his leftovers, was not willing to share any more of his energy than that.

            And this sin: this is something I know I am guilty of, as well.

            I am guilty of it in respect to my Native American brothers and sisters. I didn’t even know about this pipeline until I tried to schedule a massage and found out my massage therapist was in North Dakota, delivering food and supplies to the protesters! I had to do a fair amount of research just to figure out how to write about it for this sermon.

            I am guilty of it in respect to my black brothers and sisters. I am aware of issues of inequality, and I don’t like it, and occasionally I’ll make a nod toward it in a sermon or in conversation, or read a

book on the topic, but I’ve not joined a protest myself, or made any extra effort to build relationships with people who are affected by the injustice. I can pat myself on the back for what little efforts I have made, but I cannot say I have had true compassion for these people, true willingness to suffer with them. I am willing only to spare some scraps from my table.

            I am even guilty of this sin, and I think we all are, with people we encounter every day. I saw a meme recently on Facebook that said something like, “You have no idea of someone else’s struggles. Can’t we just be kind?” But how often do I, or you, look at someone – the way they look or talk or act – and make assumptions about them, without having any clue what makes them look or talk or act that way? We are quicker to judge than we are to try to understand, try to have true compassion, try to truly see someone for exactly who they are and what they have to offer this world.

            Understanding and compassion and truly seeing – these things are all so hard. How can we possibly see everyone and everything? Well, we can’t. We can’t throw our whole selves into every situation in which there is suffering. Even just dedicating our energies to one issue about which we are especially passionate can be incredibly draining. We can only do our best, and sometimes even that doesn’t seem to be enough.

But where I find hope is in knowing that even though we humans cannot see and know every person who struggles, there was one human who could, and did – one human who was also divine – and that is Jesus Christ. How remarkable that decision seems in light of this parable: that is, God’s decision to have compassion for us, to suffer-with us, to come down to earth to know us and hear us and see us and experience with us some of the very difficult things we experience. How remarkable – indeed, how life-giving! – it is to know that we have a God who loves and cares about us enough to give us more than mere scraps from the table, more than leftovers. We have a God who gives us everything we need and more, gives us “the life that really is life.” May we take hold of that life, and use it to reach out in life-giving love and compassion to Lazarus, to those around us who suffer, that they, too, might know such life.

            Let us pray… Compassionate God, there is such need around us in the world, so many people longing to be seen and heard and known and loved. Grant us the strength to have compassion for them, to offer them more than mere scraps, so that we all might know and understand the life that you offer. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.