There was a rich woman who was dressed in Banana Republic and carrying a Thirty-One bag who feasted sumptuously every day.
And each day she got into her Prius and left her comfortable home in suburbia and drove past Lazarus.
She passed by Lazarus, a child in the projects receiving a crap education in a poor school district. She pitied Lazarus. But not enough to vote for education reform. Not enough to blame anyone other than the child's parents, who were also raised in the projects. Who were also given a crap education and no chance or money for college. Not enough to blame anyone other than his mother with her high school education working two jobs and statically doomed to make 64 cents to every dollar a white male makes. Yes, she pitied Lazarus. But not enough.
And she passed Lazarus in the prison cell where he, in her opinion, sat rightfully awaiting his death sentence. Without thought to the possibility of human error in the justice system, without thought of mercy, without thought of the right to life, without second guessing whether or not humanity has the God-given right to take a person's life, she had no pity for Lazarus. She didn't think of
Christ's direction to visit those in prison. John the Baptist, St. Peter, and St. Paul in prison did not cross her mind. And she passed by Lazarus, thankful that he was locked away, saying, "Good. He got what he deserves."
And on her way home stood Lazarus with a cardboard sign, a cardboard sign of lies perhaps. But, nevertheless, there he was day after day. She felt a pang of guilt as she passed him by and debated whether or not to give him a hand out. But, there-in was her problem. Why should this man get a hand-out? She had to work hard to get where she was in life. No one gave her any hand outs. She saw not her white privilege or access to good education and health care. She thought not of all of the great jobs given to her because she knew someone and had connections. She thought not about the edge that money had always given her - the extra curricular activities her parents were able to put her in, the theater tickets they were able to purchase, the good health care, and the opportunities afforded her due to her relative wealth compared to that of Lazarus. She thought not of these things. In fact, none of them even occurred to her as "hand-outs" or "coddling" or even help. They didn't occur to her at all. Instead, she readjusted her air conditioner, turned up the radio, and compared herself to those with more than she. She thought only of those with more money, more expensive cars, bigger homes, and finer clothes.
They were rich. She wondered how Lazarus always managed to find a Sharpie. Working to not meet his eye, she shook off her smidgen of guilt and passed him by.
Later that evening Lazarus set plates of steaming hot food before the woman's family. She never met her waiter's eyes, choosing instead to simply bark orders, never thanking him or acknowledging his existence, his humanity. No tip was left because of his "poor service" and she left the restaurant shaking her head and chatting with her husband about the fact that "no one knows how to work hard any more these days." She then went for a manicure where Lazarus carefully polished her toenails. She once again never looked into his face, choosing instead to talk on the phone, complaining to a friend about border control, "them", and finally, the sheer volume of toys she had to purchase for her children for Christmas this year.
Lazarus, covered with sores,
longed to satisfy his hunger with even what fell from the rich woman’s table. At night the stray dogs would come and lick his sores.
The poor man died and after an unnoticed government cremation was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham.
The rich woman also died and was buried with no expense spared.
The city mourned the loss of such an advocate for the poor and neglected. The rich woman's fundraising galas would not be missed for long, a new rich woman would soon step in to take over throwing expensive parties to raise funds for the disenfranchised.
In Hades, where she was being tormented, the rich woman looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side.
Still seeing Lazarus as one beneath her, she 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.”
She 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.” She said, “No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.”
He said to her, “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets,
neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”
That's how I read this story in Luke. And I can envision endless versions of Lazarus... which is why the story of the rich man and Lazarus scares the shit out of me.
