In Luke's gospel, Jesus tells a moving story. There was a beggar named Lazarus who lived in the streets. He was hungry and his legs were covered with sores. Living opposite him in a beautiful house was a rich man who used to give big parties for his friends. Lazarus would have liked to eat some of the crumbs that fell from his table but the dogs ate them up. One day Lazarus dies and went to the place of peace in the "heart of Abraham". The rich man also died and he went to the place of torment. Looking up he saw Lazarus radiant with peace and he cried out: "father Abraham, please send Lazarus down to put some water on my lips for I am in pain!". Abraham responded: "It is impossible, between you and him there is an abyss that nobody can cross". He could have added: "Just as there had been an abyss between you and him during your life on earth."
This story of Lazarus tells us a lot about today's world, where there is a huge abyss between those who have food, money and comfort and those who are hungry or have no place of their own. I remember seeing children in Calcutta with their nose glued to the window of a luxurious resaturant. From time to time the doorman would shoo them away. The rich -and that includes me and many of you who are reading this book- do not like to see dirty beggars starring at them. Haven't we all felt embarassment and fear in front of those who are hungry?
One day in Paris, I was accosted by a rather dishevelled woman who shouted at me: "Give me some money!" We started to talk. I learned that she had just come out of a psychiatric hospital; I realised quite quickly that she had immense needs and I became frightened. I had an appointment and I didn't want to be late so I gave her a little money and went on my way, just like the Pharisee and the Levite in the Gospel parable of the Good Samaritan. I was frightened of being swallowed up by her pain and her need.
What is this abyss that separates people? Why are unable to look Lazarus straight in the eye and listen to him.
I suspect that we exclude Lazarus because we are frightened that our hearts will be touched if we enter into a relationship with him. If we listen to his story and hear his cry of pain we will discover that he is a human being. We might be touched by his broken heart and by his misfortunes. What happens when our hearts are touched? We might want to do something to comfort and help him, to alleviate his pain, and where will that lead us? As we enter into dialogue with a beggar we risk entering into an adventure. Because Lazarus needs not only money but also a place to stay, medical treatment, maybe work, and, even more, he needs friendship.
That is why it is dangerous to enter into relationship with the Lazaruses of our world. If we do, we risk our lives being changed.
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Why do the rich and powerful -you and I in short- fear so much the Lazaruses of our world? Is it not because we are frightned of having to share our wealth, frightened of losing something. It is easy to give a few coins to a beggar, it is more difficult to give what is necessary to maintain our own standard of living. We feel so inadequate in the face of poverty. What can we do to change so many seemingly impossible situations? When I rushed away from that woman in Paris who had just come out of a psychiatric hospital, it was because I did not really know what to do, what was appropriate, I had this fear of being sucked into a vortex of poverty. To be open is an enormously risky enterprise; you risk status, power, money, even friendships, the recognition and sense of belonging that we so prize; you risk the chaos of loneliness.
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I am not suggesting for a moment that each one of us must welcome into our homes all those who are marginalised, I am suggesting that if each one of us, with our gifts and weaknesses, our capacities and our needs, open our hearts to a few people who are different and become their friends, to receive life from them, our societies would change. This is the way of the heart.
Boy does that hurt! Boy does that hit so very f***ing close to home! At the same time, Vanier's words are incredibly gentle and fall like water on the parched land of my soul.
Vanier echoes my own sentiment in that recent post, in which I oscillated between feeling some pride for obviously being the nice girl in the story, but also an intense shame. I think Vanier is right in associating the guy who gives out a few coins with the Pharisee and the Levites. There is no openess. There is even less compassion. Just the desire to walk away. I felt like the parable's bad guy, maybe rightly so. The following bit of text -my own blog entry- is just plain embarassing...
I always liked the story of the rich man and Lazarus in Luke 16. What I liked about it was that it was really scary, with all that sending the rich guy down to a hell-like place and all that. I liked Jesus's harshness in that story. I thought that if Jesus was prepared to use that kind of language he must have meant business. I thought that what seemed like a doom-and-gloom threat of hell was indeed a gift. A forceful way of saying: "Look, just freaking do it. There are not that many passages in the Gospel that are as scary as that one, just walk that road NOW, trust me on that one".
Fairly pleased I was too. I may not always behold the pearl of great price but at least I know where to look. Do your works of mercy to the absolute best of your ability and understanding, pray like a madwoman and then, well, then just wait. You're in for the best ride and the greatest happiness available to humans, be ready to fall on your face and cry for joy once in a (okay long) while.
But beyond that thinking about the tone of the story, I forgot the story of Lazarus and the rich man at pretty much Sunday school level. The rich guy is an idiot, I thought, why didn't he set up a direct debit to the Red Cross of his time? Why didn't he just send someone to give Lazarus a sandwich once in a while? That was just beyond comprehension.
If I encounter someone on the street, I'm pretty good at giving out change, £20 bank notes sometimes, cigarettes, buying Big Issues and what not. I might even go for a meal and a couple of pints if I've got time. But I'm so emotionally unavailable I'm not sure it's helpful. This is a matter for this evening only. I won't give you my phonenumber, I won't friend you on facebook, I don't want to take responsibility for more than my 45 minutes of availability, which really is not availability at all... It's pretty horrible, once you look into it.
Because at the end of the day, my real friends are a very select group of people I like, preferably former valedictorians, well-read, gentle, and damn clever.
This is only just starting to shift. And there is the catch. Jesus' harsh words are truly a gift because, no matter how many progressive books you've read, those crappy prejudices don't begin to shift until you get on with doing your works of mercy with thankfulness and humility. It doesn't even really matter what your motives are, they can be self-seeking as as all f***. Join any organisation you respect and do what it is they do with them. Just do it, zip it, and wait.
