September 28, 2025
Sermon for the Sixteenth Sunday after Pentecost
St. Mary’s Barnstable
The Rev’d Michael J. Horvath
Gospel: Luke 16:19-31

There was a rich man, Jesus says, who dressed in purple and fine linen and feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table. That’s how the story begins. A rich man, a poor man, a gate between them. And in just a few words Jesus sets the stage for a story that has echoed down through the ages and still stings us today.

I find it almost unbearable how familiar this story feels. We don’t have to stretch our imaginations to see Lazarus lying outside the gate. We walk past him. We scroll past him. He stands at the intersection holding a cardboard sign. She’s sitting in a tent on the edge of town because the rent went up and the paycheck didn’t. He’s picking through the trash behind the restaurant hoping for leftovers. We know Lazarus. We know him far too well.

And we know the rich man, too. Purple and fine linen were the symbols of wealth and status in Jesus’ day. The rich man is not an abstraction; he is alive and well in the United States of America. He is also, if we’re honest, sometimes us. Maybe not with the kind of wealth that makes headlines, but compared to most of the world, we are the ones feasting. We are the ones with gates that close and locks on our doors.

And that’s where the sting comes in. Because this isn’t just a story about one man’s greed and another man’s suffering. It’s a story about the chasm between them. The gate. The barrier. The separation that keeps Lazarus out of sight, out of mind, while the rich man eats his fill.

Jesus says that when they both die, the fortunes are reversed. Lazarus is carried to Abraham’s side. The rich man ends up in torment. And the chasm remains—but now it’s fixed forever. “Between you and us,” Abraham says, “a great chasm has been fixed.” What was once a gate that could have been opened has become a canyon that cannot be crossed.

And that’s the heart of the parable: the choices we make now, in this life, about how we live with wealth and poverty, about how we see—or refuse to see—our neighbors, shape not only our lives but our souls.

In the United States, the chasm is real. It’s not just metaphor. The disparity of wealth is staggering. The richest 1 percent hold more wealth than the entire middle class combined. We live in one of the wealthiest nations in history, and yet people sleep on sidewalks, work two or more jobs and still can’t afford groceries, are one medical bill away from bankruptcy. We know Lazarus by name. We know him because he is in our towns, our schools, sometimes even in our pews.

And yet we also know the temptation to look away. We build our gates out of busyness, out of fear, out of politics, out of excuses. We tell ourselves, “Well, I worked for what I have,” or, “They should try harder,” or, “It’s too complicated, I can’t fix it.” And all the while Lazarus waits at the gate, sores untreated, stomach empty, dignity eroded.

What’s most striking to me in Jesus’ story is that the rich man isn’t condemned for some act of violence. He doesn’t beat Lazarus. He doesn’t chase him away. He simply ignores him. He lets him lie there, day after day, and does nothing. The sin isn’t cruelty. It’s indifference.

And that’s where it cuts deep. Because so much of our national life is built on indifference to Lazarus. We tolerate hunger, homelessness, crushing medical debt, underfunded schools; we tolerate the fact that some receive medical care and some do not, and we tolerate that certain people can be detained and deported simply because of the color of their skin, because we’ve learned to look away. We’ve built a culture that numbs us with entertainment and consumption so that we don’t have to sit with the discomfort of seeing Lazarus at the gate.

But Jesus won’t let us off the hook. This story is a warning. The chasm that we allow to grow in this life will not easily be undone in the next. “They have Moses and the prophets,” Abraham says. In other words, we’ve already been told what God asks of us: to do justice, to love mercy, to walk humbly with God. The prophets cry out over and over about the danger of exploiting the poor and ignoring the needy. We don’t need more proof. We don’t need miracles. We just need to listen.

And if we listen, we might discover that the life God intends for us is not a gated feast for a few but a shared table for all. The kingdom Jesus proclaims is one where Lazarus doesn’t beg for scraps but sits in honor. One where we don’t measure success by how much we keep but by how much we give away.

That’s the reversal Jesus is always pointing toward. The first will be last, and the last first. The hungry filled, the rich sent away empty. The mighty cast down from their thrones, the lowly lifted up. It’s not punishment for punishment’s sake. It’s God setting the world right. It’s God tearing down the gates and filling in the chasms so that we can finally live as the human family God created us to be.

But here’s the hard truth: that vision doesn’t happen automatically. It requires us to see Lazarus now. To open the gate now. To challenge the systems and habits that keep wealth concentrated in a few hands while millions suffer. To resist the temptation of indifference.

And it requires us to tell the truth about ourselves. Because as much as we may identify with Lazarus at times—feeling vulnerable, excluded, broken—we also live as the rich man. Most of us are not billionaires, but most of us live in comfort that others only dream of. We have food security. We have access to healthcare, even if imperfect. We have education, opportunities, safety nets. That doesn’t make us villains, but it does make us responsible. To whom much is given, much is required.

So what do we do? We start by seeing. By paying attention to Lazarus. By refusing to walk past him at the gate. By building relationships, not just charities. By advocating for policies that close the wealth gap, that make healthcare and housing and education accessible. By asking how our church, our community, our own lives can become places where the chasm narrows, not widens.

And this is where I think the Episcopal Church – and St. Mary’s in particular – has something unique to offer. Our tradition has always insisted that the Eucharistic table is not a private banquet but a foretaste of God’s kingdom where all belong. That means our life together is meant to bridge the very chasms this parable warns us about. We are called to be a community where Lazarus is not left at the gate but welcomed in, where divisions of wealth and class and politics and race lose their power. Where we move from being served to serving others.

I saw a glimpse of that just last week, when St. Mary’s opened its doors as a vaccination clinic. People were welcomed here, no questions asked, no gate keeping—just the simple truth that health and life are gifts meant to be shared. That kind of active, caring love gave me goosebumps and made my heart swell as I watched you all come and go for your shots. That may not solve all the problems of our world, but it is a real sign of what the Church can be: a place where barriers fall, where care is extended to all, where we live as if the kingdom Jesus described is already breaking in. There’s a lot that needs doing and that needs our hands and feet and hearts. 

And we remember that this is not just about duty. It’s about joy. The joy of a table where all are fed. The joy of a community where no one is forgotten. The joy of life with God, where the gates are thrown open and there is room enough for everyone.

And I love how Paul puts it in his letter to Timothy: “Take hold of the life that really is life.” That’s such a good phrase. Because we all spend a lot of energy chasing things that look like life but don’t quite deliver. You can’t stream your way into real life on Netflix. You can’t Amazon Prime it in two days with free shipping. You can’t even buy it with a Megabucks lottery ticket—though some of us keep trying! Real life is found in generosity, in community, in breaking down the gates that divide us.

And maybe that’s the gentle humor in Jesus’ parable, too – the rich man spends all his days feasting, surrounded by luxury, but in the end the one who looks most alive is Lazarus, carried to the heart of God.

So let’s not wait until the chasm is fixed. Let’s cross it now. Let’s open the door now. And let’s not get complacent and say “Oh someone else will do it,” or “We already do enough.” This world needs you – no matter your skills, your age, your abilities – this world needs you.

Let’s see Lazarus now, not as a stranger but as a brother, a sister, a neighbor, a child of God. Because in the end, that’s who we all are – children of the same God, invited to the same feast, called to the same joy.

Amen.