ALL SAINTS SUNDAY

Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18

Psalm 149

Ephesians 1:11-23

Luke 6:20-31

Prayer of the Day: Almighty God, you have knit your people together in one communion in the mystical body of your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Grant us grace to follow your blessed saints in lives of faith and commitment, and to know the inexpressible joys you have prepared for those who love you, through Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever.

^“God put this power to work in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church, which is his body, the fullness of him who fills all in all.” Ephesians 1:20-23.

The “power” of which Saint Paul speaks, the power that raised Jesus from death is love. God’s power is God’s refusal to be drawn into the vortex of retribution that has drawn humanity into orgies of bloodshed since the dawn of time. God loves the world, even when it goes off the rails. God loves the world, all of it. God loves the arctic regions newly opened to the fossil fuel industry crying, “Drill, baby, drill” with the rapist’s grin on their faces. God loves rivers choked with industrial sludge, lakes dead from acid rains and oceans plagued with floating islands of plastic. God loves animals and plants on the brink of extinction whose preservation is deemed economically unfeasible. And God loves God’s human creatures responsible for so much of this planet’s misery, creatures who, when offered the most precious gift God had to give, nailed him to a cross. In response to the crucifixion of Jesus, God did not retaliate. Instead, God raised up the crucified and rejected Son and offered him back to the same creatures that rejected him. Vengeance, wrath and retaliation are not God’s way. Neither are they the way of Jesus’ disciples.

Our gospel lesson for All Saints Sunday spells out with unmistakable clarity what sainthood looks like. Jesus calls upon his disciples to exercise the same love for their enemies God exercises toward the world that rejected the Son. “But I say to you who are listening: Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who mistreat you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also, and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt.” Luke 6:27-29. The way of Jesus reflecting the power of God does not look anything like power as we understand it. Mao Tse Tung once said that “All political power comes from the barrel of a gun.” That is not far from the American Marvel Comic book mythology animating so much of our thinking about conflict and the way it must be resolved. It underlies the uniquely American gun fetish and a growing conviction on the part of so many that our fellow citizens are all potentially hostile, our neighbors cannot be trusted and our government and laws are incapable of protecting us.  

In their recent book, The Myth of the American Superhero,[1] John Shelton Lawrence and Robert Jewett argue that, in a culture that doubts the integrity and ability of its government and institutions to achieve justice, people are naturally drawn to the uniquely American “monomyth.” This “monomyth” supplies the underlying plot for stories about heroes who must take the law into their own hands in order to rid a community of evil. The world of entertainment is laced with such monomythic tales. We find them in the oldest black and white westerns that feature a virtuous gunslinger riding into town to rid the populace of a criminal gang neither the law nor the courts can handle. The same basic plot can be found in such productions as the Star Wars movies in which “jedi knights” with superhuman powers and a code of law all their own rise up to destroy an evil empire that has usurped the powers of the old republic. The most insidious element of this myth is the unspoken and unquestioned assumption that, when all is said and done, evil can only be eliminated by violence.

That assumption shapes the prevailing understanding of God in much of American religion. The god we meet in much of white evangelical religion is an angry, controlling and violent tyrant with an anal preoccupation with sex. This is a god who damns to hell a loving same sex couple while blessing a politician who works to deprive millions of needed healthcare. This is a god who cares more about his picayune rules than about the people he supposedly created. Because this god is toxically male, it comes as no surprise that he wants men to be in charge and women to submit. For the god of American evangelicalism, the cross is not sufficient. This god must come back at the end of time with military like fire power to beat the world into submission in a final cosmic battle. This is a violent god that appeals to violent people. As the poet remarks, “Give us burly gods to pummel the world and us.” I do not know whether people become mean, bigoted and hard hearted because they worship such a god or whether the god they worship is merely a reflection of their own hateful souls. Either way, this god is not the God and Father of Jesus Christ we meet in our lessons for this Sunday.  

In a culture with such a distorted understanding of who God is and that is spiraling ever deeper into violence, in a culture where mass shootings are weekly occurrences, civil war rhetoric is becoming mainstream and law enforcement increasingly unrestrained by legal limits, I believe sainthood must take the shape of radical pacifism. Our bishops need to be saying with clarity that no disciple of Jesus has any business owning or carrying a weapon, the one exception being those serving in the military or law enforcement.[2] We need to ensure that our sanctuaries, offices and events are weapon free zones. Our churches need to be challenging police violence, use of the military against our citizens and using the “war on drugs” as a pretext for military attacks on unarmed foreign ships in international waters. More than this, we need to be prepared to practice hospitality and offer sanctuary to victims of our government’s violent and ruthless immigration policies. That might place us in legal jeopardy-or worse. But love that is grounded in the love of our God who put the life of the Son on the line requires nothing less.  

Here is a poem by Father Daniel Berrigan with an expression of such faith and the difficulty of hanging onto it.

Astonishment

Source: Selected & New Poems, (c. 1973 by Daniel Berrigan, pub. by Doubleday & Company, Inc.) pp. 133-134. Daniel Berrigan was born May 9, 1921, in Virginia, Minnesota. He entered the Jesuit novitiate at St. Andrew-on-the-Hudson, New York in August 1939 and graduated in 1946. Thereafter, he entered the Jesuit’s Woodstock College in Baltimore graduating in 1952. He was ordained the same year and appointed professor of New Testament studies at Le Moyne College in Syracuse in 1957. Berrigan is remembered by most people for his anti-war activities during the Vietnam era. He spent two years in prison for destroying draft records, damaging nuclear warheads and leading other acts of civil disobedience. He also joined with other prominent religious figures like Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, the Rev. Richard John Neuhaus and the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. to found Clergy and Laity Against the War in Vietnam. In February of 1968 he traveled to North Vietnam and returned with three American prisoners of war he convinced the North Vietnamese to release. Berrigan died on April 30, 2016 of natural causes at a Jesuit health care facility in the Bronx. He was 94 years old.

[1] Lawrence, John Shelton and Jewett, Robert, The Myth of the American Superhero (c. 2002 Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co.)

[2] This is in accordance with the “Just War” doctrine held by most orthodox churches. I have long expressed my doubts about this particular teaching which I believe to be contrary to the gospel. I would welcome serious dialogue within the church concerning its legitimacy. That being said, the church would do well in standing by the doctrine’s insistence that pacifism is the default position of Christians in face of the American assumption that gun ownership and the use of guns for self defense is a sacred right.   

TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST

Jeremiah 14:7-10, 19-22

Psalm 84:1-7

2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18

Luke 18:9-14

Prayer of the Day: Holy God, our righteous judge, daily your mercy surprises us with everlasting forgiveness. Strengthen our hope in you, and grant that all the peoples of the earth may find their glory in you, through Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord.

“Have you completely rejected Judah?
    Does your heart loathe Zion?” Jeremiah 14:19.

Jeremiah has good reason to wonder whether God might finally have given up on Judah and Israel. He witnessed the demise of the brief revival of his nation under King Josiah following the monarch’s untimely death. He witnessed the destruction of Jerusalem, the burning of its temple and the exile of so many of his fellow Judeans. Jeremiah was also acutely aware of his nation’s unfaithfulness to God’s covenants with it. He saw its kings routinely disregard protections for the poor written into the Torah. He saw Judah and its leaders repeatedly put their hope for survival on alliances with imperial powers and their gods at the price of crushing tribute falling chiefly on the backs of those least able to bear its weight. Jeremiah had every reason to suspect that, by now, God had had enough. He had every reason to believe that the people of Israel would henceforth be on their own.

But Jeremiah could not give in to this terrible fear, however plausible it might have been. Note well that his words are not those of a despondent cynic sitting alone on a park bench muttering to the wind. Neither is he speaking to some nameless, faceless deity on grounds of divine justice-as though it were self evident that God, if such a being really exists, owes him an ordered, just and predictable universe. Jeremiah’s words are addressed to the God of his people Israel, the God of the covenant. Under the terms of that covenant, God made specific promises to Israel. Though Israel may have been less than faithful in its own covenant responsibilities, God is not thereby excused from God’s obligations. Jeremiah knows that his God cannot renege on the covenant promises. That is not because of any limitation on God’s divine power. God cannot abandon Israel because God’s essential nature is faithfulness. If God were to break God’s promises to Israel, God would not be the God that God has always revealed God’s self to be. God must honor the covenant promises in order to be true to God’s self. Therefore, Jeremiah can pray with confidence,

“Do not spurn us, for your name’s sake;
    do not dishonor your glorious throne;
    remember and do not break your covenant with us.” Jeremiah 14:21.

I find that immensely comforting. As much as I love the church, I have been deeply wounded by it, disappointed in it, frustrated with its shortsightedness, enraged at its timidity in the face of evil, its blindness to the suffering on its doorstep and its indifference to the cries for justice, mercy and peace from the world around it. There are times that I, too, wonder whether God is ready to give up on a church that often looks little like Jesus, whose Body it is supposed to be. As I have witnessed the decline of the church in this country over the decades of my life, I have wondered at times whether we are experiencing God’s judgment on our many failures. Perhaps God is washing God’s hands of the whole ecclesiastical project.

Still, however tempted I might be to give up on the church, I find it impossible to give up on my baptismal covenant which, whether I like it or not, binds me to the church. During those times in my life when the covenant seemed most frayed and likely to break, there has always been some saint whose witness convinced me to remain. At times when church life seemed most petty, mean and shallow, there was always some event, some small expression of kindness, courage and faith that caused me to doubt my doubts about the presence of Jesus in his church. So, like Jeremiah, I cling to the covenant for dear life, because I know deep down that there is no life for me outside of it.

This month, the Spirit gave me one of those rare faith saving assurances. It came in the form of a letter from the bishops of my Evangelical Lutheran Church in America to the church:

Beloved in Christ,

Grace and peace to you in the name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

As bishops of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA), we write to you in this moment of national and global tension with clarity and conviction. Our faith compels us to stand where Jesus stands—with and for those whom society often seeks to exclude, erase, or diminish.

Our shared confession that every person is created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27) grounds us in the conviction that all people possess inherent dignity. The incarnation of Jesus Christ reveals God’s profound solidarity with humanity—especially with those who are marginalized or oppressed. The gospel we proclaim insists that our neighbor’s need is the occasion for our love and that our public life is shaped by justice, mercy, and a commitment to the common good.

Further, we have a shared tradition in our social teachings which grounds us. The ELCA’s Social Message on Immigration reminds us:

“We are to respond to newcomers as we would to Christ—welcoming them, meeting their immediate needs, and advocating for justice in our laws and policies.”

Likewise, our recently adopted Social Statement, Faith and Civic Life, affirms that Christians are called to be “a public witness, holding leaders accountable when they fail to protect the vulnerable.”

We are living through a time when vulnerable communities are being scapegoated and attacked. Immigrants and refugees are vilified, though Scripture commands us to welcome the stranger. People of color continue to bear the devastating weight of racism woven into the fabric of our society. Transgender people, beloved by God, are being targeted with laws and rhetoric that deny their dignity and even their right to exist. These assaults on our siblings are not political abstractions—they are deep wounds in the body of Christ.

In this time of division and fear, we, as people grounded in our faith, insist on love. This commitment flows from our faith in Christ crucified and risen—the One whose love breaks down barriers, confronts hatred, and transforms hearts.

Love insists on the dignity of every human being.

Love insists on justice for the marginalized and oppressed.

Love insists that the church must reflect God’s diverse, life-giving community. Love insists that we listen, speak, and act with respect, even in disagreement. Love insists on hope, trusting that God’s kingdom of justice and peace will prevail.

This love also compels us to speak clearly against Christian Nationalism, which our Churchwide Assembly named as a distortion of the Christian faith and an unhealthy form of patriotism. Christian Nationalism confuses the Gospel with political power, turns God into a mascot for the state, and privileges some people over others based on race, religion, or birthplace. This is not the way of Jesus. The kingdom of God is not a nation, not a culture, not a political ideology—it is God’s reign of love, justice, and mercy for all people.

Therefore, as bishops of this church, we declare that the ELCA cannot be silent. Our call is clear:

• To proclaim the God-given dignity of every human being.
• To resist systems and ideologies, including Christian Nationalism, that oppress, dehumanize, or erase.
• To stand shoulder to shoulder with those who are targeted or harmed.
• To bear public witness that the love of Christ is stronger than fear, stronger than hatred, and stronger than death.

We call on all members of the ELCA to join us in prayer, advocacy, and action:

• Pray for those who are vulnerable and for all who work for justice.
• Advocate in your communities, legislatures, and Congress for laws that protect migrants, advance racial justice, and safeguard LGBTQIA+ people.
• Engage in the holy work of hospitality, creating spaces of safety, affirmation, and belonging for all God’s children.
• Model respectful dialogue in a polarized world, seeking understanding rooted in love.
• Hold fast to hope, trusting that the Spirit is still at work renewing creation and reconciling the world to God.

In baptism, we are marked with the cross of Christ forever. That cross is not only a sign of our hope—it is also a summons to follow Jesus into solidarity with those who suffer.

In the power of the Spirit, let us be bold. Let us be faithful. Let us insist on Love—in our words, our actions, our public witness, and our life together.

I have long hoped for just such a bold statement of faith for these dark times. See, e.g., A Barmen Declaration for our time? This letter gives me reason for hope. I hope that this letter will be more than just another social statement. I hope that what we read in the text of this letter will make its way into the preaching within our congregations. I hope that our members will carry it into their family gatherings, into the barbershops, bowling alleys, hair salons, book clubs, back yard barbeques, classroom discussions, chat groups and everywhere else people gather. I hope that my church will not have to issue yet another statement of apology a generation from now for its failure to stand up for immigrants ruthlessly deported for lack of “documentation,” for people of color brutalized by our government’s ruthless efforts to rebuild the structures of Jim Crow, for the persecution, slander and violence committed against transgender persons and whatever other victims the present American regime consigns to the netherworld of “the least” among us. I hope that enough of us have learned the lessons of our failed past to avoid repeating it in this present moment God has given us for witness and service.

No, God has not rejected the church and never will. The question always is whether the church will, for the sake of peace in the ecclesiastical household, reject the peace God desires for the world that comes only through the doing of justice. History does not paint a hopeful picture. But the good news of the gospel is that history is not the final word. The past need not bind the future.   

Here is a poem by  CAConrad on the forward direction of hope.

Slaves of Hope Live Only For Tomorrow

Source: PoetryNow, 2015, (c. 2015 by CAConrad) CAConrad (b. 1966) is an American poet, professor and author. Conrad identifies as Queer and uses the pronouns they/their. They were born in Topeka, Kansas and grew up in Boyertown, Pennsylvania. Their mother was a fourteen-year-old runaway and their father was a Vietnam War veteran. They were bullied as a child and stated in the feature film documentary, The Book of Conrad (2015), “People called me ‘faggot’ more than they called me my name.”

Conrad was a 2014 Lannan Fellow, a 2013 MacDowell Fellow, and a 2011 Pew Fellow, they also conduct workshops on (Soma)tic poetry and Ecopoetics. Their book While Standing in Line for Death won a 2018 Lambda Book Award; their Amanda Paradise: Resurrect Extinct Vibration received a 2022 PEN Oakland – Josephine Miles Literary Award. In 2022, they were awarded a Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize for lifetime achievement in poetry. Conrad currently teaches poetry at Columbia University and the Sandberg Art Institute in Amsterdam. You can read more about CAConrad and sample more of their poetry at the Poetry Foundation website.

SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER PENTECOST

Amos 6:1a, 4-7

Psalm 146

1 Timothy 6:6-19

Luke 16:19-31

Prayer of the Day: O God, rich in mercy, you look with compassion on this troubled world. Feed us with your grace, and grant us the treasure that comes only from you, through Jesus Christ, our Savior and Lord.

 “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” Luke 16:31.

To understand this parable of Lazarus and the rich man, you have to rewind to the first chapter of Luke in which Mary the mother of our Lord declares:

“[God] has shown strength with his arm;
    he has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
   He has brought down the powerful from their thrones
    and lifted up the lowly;
   he has filled the hungry with good things
    and sent the rich away empty.” Luke 1:51-53.

The great reversal, the casting down of the wealthy and powerful with the exaltation of the poor and oppressed foretold by Mary is graphically portrayed in this parable. The rich man who feasted sumptuously every day and lived his life in luxury is cast down to hades. Lazarus, the poor man who lay sick, hungry and ignored at the rich man’s gate is in the company of Abraham. Nevertheless, the rich man still does not understand what has happened. Even in hades, he still imagines he is a big shot. He still thinks he can hobnob with Father Abraham. He imagines Lazarus is still his “boy” who can be ordered to fetch him a drink or run errands for him. Not that he deigns to speak directly to Lazarus. That would be beneath him. Instead, he tells Abraham to communicate his orders. The great reversal has come, but this dolt didn’t get the memo. The rich man in this parable is dumb as a bag of hammers.

The rich man’s particular kind of stupidity is known as “privilege.” He assumed that he was entitled to all that he had.  Perhaps, like many of us, he worked hard to amass the wealth he enjoyed throughout his life. He probably supposed feasting sumptuously every day was his right. In his view, he was under no obligation to share his hard earned wealth with anyone. He could, of course, choose to be charitable. So whatever scraps he threw from his table were more than was required of him and more than Lazarus deserved. Lazarus owed the rich man a debt of gratitude for whatever he was given, but the rich man owed Lazarus nothing.

But that is not the way it works, according to Abraham. The disparity reflected in the relationship between the rich man and Lazarus was destined to be reversed. Now that it has occurred, there is no going back. Abraham tells the rich man that “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.” Luke 16:26. To be clear, God is not responsible for that “great chasm.” The rich man dug that trench all on his own. It began the first time the rich man set eyes on Lazarus-and quickly averted his gaze. It got deeper every time the rich man’s limo passed Lazarus without so much as slowing down as he sat at the entrance of his gated community. In the new age, the chasm he built is still there, but the rich man is now on the other side of it.

I do not believe this parable invites metaphysical speculation about the afterlife. It is not really about the afterlife. It is very much about here and now. Jesus’ prophecy has come true with a vengeance. Just as the words of Moses and the prophets demanding justice for the poor failed to move the hearts of the rich man and his family, so too those words have failed to close the gaping chasm between the few wealthy and the many impoverished around the globe today. Lazarus still lies at our southern border, in the wreckage of Gaza and in overcrowded refugee camps the world over. He can be found sleeping in public parks, begging for food in front of our shopping centers and sleeping under a cardboard box-all for which he could well be arrested in many of our cities. Privilege, however, blinds us to their presence and hardens our hearts to their pain. It enables us to feast sumptuously in blissful disregard for those longing for our plate scrapings.

Most of us do not think of ourselves as privileged and probably take offense at the very notion that we might be. On one level, I don’t view myself as privileged. I was one of four children born to a blue collar worker with only a high school degree. I was able to attend college largely because my parents made it a priority in their financial planning. For that reason, we never saw Disney World. We drove used cars and had a black and white TV that could be seen only at night when it was dark outside and we turned out the lights. When the clothes dryer broke down, we didn’t replace it. Mom used the clothesline when weather permitted and packed us kids into the car and drove down to the laundromat when it didn’t.

With support from Mom and Dad supplemented by on campus jobs, I completed college and seminary. When I resigned from my first parish to attend law school, I attended a state school because that is what we could afford. When I graduated and began interviewing, I had no relatives in the practice of law or any connections that many of my classmates had. I had to get interviews on the strength of my resume and my law school record. I was hired by a firm for a summer position only and worked my tail off to earn an offer to become an associate. I worked my way into partnership during my eighteen years before leaving the practice of law to return to ministry. So am I not rightly insulted by any suggestion that I am privileged?

Actually, no. The truth is, I have benefited from many layers of privilege. In the first place, I had the good fortune to be born at a time when the economy was much kinder to men like my father. Dad was able to get a job at the Puget Sound Naval Ship Yard where he began as a shop worker. There he gained a number of skills that enabled him to advance to higher levels of pay. By the time he reached retirement age, he was a competent draftsperson able to secure a higher paying job in the private sector. Though his salary at the Ship Yard was modest, it was sufficient to support his family and allow my mother to stay at home with us kids during our formative years. Mom went to work during my teenage years, thereby supplementing the family income and enabling my parents to finance college for all four of us kids. Opportunities for unskilled high school graduates today are far less plentiful. For the most part, it is unrealistic to expect that such a person will land a job with a salary capable of supporting a family.

Second, I am white. The opportunities available for my parents were scarce to non-existent for people of color in the 50s and 60s. Consequently, their children, my contemporaries, were at a severe disadvantage when it came to employment, home ownership and opportunities for higher education. For those who were able to overcome these obstacles, the professional terrain was anything but friendly. When I interviewed, I never had to worry about what my potential employer might be thinking about my skin color, accent or background. I never had to worry that an interviewer might assume that I was a “DEI” law school student or that I was somehow less capable. When I was practicing law, I did not have to worry that a corporate client might not want me on the case due to “demographic” concerns or because I did not “fit in with the rest of the team.”[1]

Third, I am male. I did not have to worry that my clothing might be “too provocative,” my demeanor too meek for the practice of law or too “bitchy” for the tastes of a male dominated firm. I never had to worry about what I would do if valuable clients or senior partners tried to “hit on” me. I did not have to negotiate pregnancy or balance infant care with job responsibilities. I did not have to work overtime to prove that I was just as capable as any man to practice law and just as tough as any male litigator. I entered into what was, and to a large extent still is, a man’s world as a man.

Finally, I am straight. Though society has become increasingly accepting of same sex couples and even transgender folk, it was less so during my professional life. We still have a long way to go today and, I might add, a good deal further than I once hoped. In the corporate world, image is important. Companies fear ramifications of being represented LGBTQ+ folk and law firms are therefore reluctant to hire them. In sum, I have benefited enormously from my status as a white, straight male. Yes, I ran the race hard and steadily to arrive where I am. But there is no denying that I had a gigantic head start. For that reason, I cannot deny that I am privileged.

I hope that the church is finally coming to the conclusion that, if we are to make meaningful progress bridging the gap between ourselves and Lazarus, we need to dismantle privilege in all its forms. If there is any good news in this parable, it is that things need not be as they are. We are the ones who dug that horrible chasm plunging so many into misery and we are also capable of filling it, redistributing the world’s bounty in an equitable fashion and ending the curse of poverty. We are in the position of the rich man’s brothers. There is still time for us to hear the words of Moses and the prophets. Unlike them, we have been warned by One who rose from the dead.   

Before we can call the world to repentance on this score, however, we need to address privilege within our own ecclesiastical ranks. Like the rest of the United States, our churches are infected with the belief, sometimes subconscious and sometimes overt, in white supremacy. People of color entering our churches face awkward stares, inept efforts at welcoming and microaggressions that strike like a metal fork on a chalk board. We (and I include myself in this “we”) need to come to grips with the mythology of the white man’s “discovery” of this land, his “civilization” of the wild frontier and “exceptionalism” attributed to the United States has shaped our teaching, preaching and practice.

Our churches have made numerous attempts to address racism, including extensive anti-racism training events, educational initiatives and discussion forums. While I don’t fault these programs, I am not convinced they are as effective as we might have hoped. For one thing, they tend to draw mainly those already converted. For another, they produce little in the way of action. I would propose that, rather than hoping for radical change through a gradual process of education, let us educate by proposing concrete action. I made a modest proposal for such action some time ago in my Open Letter to the ELCA Presiding Bishop and Synodical Bishops: A Modest Proposal for Reparational Tithe. With the notable exception of one of our synods, the proposal was ignored. I am hopeful that, with the election of a new presiding bishop, our ELCA will take a fresh look at the potential for making meaningful reparations for what we have publicly confessed to be complicity in our nation’s racial injustice.

I believe that systemic changes are essential. These involve more than just moving around the bureaucratic furniture. Perhaps the most urgent need for change is in the way we train and prepare pastoral leaders. If we really want the inclusive church we keep talking about, then I believe we must find a better model than the standard four years of college followed by three years of seminary training with a year of internship thrown in. College has been put cruelly out of reach for all but well-heeled families of the upper middle class. Adding three years of seminary on top  of that along with the prospect that there may be few churches able to employ a pastor full time makes the call to ministry a strain even for these families. Just what shape future training for ministry should take is beyond the scope of any article such as this. Suffice to say, the present system is a roadblock for all but the privileged and ultimately unsustainable in any event.

Needless to say, Jesus’ parable confronts us with the stark reality of our privileged life and forces us to confront the price our neighbors on the other side of the divide must pay for us to enjoy it. There are those who would tell us that wealth and poverty have characterized our existence from the beginning of time and there is nothing we can do to change it. Moses, the prophets and, most importantly, Jesus tell us otherwise. Seeing Lazarus is perhaps the first step toward the kind of compassion capable of bridging the chasm dividing him from us. Here is a poem in which poet Denise Levertov truly sees the poor and the difficulty of their lives.

The Wealth of the Destitute

Source: Poems 1972-1982 (c. 1975 by Denise Levertov, pub. By New Directions Publishing Corporation, 2002) Denise Levertov (1923–1997) never received a formal education. Nevertheless, she created a highly regarded body of poetry that earned her recognition as one of America’s most respected poets. Her father, Paul Philip Levertov, was a Russian Jew who converted to Christianity and subsequently moved to England where he became an Anglican minister.  Levertov grew up in a household surrounded by books and people talking about them in many languages. During World War II, Levertov pursued nurse’s training and spent three years as a civilian nurse at several hospitals in London. Levertov came to the United States in 1948, after marrying American writer Mitchell Goodman. During the 1960s Levertov became a staunch critic of the Vietnam war, a topic addressed in many of her poems of that era. Levertov died of lymphoma at the age of seventy-four. You can read more about Denise Levertov and sample more of her poetry at the Poetry Foundation Website.

[1] In the corporate world, nobody ever explicitly discriminates on the basis of race. But when terms like these are used, we all knew what they meant.