Amos 6:1, 4–7; Luke 16:19–31
If you missed it, some Christians spent the first part of last week preparing for “the Rapture” which was supposed to have happened on Tuesday. Videos were posted of excited believers talking about getting their affairs in order, sharing their plans for their property and pets, in the event that they get swept up in the sky to meet Jesus, leaving all non-believers on earth to suffer tribulation.
This wild belief we call “the rapture” didn’t come from any responsible interpretation of scripture, but from a vision of a young Scottish woman named Margaret McDonald who, in 1830, dreamed about people flying away to heaven to escape hell on earth. Her dream was shaped by preachers who taught that the world’s problems were just too great, too hard, too much for human beings to solve.
That dream later made its way into the Scofield Study Bible, then into movies and novels like The Late Great Planet Earth and the Left Behind series, and of course, into pulpits across America. Though based on a gross misreading of scripture, it is often preached as gospel truth, terrifying folks into “getting saved.”
Before I was baptized when I was eleven, I remember lying awake worried I’d wake up to find that my parents had been raptured away, leaving me behind to raise my little brother and sister. However, I did take some comfort thinking that since Nana and Granddaddy didn’t go to church, and granddaddy drank beer, maybe they’d still be around to take care of us.
Another teaching that haunted me as a child came from Jesus’ parable of “the Rich Man and Lazarus.” I can still see myself on those hard wooden pews as preachers painted vivid pictures of the flames of hell. If I didn’t “get saved,” they said I would one day gaze into heaven from my eternal home in hell, begging for a sip of water.
The message was clear: unless I walked down that aisle, I would either die and suffer forever in hell, or be left behind after the rapture to suffer the tribulation.
Notice what both teachings did. By telling us that faith was about escaping suffering, they took all the focus off addressing the suffering and pain of this world. They made us forget that Jesus actually taught us to live a way of love that relieves suffering here and now. They drained away any responsibility we might have to work in our broken world for justice, peace, and mercy.
And maybe that was the point, the whole scheme all along. Because following Jesus is not easy. Following Jesus means helping people like Lazarus. Following Jesus means always standing in solidarity with the poor and marginalized. Following Jesus means challenging systems of greed and injustice that keep some people feasting while others starve. And that is much harder than saying a quick prayer to escape hell.
But the gospel was never intended to be an easy way out. The gospel has never been about escaping suffering. On the contrary, the gospel has always been about suffering with and for the poor, because it is good news for the poor. It is liberation for the oppressed. It is God’s vision of justice, mercy, and peace on earth. It is repenting from fear, selfishness, and greed to embrace love, selflessness, and generosity.
Let’s return to the parable. An unnamed rich man dressed in purple feasted every day. At his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, longing for crumbs. Even the dogs showed him more compassion than the rich man.
When both die, Lazarus is carried into Abraham’s bosom while the rich man suffers torment. But notice that, even then, the rich man doesn’t repent. He still treats Lazarus as a servant: “Send him to me with some water.” “Send him to warn my brothers.” He never once says, “I am sorry for ignoring Lazarus. I am sorry for building a gate to shut him out. I am sorry I closed my eyes to his suffering.”
There is no repentance. Only entitlement.
And Abraham’s reply is devastating: “They have Moses and the prophets. If they will not listen to them, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”
That’s the tragedy of this parable. It’s not simply about torment after death. It’s about the refusal to listen and to change. People can hear the prophets, even witness resurrection, yet still cling to greed and selfishness. People can be easily brainwashed into thinking that faith is about saving themselves, not about transforming the world.
And so today, many have been brainwashed by preachers, politicians, and propaganda machines into believing the gospel has nothing to do with loving Lazarus at the gate, nothing to do with compassion for immigrants, nothing to do with healthcare, housing, or hunger, nothing to do with injustice. “Just say the ‘sinners’ prayer,’ secure your ticket, and let your neighbor take care of himself.”
But Jesus says otherwise.
Through this parable, Jesus is giving the same warning Amos gave centuries before:
“Woe to those at ease in Zion. Woe to those who lounge on ivory couches, who eat lambs from the flock, who drink wine by the bowlful, and anoint themselves with the finest oils, but are not grieved over the ruin of the nation.”
Amos saw people living in luxury while their neighbors suffered. Jesus saw it too: a rich man feasting while Lazarus starved at his gate. Both are indictments of those who refuse to listen and change.
And this is not just ancient history. This is us.
Today, we live in a society where billionaires launch rockets into space while children go to bed hungry. Wine is consumed by the bowlful while communities like Flint and Jackson are poisoned by contaminated water. People recline on ivory couches while their neighbors suffer.
And today, we see friends, neighbors, even family so brainwashed by lies that nothing can change their minds. Someone could shoot a man on Fifth Avenue, and they still wouldn’t change.
Behind the gates of fascism today is Lazarus. Lazarus is our LGBTQ neighbor under attack by lawmakers and preachers who twist scripture into a weapon.
Lazarus is the immigrant locked in detention centers, or drowned at sea, while politicians build careers on cruelty.
Lazarus is the scientist and teacher defunded and mocked so that ignorance can rule.
Lazarus is the journalist, librarian, or truth-teller threatened for speaking up.
Lazarus is the Black and brown neighbor targeted by violence and mass incarceration.
Lazarus is the Palestinian neighbor starving in the rubble of Gaza.
Lazarus is always the poor—always—while the rich anoint themselves with oil.
And churches are complicit by clinging to a false gospel of escape-from-it-all.
Preach healthcare as a human right and you’ll be told, “That’s socialism.”
Preach feeding the hungry and you’ll hear, “That’s enabling laziness.”
Preach racial justice and they’ll say, “That’s too political.”
They’ll say anything to avoid listening and changing. “Just focus on getting people ready for eternity!” they’ll say.
But Jesus says: that’s not the gospel. The gospel is about loving Lazarus at the gate. The gospel is not about escaping hell. The gospel is about making life less hellish now. The gospel is about God’s kingdom coming on earth as it is in heaven.
And let’s be honest: being told you are wrong is tough to hear. It’s hard to confront our comfort, our privilege, and our complicity. It’s hard to admit, “I was wrong. I shut my gate. I ignored Lazarus.”
But that’s the hard and narrow way of the gospel. The good news is not escape from this world. The good news is that God is redeeming this world, and invites us to hear that news, to repent and to join. The good news is that Jesus has already crossed the great chasm to bring heaven’s love into earth’s suffering. The good news is that resurrection is real, that life can triumph over death, love over hate, justice over greed.
The gospel is more demanding than the sermons that once terrified us, but it’s also more beautiful. For it’s not about fear. It’s about love. It’s not about escape. It is about engagement.
It is about getting up from our couches of comfort and walking out to the gate where Lazarus is lying. It is about opening the gate wide and saying, “You are not left behind. You are not forgotten. You are my neighbor, and I am called to liberate you, to love you.”
The gospel calls us to open the gates of our churches, not just for Sunday worship but for Monday mercy and Tuesday justice, everyday peace-making. The gospel calls us to open the gates of our politics, our budgets, our neighborhoods, so that the poor are lifted, the hungry are fed, the sick are cared for, the oppressed are liberated.
This is not charity. This is not pity. This is gospel. This is resurrection life breaking into a world addicted to death and people addicted to an easy way out.
Our scripture lessons present us with a choice. Will we sit behind our gates, pretending nothing can change? Or will we rise to the call of Amos, of Jesus, of the resurrection itself?
The world is aching today for a church that will live the gospel. The world is waiting for Christians who will trade their rapture charts for justice marches, their escape plans for solidarity plans, and their fear of hell for the hard work of making life less hellish for Lazarus at the gate.
The Spirit of God is calling us right now to repent of selfish religion and embrace liberating love. To turn from the false gospel of escape and to embrace the true gospel of engagement.
The Spirit is pleading with us to listen. Listen to Moses and the prophets. Listen to Amos crying out from the marketplace. Listen to Jesus telling of Lazarus at the gate. Listen to resurrection itself”
“Don’t harden your hearts! Don’t cling to selfish religion! Don’t mistake fear for faith!”
For there’s no problem in the world too great, too hard, or too much for the disciples of the Christ!
Because here’s the promise: if we choose love, if we listen, if we take Lazarus’ hand at the gate, we will find God already there, already at work, already making all things new.
So, disciples of Christ:
Let’s open the gate!
Let’s step through the fear!
Let’s take Lazarus’ hand!
And let’s walk together into God’s new creation!
For the good news is this:
God is making all things new.
And God is calling us, here and now, to join in that work.
Amen.
Pastoral Prayer
God of all nations and peoples,
we gather today with hearts full of both gratitude and grief.
We give thanks for life, for breath, for the gift of community.
We give thanks for beauty—in the turning of the seasons,
in the laughter of children, in the resilience of your people.
Yet, we also bring to you our burdens.
We pray for those who are sick and struggling,
for those who carry heavy grief,
for those living with fear, with hunger, with loneliness.
We pray for communities torn apart by violence and war,
for families separated by borders,
for the earth groaning under fire, flood, and storm.
God, we confess how easy it is to turn away from pain,
to shield our eyes from suffering,
to harden our hearts to injustice.
But you have called us to love our neighbors as ourselves.
You have called us to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with you.
So today, O Lord, give us the courage to see as you see,
to love as you love, to live as your children, bound together in one human family.
Where there is despair, make us bearers of hope.
Where there is hatred, make us instruments of peace.
Where there is apathy, stir us to act with compassion.
We offer all our prayers—spoken and unspoken—in the name of the One who came that we might have life, and have it abundantly,
Amen.
Pastoral Prayer
God of all nations and peoples,
we gather today with hearts full of both gratitude and grief.
We give thanks for life, for breath, for the gift of community.
We give thanks for beauty—in the turning of the seasons,
in the laughter of children, in the resilience of your people.
Yet, we also bring to you our burdens.
We pray for those who are sick and struggling,
for those who carry heavy grief,
for those living with fear, with hunger, with loneliness.
We pray for communities torn apart by violence and war,
for families separated by borders,
for the earth groaning under fire, flood, and storm.
God, we confess how easy it is to turn away from pain,
to shield our eyes from suffering,
to harden our hearts to injustice.
But you have called us to love our neighbors as ourselves.
You have called us to seek justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with you.
So today, O Lord, give us the courage to see as you see,
to love as you love, to live as your children, bound together in one human family.
Where there is despair, make us bearers of hope.
Where there is hatred, make us instruments of peace.
Where there is apathy, stir us to act with compassion.
We offer all our prayers—spoken and unspoken—in the name of the One who came that we might have life, and have it abundantly, Amen.
Invitation to Communion
Beloved, this table is not a table of ivory and luxury—it is the table of Christ.
Here, there is no rich man and poor man, no gate to divide us, no crumbs and banquets—only bread broken for all, only a cup poured out for all.
At this table, Lazarus is lifted up, the hungry are filled, and the comfortable are called to share.
Here we taste a different kind of feast—the feast of God’s justice, the feast of Christ’s love, the feast that anticipates the kingdom where none are excluded.
Come, not because you want to be fed, but because God calls you to be transformed.
Come, for all are welcome.
Invitation to the Offering
In the parable, the rich man ignored Lazarus at his gate. At this moment, Lazarus is still at our gate—in our neighborhoods, in our city, in our world.
Our offering is not a transaction. It is an act of resistance. It says we will not be numb. We will not pass by. We will not close our eyes to suffering.
Through our gifts, we choose to see Lazarus, to love Lazarus, to stand with Lazarus.
Let us give, then, not from ease or obligation, but from compassion, solidarity, and joy in God’s vision of justice.
Benediction
Go forth, people of God,
not with a gospel of escape,
but with the good news of engagement.
Go forth, to open the gates,
to love Lazarus at the threshold,
to stand with the poor, the silenced, and the oppressed.
Go forth, to listen to Moses and the prophets,
to follow Jesus in the way of love,
to live resurrection life in a world addicted to death.
And as you go,
may the God who makes all things new
strengthen you,
the Christ who crossed the great chasm walk beside you,
and the Spirit who will not be silenced empower you—
today, tomorrow, and forevermore. Amen.
Just Love 