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Some of us are old enough to remember the old Cat Stevens' tune, "Father And Son." That song, as you might recall, is in the form of a dialogue. The father speaks first and tries to share with his son some of the wisdom he's gained from his years of living. He says that it's not yet time to make a change, relax, and take it easy. Perhaps the son ought to look for a wife.

The son, in the next verse, responds that his father is more interested in talking than listening. Dad then replies with his same message: don't make changes, take life more slowly, get married, settle down, blah, blah, blah.

In the last verse, they both sing -- at each other. Neither is listening to the other. There is a great chasm between the two of them. A great emotional distance had developed between the father and the son in the song.

This father and son had grown far apart and even though each of them had much to teach the other, neither one could really hear the other because they were too busy trying to make their point. That song gets me to thinking of all the relationships where we experience such distances. There is often distance between parents and kids to be sure; but also there is sometimes a divide between us and our neighbors, other church members, or people of different political parties or religions. Lately, the distance between people who differ in one way or another has grown to such a degree that in some cases we are no longer able to hear each other and are no longer are able to learn from each other, and sometimes, we no longer treat each other as a brother or a sister.

During a presidential campaign a few years back I was late for an appointment in part because the interstate was filled with police both in cars and on overpasses. I mentioned this when I arrived twenty minutes late and said I thought it was because a certain candidate's motorcade was using that route. When I said that there were police with rifles on some of the overpasses my acquaintance clapped his hands and asked gleefully, "Did they get him?" I could not speak. I was astonished at what this man thought passed as a joke. I wondered if the distance fostered by the nature of the political discourse in this country had brought us to a point where this was supposed to be funny. My friends, the distance between us has grown too great.

That, I think, is the point of the parable of the rich man and Lazarus at least for me today. It is, among other things, a story about distance. The rich man lived the good life while Lazarus lay at his gate, covered with sores, fending off the wild dogs, and starving because he didn't even get the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table. When the two die the poor man is swept away by the angels to the bosom of Abraham while the rich man is tormented in Hades. The rich man begs Lazarus to dip his finger in water and come over to quench his thirst. But this cannot be done since there is now a great distance between them, a chasm, not unlike the abyss that existed between them while they were living.

So the rich man begs Abraham to send Lazarus to his brothers and warn them to change their ways -- to not treat their fellow human beings the way he did; to stop putting distance between themselves and those in need. But Abraham refuses. They had their chance (just like the rich man) since they had the teachings of Moses and the prophets. Heck, they wouldn't even be convinced if they were to be told by someone who rose from the dead!

Stories like this often show a reversal of fortunes; rich in this life -- poor in the next; poor in this life -- rich in the next. But if we focus only on this we'll miss a major point. The problem for the rich man is not that he is rich. Most of you would agree that there's nothing inherently wrong with being rich. The problem is that even though he cannot leave his own gate without tripping over the suffering Lazarus, he does nothing to help him -- he ignores him. He is blind to his misery.

The chasm, the great distance between the rich man and Lazarus began in this life by the rich man's indifference to the suffering of Lazarus. That is his sin. Moses and the prophets, time and time again, speak about our responsibility for the poor, the orphaned, and widowed. This particular rich man, while not creating a physical distance between himself and Lazarus (although he may have wanted to) created an emotional one. He simply appeared not to care about what happened to the man who was lying at his gate. He stepped over him and went on about his business. That is the rich man's sin. He created the distance, the chasm that followed him even into the afterlife.

What is remarkable to me is not that we see such examples of inhumanity -- it is that we find places, like many of our churches, where we work so hard to see that it does not happen. We're not perfect -- we fall short from time to time -- but we get up and try again and again. We strive to keep our eyes open to those who are struggling and to see that the distance between people inside the church and outside the church, for instance, are not made greater but are made less and less.

There are so many needs; so many Lazarus' laying at our gates that it would be easy to have compassion fatigue. Hurricane victims, flood victims, devastating earthquakes, school children in Liberia, or that neighbor of ours living in the shadow of the shopping mall with not even the money needed to buy decent clothes for his boys. Yet, we seem to say, even though there is physical distance between us that we might not be able to lessen, there is not going to be emotional distance -- not on our watch. We will not stop caring even if we feel that the help we are able to give seems like too little, too late.

While none of us can help each and every cause that presents itself at our gate, we can and do help as many as we are able. When one member stood in the back of church a few weeks ago and held up a plastic glass asking for help for a good cause, she actually had to turn away contributions. Tertullian, one of the early church fathers once wrote, "He who lives only to benefit himself confers on the world a benefit when he dies." Now that's right to the point, isn't it?

We know better than to live a life that only benefits our families and ourselves. We realize that part of the reason we are here is to benefit the larger world, to change the world, to help those in need by seeing them as our brothers and sisters and not just sore-covered annoyances lying at our gates.

Likewise, unlike some other places in the world, we work to be civil in our discussions of issues that have divided other houses. People on all sides of the issue have talked calmly and thoughtfully about the ordination of openly homosexual men and women, and even over issues in unbelievably contentious presidential elections. While strong feelings are present on all sides, we have found ways to stay connected with each other, to not think or act in terms of them and us.

This parable, then, is not simply a story about how we are to care for those in need, it is a story that reminds us we are all connected, and we should do all in our power to stay that way and not step over the other and pretend they don't exist or don't matter. For there are consequences when we aren't connected. Not just at the end of our days as this parable illustrates, but now, right here there can be severe consequences when we distance ourselves from our brothers and sisters. Still, by opening our eyes, and coming face-to-face with those we might have avoided in the past, we can change at least ourselves.

A few weeks ago, our congregation took our turn cooking and serving a meal for about 125 folks downtown. A dozen people arrived early to help prepare barbequed chicken and other fixings, set the tables, and otherwise get things ready so that we could feed people who would no doubt be hungry as it was the end of the month.

Sure enough, this week's meal was no different. Some of our congregation arrived early and attended a prayer service upstairs and when they finished and the doors opened, our guests streamed in. Our youth worked hard and when it came time to serve the family-style meals they jumped right in, served the food, filled their glasses, talked with the neighborhood children, and enthusiastically handed out dessert at the end of the meal. We were nervous that we hadn't prepared enough, but somehow, some way, no one went home hungry, and those with small children took with them some milk and a few meals of leftovers.

We always feel like we've done something that has a real, if brief, impact on that neighborhood, and I'm always interested in watching your reactions and especially those of the children, who serve for the first time.

That evening as the meal came to an end I walked outside to talk with three of the people who had just eaten. I asked if they got enough. "Best meal I've had in weeks," one said.

"My wife cooked it," I said proudly, patting my belly and immediately feeling embarrassed since not one of the three was anything but skin and bones.

"You're a lucky man!" he replied and I thought, he's right, I really am a lucky man.

We talked for a little longer and then I asked, "So ... where do you guys live?" They stared at me and then looked back and forth at each other with little grins on their faces. I suddenly got it, "Oh my ... you're ... you're homeless!" They just nodded. I tried to recover from my faux pas and asked them how they did it ... how did they live on the streets? Where did they eat? How did they stay safe?

"You have to have at least some money. Where do you get it?" I asked.

"At the exit ramps around town. We hold up signs."

"Do people really give you money?"

"Some do. Some act like they don't see us." They began to laugh and one pointed to the woman and said, "When she's on my exit ramp holding her sign that says, 'Homeless' I stand on the other side of the ramp with a sign that says, 'She ain't homeless but I am.' "

It was getting late and the pastor came out and said she would be giving them a ride. "Where? Where are you going?" I asked, hoping it was to a shelter somewhere nearby.

"You've never been there. Down by the river if the cops haven't moved the camp."

They thanked me again for the meal and for talking with them and then left with the pastor. I went back downstairs to finish with cleanup and then drove home. All the way I thought about our conversation and how the one guy looked so familiar. I was almost home when it dawned on me where I had seen him before. He had been at the exit ramp I took on my way there, holding a cardboard sign that said he was homeless. Only a few hours earlier, he had been an anonymous homeless person holding a ratty-looking brown cardboard sign that I only caught out of the corner of my eye as I tried to make my way through the light before he could rap on my window and ask for money.

I wonder what I'll do the next time I see someone with his or her cardboard sign. Will I help to satisfy his hunger with what falls from my table? I wonder.

I still don't know this man's name but in my prayers each night I call him Lazarus.

I find that I have tried to make two points; that's never a good idea in a sermon but that's the way it goes sometimes. One point is to remind us to care for the Lazarus' of the world and the other point is that the same distance that sometimes keeps us separate from a Lazarus can separate us from each other, and we must not let that happen. In the kingdom we are to nurture our relationship with Lazarus and with each other. I pray that I will always have the courage to narrow the chasm that exists between you and me and Lazarus. And I pray that you will as well. Amen.