Probability

Probability is playing the game, hedging one’s bets. We do things, gauging how much people will like what we have done, how successful we are, how much income it might bring us and all sorts of controls. It does not completely paralyse us as poverty may but it does clip our wings because we are too busy worrying about the outcome to allow ourselves to soar.

Long before she went off into an odd sort of mysticism, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross changed the way we accept hearing bad news, particularly that involving our death. She spoke of five stages, stages now that many wish they had never heard of! One of the stages in coming to acceptance with death is bargaining. Think of Faust, bargaining with the devil.

Sometimes people bargain because they think it will buy them time. They will bargain with God — Job’s friends figured he would, but Job knew that to do so would compromise his relationship with God. Jonah tries another tactic: he simply hedges his bets. By jumping on a ship, he thinks he can flee God. Eventually, when the ship is about to sink in a storm, he realizes that it probably is his presence that is causing the turmoil and offers to be cast overboard. He’s still betting though; maybe if he does this, he’ll be left alone. Even after getting swallowed up and spat out, he thinks he can escape God. We don’t know the end of the story; the parchment is damaged, but we do know that for all his gambling, Jonah ends up sitting under a shrub (ha qiqon, the only place where this appears), waiting for Nineveh to get its due. And when it doesn’t, he complains.

Another gambler, less directly is the rich man, sometimes called Dives.

[Luke 16.19-31]

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The story in this gospel reading can lead us off into many different directions — asking questions about the resurrection, justification by works, punishment for one’s actions on earth. Initially, I’d like to consider how it provides us an example of someone who bargains with God when it is too late. It is a cautionary tale at the least. Once we have looked at the bargaining aspects of the story, then we can move onto the effects of bargaining on our relationship with others.

The story of the rich man and Lazarus is another story that is unique to the Gospel of Luke, though this one has its roots in Egyptian and Jewish story-telling traditions. The rich man, often called Dives, from the Latin translation of the word, ‘rich,’ and the poor man, Lazarus, whose name in Hebrew means ‘God helps’ or ‘God provides’ are opposite characters both in life and in death.

The rich man is nameless in the story, which is remarkable since one would usually think that the rich would be famous and have a name… but not in stories of God’s kindom. The rich man feasts daily — truly an extravagance for the times. If you remember the story of the prodigal son, the father runs out and kills the fatted calf for him — even the wealthy saved up such bounty for special occasions. Yet the man in this story feasts every day. His purple robes and white linen clothes also signify extreme opulence (what I call ostentatious opulence — opulence that exists for the sole purpose of being seen): the dye for the purple robes came from snails (don’t ask me how that is done); and it is assumed that the linen clothing was the man’s underclothing. Not bad. Some people have nothing while others can afford expensive underwear.

In contrast to the rich man stands, or rather lies Lazarus. This contrast is a violent one, a harsh one. Lazarus, the one whom God helps, is the only person in all the biblical parables that has a name, no small detail. His name indicates someone dependent on God. In addition, his name suggests someone who, though unrecognised by people, is dearly known and loved by God. The name also sets up a poignant detail later: the rich man shows he knows who Lazarus is.

Lazarus is beyond being dirt poor. He lies at the rich man’s gate in the hopes of receiving food, mere table scraps. He is probably crippled and has literally been thrown down, cast down at the gate. The gate is high and ornate, almost like those gates which serve as entrances to cities, temples or palaces. Lazarus is not only crippled, he is suffering. And unlike the rich man who is clothed in sumptuous apparel, Lazarus is covered with sores. His situation is as desperate and tragic as the rich man’s is full and luxurious.

Lazarus has a basic desire — to eat — even the scraps of bread which, having been used as napkins to wipe one’s face and plate, are thrown on the ground. It is unlikely the rich man responded to Lazarus’ request.

To add insult, Lazarus has to endure wild dogs, curs, licking his wounds and sores. Again, this is not a gratuitous detail: Lazarus becomes unclean and in the Jewish system of the times, to be unclean meant to be out of place and unwelcome.

But nowhere in this sad description do we read of Lazarus attempting to bargain with God. There’s none of the psalmist’s if I suffer or go to Sheol, I cannot praise you, God, any more. Lazarus somehow endures gracefully.

Then Lazarus dies. There is no mention of burial. In lieu of that, the gospel states that Lazarus is borne up immediately by angels to Abraham’s bosom, a place of safety and protection and intimacy. Lazarus goes from being a lonely sufferer at the rich man’s gate to an accepted, blessed saint at the side of Judaism’s patriarch.

The rich man also dies. The rich man has a burial — to both Roman and Jew, a proper burial was imperative for respect and cleanliness. But in death, the rich man’s stature and wealth no longer count for anything. He is in Hades, the closest equivalent to the Hebrew, Sheol. The rich man looks up and sees Lazarus at Abraham’s side. Between the two groups is a chasm neither can cross.

Yet even in death, the rich man presumes his former status. For the first time ever, he really notices Lazarus, but his noticing him is only because he wants Abraham to send Lazarus with water. The use of Lazarus’ name in his appeal suggests that the rich man knew all along who he was, making his neglect of Lazarus even worse. The rich man asks for a drop of water, a request for something small, just as small as Lazarus’ requests for crumbs. But just as there were no crumbs for Lazarus, there will be no water for the rich man. The difference is the rich man has no hope of reversing his fortune. He has sealed his own fate by his actions.

Abraham’s response to him makes it perfectly clear. You are reaping what you sowed. You did not care for your neighbour while you were living. You are not condemned because you were rich but because you became indifferent to your neighbour. You ignored your neighbour, while squandering your God-given wealth on yourself.

And here is where he begins to bargain with God. He is so miserable, he sort of understands that something went wrong, enough that he wants God to send an angel to his brothers so that they do not befall the same fate. Maybe he is not bargaining for himself, but he sees that he bet and lost; maybe there is a way he can spare his brothers the same. This is when he learns that he is stuck. He lost his bet.

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We run the risk of being the rich man ourselves. We have God-given gifts and wealth. The question we must honestly ask ourselves is what do we do with this wealth? How do we use it? Do we hedge our bets? As Bishop Mary Adelia McLeod once reminded us, what is the first cheque we write each month? Is it to God or Mastercard? If we live with our fists tight, and our cards close to our chests, hedging our bets, how can we let God in then? Do we live in a circumscribed world where everyting is predictable and safe and no one is different? And then…

Have we ignored our neighbour or have we served our neighbour? And who is our neighbour? As Anglicans, we have sisters and brothers scattered throughout the world. As Anglicans, we are connected to them through our common belief in God (a belief that, as shown by the Lambeth Conference, varies widely in its expression throughout the world). We may never know our brothers and sisters face-to-face. In some ways, that makes it easier to ignore them in the way that the rich man chose to ignore Lazarus who lay at his gate. But to do so would be also to ignore the biblical imperatives, found in both the Hebrew and Christian portions of scripture, namely, to love our neighbour.

Who is our neighbour? This morning there are neighbours in Haiti and Chile who desperately need our help. Tomorrow, they may be on the other side of the world of street. (I took notice that BROC and The Bus did not get their requested amounts in Tuesday’s town day votes; you can bet we will see the fall out of that decision.)

They are the neighbours we sometimes would like to ignore because: ‘They are far away from us, they look different from us and they are poor,’ a state of being in which none of us really wants to be. Yet they are our brothers and sisters and we are called, as children of God, as children of the light, to respond to their needs.

Nelsa Curbela of Guyaquil, Ecuador wrote:

When you choose an ideology, you can fool yourself. When you choose the poor and are one of them, you can be sure you won’t fool yourself. The reading of history depends on the place in which we locate ourselves… And we locate ourselves in and with the poor, with the cultures that are oppressed but alive, like the yeast in the dough, like the seeds that tolerate the hot sun and the desert but are ready to germinate, to flourish and provide food with the first dew and early rain that nourishes them.

In other words, when we let go of our cards, open our heart, enter into a place where we can no longer control things, we find freedom even in poverty, even in probability. There is a French proverb which says: ‘When you die, you carry in your clutched hands only that which you have given away.’

In other words, those of hymn 9:

To give and give, and give again,
what God have given thee;
to spend thyself nor count the cost;
to serve right gloriously
the God who gave all worlds that are,
and all that are to be.

That truly is letting go of a bargaining stance, one based on probability.
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As a postscript, a slightly different approach to this question of probability, a non-bargaining approach is that of the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet and bathed them with her tears. She did so, not because she was trying to win his favour or pardon but because she wanted to. Somewhat problematic in our theology is the thinking: if I repent of my sins, God will forgive me. Would God never forgive me? Or is it more: If I don’t repent of my sins, I will never know God’s forgiveness which is already there? I go more with the latter thinking: God’s forgiveness is already there but we must have the disposition of heart to know to ask for that forgiveness. If we never ask, then we will never know God’s graciousness.

I can’t help but think that God desires us to let go of our fears which hold us, to stop calculating so that God can work freely in us.

But neither is probability the whole story. There is more….

Questions for second meditation

Where in your life have you taken a risk, gambled and lost?
Where have you held your cards close to your chest?
Where have you taken risks and not counted the cost?
Where was God in all this?

Readings for meditation: Luke 16.19-31; Matthew 26.6-13; Mark 14.3-9; John 12.1-8)