Somewhere in the memories of my childhood Sunday School class there is a painting of the Rich Man and Lazarus. I remember the rich man sitting at a table and under the table were two dogs and a man…Lazarus. Now, I always had Lazarus under that table with those two dogs until this Sunday when my painting was repainted by scripture. This past Sunday I read, “There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and lived in luxury every day. At his gate was laid a beggar named Lazarus, covered with sores and longing to eat what fell from the rich man’s table. Even the dogs came and licked his sores.”
Lazarus is not under the table. He is laid outside the Rich Man’s gate. He can’t manage to even touch any crumbs. His hunger is far from being satisfied…he longs for the food that falls out of his reach somewhere beyond the gate.
It was much worse than my childhood mind constructed in those early years…he was far from help, BUT help was close to him. The rich man knew his name because he uses it later on in the story. The rich man had passed by him…saw him…heard him…smelled him…noticed him….knew him….and did nothing. Nothing.
Now I ask….
Who is my Lazarus? Where is the soul that longs to eat from my table? Who is outside my gate?
Who do I pass by?
Who do you pass by?
My Nutty Notes
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