Crossing the Chasm: From Complacency to Compassion

September 26, 2025

Crossing the Chasm: From Complacency to Compassion

September 28, 2025

Opening Thought

Since moving into a loft downtown, my perspective on our city has completely shifted. I used to drive in for work, sealed in the bubble of my car, passing by the vibrant, complex life of the city without ever truly being a part of it. Now, my commute is on foot, and every day I walk the same sidewalks to work, to home, and to restaurants, encountering the same familiar faces from all walks of life. This daily proximity forces a connection, in the best possible way.

There are days, of course, when the human impulse is to look away or walk a little faster, to think, "I just don't want to deal with this person today." But living this way reminds me that perhaps God puts these people in our path for a reason. I feel more connected, a part of something greater, because I'm reminded daily that I am no better than any one of these people. We are simply sharing this sidewalk, this city, this world together.

This experience of intentionally crossing the small, daily chasms that can separate us is precisely what this Sunday's lessons call us to confront on a spiritual level. They ask us to consider the eternal consequences of the chasms we allow to form and to ask a difficult question: who is the Lazarus at our gate, and are we truly seeing them? As we prepare to hear these challenging words, may the music of our liturgy be a guide, opening our ears to hear and our eyes to see.

Engaging the Word

Our journey into the Word begins with the blistering prophecy of Amos (6:1a, 4-7). He issues a stark "Woe!" to the "complacent in Zion," painting a vivid picture of a ruling class lost in luxurious self-indulgence. They lie on ivory couches and feast on the finest foods, all while remaining utterly indifferent to the "ruin of Joseph"—the moral and social collapse of their own people. Their comfort has made them blind to the suffering right in front of them.

Jesus takes this prophetic warning and gives it a human face in the unforgettable parable from Luke (16:19-31). We meet the rich man, clothed in purple and fine linen, and Lazarus, the poor man covered in sores, who longed for the crumbs from the rich man's table. The rich man is not condemned for being actively cruel; he is condemned for his complete indifference. He simply does not see Lazarus. In the afterlife, a "great chasm" is fixed between them, a chasm that was not created in death, but was merely solidified—it was the same chasm the rich man refused to cross every single day on Earth.

After these two powerful warnings, 1 Timothy (6:6-19) arrives as the pastoral antidote. The author warns that the "love of money is a root of all kinds of evil," but also provides a clear path forward for those with resources. The charge is not to renounce wealth, but to use it for God's purposes: "do good, to be rich in good works, generous, and ready to share." By doing so, they store up "the treasure of a good foundation for the future," actively building a bridge across the chasm of indifference.

Finally, Psalm 146 provides the ultimate context. It calls us to put our trust not in mortals or earthly wealth, but in the Lord. And who is this God? One who "executes justice for the oppressed," who "gives food to the hungry," and who "watches over the stranger." The psalm paints a portrait of the God we are called to imitate—a God who always sees, and always acts for, the Lazarus at the gate.

A Journey in Song: Our Musical Guides

Our music this week guides us through this difficult terrain, from acknowledging the cry of the poor to finding our safety in God alone, and finally, to kneeling in humility before the God of all.

Our liturgy begins with an Opening Voluntary that immediately sets the theme. Herbert Howells' Psalm-Prelude is based on the poignant text from Psalm 34:6: "This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles." This is not a grand, triumphant piece; its musical character is one of searching, plaintive, and quiet intensity. The melodic lines rise and fall like a troubled breath, capturing the vulnerable, intimate cry of the psalmist. Howells uses rich and sometimes ambiguous harmonic language, creating a feeling of uncertainty and deep yearning that perfectly mirrors the desperation of the 'poor man' at the gate. The theological impact is profound. Before a single word of the liturgy is spoken, the music places us directly in the position of Lazarus. It centers our focus not on the comfort of the powerful, but on the desperate cry of the marginalized, reminding us from the very first note that God’s ear is always tuned to the needy.

The Entrance Hymn, "All praise to thee, for thou, O King divine" (#477), calls us to orient our allegiance correctly. In a world that tempts us to trust in wealth and status, this hymn proclaims Christ as the one true King, whose reign is built on service and sacrifice, not on the ivory couches of the complacent.

As we prepare to hear the Gospel, the Sequence Hymn, "Help us, O Lord, to learn" (#628), becomes our plea for understanding. We ask God to help us learn the lessons of his holy Word, a necessary prayer before we face the profoundly challenging parable of the rich man and Lazarus. It is a prayer for open eyes and receptive hearts.

Sung after the sermon, "God is love, let heaven adore him" (#379) acts as a profound theological response to the Gospel's challenging narrative. Its incredible text offers the perfect antidote to the Rich Man's cold indifference. Where the rich man failed to see Lazarus, the hymn proclaims a God who "enfoldeth all the world in one embrace" and holds "every child of every race." Most powerfully, it paints a picture of divine empathy: "And when human hearts are breaking under sorrow's iron rod, then we find that selfsame aching deep within the heart of God." This is the very compassion that bridges the chasm. The hymn reminds us that even when "blindness sin afflicts all human life," God's loving-kindness still holds us, providing the model of the relentless, empathetic love we are called to imitate.

The Anthem, "Lead me, Lord" by Samuel Sebastian Wesley, is the prayer of a soul seeking to avoid the rich man's fate. The text, "Lead me, Lord, lead me in thy righteousness, make thy way plain before my face," is a plea for God to show us the path of compassion we might otherwise miss. It redefines security, stating that it is God "only, that makest me dwell in safety," not our wealth or our gated homes.

At the Eucharist, the Communion Hymn, "Let us break bread together on our knees" (#325), becomes the physical embodiment of the Gospel's solution. At the communion rail, all earthly status disappears. There is no rich man or poor man, only children of God kneeling together in humility to receive the same gift of grace. It is here that the chasm is bridged.

Finally, the Post-Communion Hymn, "Ye holy angels bright" (#625), sends us out with a vision of heavenly praise. It calls on the entire created order to praise God, lifting our focus from our earthly anxieties to the joyful, just, and eternal reality of God's kingdom, where every voice is heard and every need is met.

A Closing Note on Our Journey

The lessons this week are a profound call to awareness. The great chasm is not a feature of the afterlife, but a choice we make in the here and now. We widen it with every act of willful blindness and every moment of comfortable complacency. But we can also begin to build a bridge, one small act of seeing at a time, one shared moment on the sidewalk. This week, let us pray for the grace to see the Lazarus at our own gate, and for the courage to cross the chasm with love.

A Prayer for the Week Ahead

Let us pray for the Church and for the world.

For the Church, that it may be a prophetic voice against complacency and a beacon of hope for the poor and the oppressed,