Guilt

 

Amos 6:1, 4-7

Luke 16:19-31

 

            I have an uncle who likes to joke that Lutherans are saved by guilt alone. According to his version of the doctrine under which he was raised, the guiltier you feel about what an awful person you were, the better Christian you are. Under this theology, the ultimate goal in life is to be as miserable as you possibly can. Then you can feel good about God saving you from that misery.

            Given that philosophy it any wonder that Lutherans have struggled with evangelism? “Come join us, we can have you on the road to absolute misery and self-loathing in no time.” That’s a tough sell. It sort of falls under the category of hitting yourself repeatedly with a hammer because it feels so good when you stop.

 

            The church has a long history of masochistic tendencies. Sometime in the Middle Ages, and perhaps even earlier, church leaders came up with an aggressive strategy for building the church: a strategy built on fear and guilt: “You are such worthless, evil, despicable creatures that you deserve to burn in hell, and that’s what you are going to do if you don’t shape up. You’re going to burn and burn for all eternity if you don’t toe the line and do exactly what we tell you to do.”

 

            It was effective. Guilt and fear are tremendous motivators. This strategy is still commonly used today. I get a lot of promotional material advertising stewardship campaigns that are based on guilt and fear. And do you know what? These kinds of programs tend to be very effective, at least in the short term. People who are racked with guilt and terrified by threats of torture tend to be pretty good givers.

 

            This story from Luke today, coupled with another shot to the midsection from the prophet Amos in our Old Testament reading, has provided some strong support for the “saved by guilt” theology.

 

            It is as stark and bleak and frightening a parable as you can find anywhere in the Bible. The main character is an unnamed rich man, a guy who lives in a mansion, dresses in clothes fit for royalty--the latest and most expensive styles. He not only enjoys fine dining, he has a feast catered in to his mansion every day.

            At his gate lies Lazarus. This poor guy has no place to live, nothing to eat. He’s so ravaged by disease that he is covered with sores, and he is so weak from hunger that he can’t even protect himself from the dogs that pester him. He stays by the gate because he has no where else to go. At least here he has a chance of getting enough scraps of food that fall from the rich man’s table to keep him alive.

            We then fast forward to the afterlife, where the tables are turned. Lazarus is now in a good place; he resides in heaven. The rich man finds himself in a place of torment. Just like Lazarus in the courtyard, the rich man is utterly miserable. And just like Lazarus, he asks very little. All he wants is for Lazarus or somebody to dip the tip of his finger in water and touch it to the rich man’s tongue to relieve the burning agony for just an instant.

            “No can do,” is Abraham’s cold response as he looks down from heaven. “You lived in luxury during your life while Lazarus was miserable. God insists on fairness, justice if you will, and in order for justice to be carried out, we’ve got to even things out. Sorry, buddy, what’s done is done. You made your bed and you’re going to have to lie in it.”

            “Can you at least send someone to warn my brothers so this won’t happen to them?” the rich man begs.

            “We’re way ahead of you,” says Abraham. “Already been done. All the warnings are right there in Moses and the prophets. If your brothers read their Bible, they’ll know all about this.”

            “That won’t do anything,” says the rich man. “Even if by some chance they read it, they won’t get it. You need something more drastic, more spectacular. Send someone from the dead to warn them. That’ll get them to listen.”

            “The warnings are there,” insists Abraham. “They couldn’t be any more plain or dramatic. If people won’t listen to them, they’re not going to listen to anyone, not even someone who has come back from the dead.”

 

            The lesson is clear, isn’t it? It makes all of us squirm with guilt. And it should.

 

            We can try to wriggle out of our discomfort by claiming that this rich guy is an incredibly bad person, with the sensitivity of a brick and not an ounce of human compassion. You can’t compare us to him. We are not like that, so this lesson doesn’t really apply.

 

            But Jesus has woven the story so tightly we can’t break ourselves loose. The rich man he describes is not a sociopath, he’s not evil—he has some very good qualities. How many of us would let a dirty, diseased beggar hang around on our property day after day? The rich man is kind enough to do that. He seems to show some compassion; after all, he is willing to let Lazarus eat the scraps from the table. I suspect he feels good that he’s able to do that much for the poor guy.

            In the end, the rich man shows himself to be utterly selfless. His final request is not for himself; it’s for others. Please, send warnings so that others don’t have to suffer the way I am. He’s trying to help, to save others. All in all, not that bad a guy.

            As far as we are told, his only sin is that he does nothing about injustice in the world around him. That fault is all it takes to condemn him to eternal misery.

 

            Mainline churches have been blistered in recent decades for perverting the Bible into something called the social gospel, instead of concentrating on the real mission of God: saving souls and making disciples. We are not of this world, goes the complaint. We’re here to preach Jesus because if they have him, that’s all anybody needs, so we ought to stick to that.

 

            Look again at this story. What was the rich man’s sin? Is he suffering in torment because of what he believed or did not believe about God? Is he there because he did not spread his religious doctrine? Is he there because he did not save Lazarus’ soul? He didn’t have to. God saved Lazarus all on his own. Lazarus’s name means “God is my help,” and that is just what has happened.

            In fact, there is one man in the story whose soul needs saving. One man in the story whose soul is lost. That is the rich man. There are others whose souls are at risk; those are the rich man’s brothers.

            In this story, the rich man’s soul cannot be saved. He lost his soul and he lost it for one reason only: he does nothing about injustice in the world. That sin is all it takes to condemn him to eternal misery. Or to be more accurate, his failure to address injustice is evidence that is soul is lost.

 

            This story scares Christians half to death, and with good reason. We know the situation in our world is alarmingly like the scene Jesus describes. We know that the world is filled with people who are starving, suffering from disease and deprivation. People who are abused and oppressed. There are countless places in the world where people who have no place to stay, no way to support themselves, are literally lying around, too sick and hungry to move, unable to defend themselves.

            And we know that’s not us. We know that we aren’t Lazarus in this story. By default, we’re the other guy.

 

            Although we complain about how tough we have it, and how we struggle to make ends meet, we never miss a meal. Every day we have an almost limitless choice of food we can eat. We have closets crammed with clothing. We sleep in warm beds, cool beds in the summer. We have enough gadgets to entertain ourselves 24 hours a day.

            Like the rich man of the story, we are not bad people. Like him, we have compassion for the poor. Each of us is happy to give away the scraps that fall from our table. We’re willing, even eager, to give to the poor some of the money that we don’t desperately need and are never going to miss; we want that to go to a worthy cause.

 

            This parable does not paint a bright future for us. The message seems clear: wake up people, if you can. Obey God or you are going to burn.

 

            After hearing this parable, do you feel the guilt gnawing at your insides? Are you now much more miserable than when you arrived this morning?

 

            There’s one problem with this guilt-inducing theology. In talking about his mission, where does Jesus say, I came so that you might live in terror, and wallow in guilt, and suffer in misery until you shape up? Where in the Bible does Jesus say, I came to extort good behavior out of you? I came to earth to put you to a test. And if you fail this test, I came to earth to see that you burn.

 

            That’s hard to reconcile with the message of the Gospels. So I have to ask, what do we do with this story and all the heavy blanket of guilt that it imposes?

 

            Karl Marx described religion as the opiate of the people—something that drugs people into a nonthinking stupor or euphoria so they are content to just mellow out and go along with things as they are. He obviously never spent any time in a Lutheran congregation.

            I think what this parable is telling us is that wealth is the real opiate of the people.

Not that wealth is bad in and of itself. There’s nothing noble about Lazarus’ pitiful state. The wealth of the rich man is clearly far closer to God’s intent than what Lazarus has.

 

            According to this story, the danger is that wealth and material goods and affluence tend to numb us to the realities of life, to the true call of the Gospel. Like an addictive drug, the more riches you have, the less you can do without. The more you have, the more you need. We get so caught up in how to get more and how to hold on to what we have, that we don’t really see the world around us.

            Meanwhile, compassion fatigue compounds the problem. We’ve seen too many images of the poor and starving, too many pictures of poverty, too many urgent appeals for relief, too many hands out asking for charity. So much want numbs our senses. It’s overwhelming, we can’t deal with it. It becomes like white noise that we don’t even hear after awhile.  

 

            Here’s where guilt comes in. Guilt serves the same function in our lives as pain. Nerve cells are highly sensitive to danger, and they respond to it by producing the sensation of pain. Without pain, we would not know that our hand is resting on hot stove burner that will destroy it if we don’t move it quickly.

            Pain alerts us to malfunction in body, and warns us of the need to do something to fix it so that we can stay alive. Pain keeps us careful around dangerous sharp objects, because we know what it feels like to be on the wrong side of those. Nasty as it is, pain is there to save us from disaster.

            Guilt serves same function. Our consciences are highly sensitive to danger to our souls, and they respond by producing guilt. Without guilt, we slide away from our relationship with God without ever knowing it. Without guilt to break through the numbness that comes with affluence, what would stop us from going down the path of pure selfishness, the path that draws us away from God and from life-giving relationship with the world?

 

            We think of conscience as alerting us to when we have done something wrong. But in our order of confession we confess we have sinned not only by what we have done but by what we have left undone. That’s not just a throw-away clause to cover all possibilities. As this story tells us, there is no danger greater than the neglect of God’s command to love God with your heart, soul, and mind, and your neighbor as yourself.

 

            Guilt produces wonderful things. I suspect there were jabs of guilt involved in Muhammad Yunus’ decision to chuck all established business practice and found the Gramen Bank to give small low-interest loans to the poorest of the poor, people with no collateral, people who aren’t looking for a feast but want to be able to feed themselves. The project has been a spectacular success. The bank has changed millions of lives by loaning out over $6.3 billion to needy families, who have made the project succeed with a repayment rate of over 99%.

            I suspect there jabs of guilt involved in Bill Gates’ recent decision to take his billions and do something with them to benefit humanity. I suspect there were jabs of guilt involved in all these stories of people who are making a real difference in our world, as described in the current issue of Newsweek.

 

            Too much pain is debilitating, paralyzing, and robs us of life. A good physician finds ways to relieve pain, but not the ability to feel pain. That has to remain to save us from destruction.

 

            Too much guilt is also debilitating, paralyzing, and robs us of life. In forgiveness, God takes away our guilt, but not the ability to feel it. By relieving our pain and guilt but not our ability to feel it, God provides us the means to break out of the numbing stupor that wealth can bring. The means to come alive again to the joy of living with God in the service and the sharing of God’s creation.