The Invisible Ones
In the early days of Covid, when the gyms all closed, I went to the parking lot outside my gym and like Forrest Gump, I began running. I had it all to myself, except once in a while when a truck driver parked his rig in the lot over-night. Sometimes he would run as well. When the gym reopened, and some of the other businesses that had offices in the same industrial park were back, I recall one morning as I finished a couple of miles, a voice behind me called out, “Man, you have lost a lot of weight!” I immediately thought, “I’ve been seen!” I turned to find a total stranger, a gentleman who, as it turned out, worked for an environmental group that does the dirty work most of us would like to avoid, e.g. asbestos abatement, lead paint abatement, demolition work, etc. I said, “Thank you,” and introduced myself. I learned that he’s from Guatemala, and he and others have worked here for something like 18 years. I went home, hopped on the scale, and sure enough. I had dropped over 10 pounds. I would have never known but for the fact that someone saw me and cared enough to get to know me.
People from certain minority groups these days talk about not “being seen.” Some on the Autism Spectrum. Some from the LGBTQ+ community. Women, African-Americans, immigrants, refugees, trans-people, those Veterans holding signs at busy intersections. People whom we often just drive by instead of stopping to say, “Hi, how can I help you today?” Had it not been for my new friend, I wouldn’t know how much it means to otherwise invisible people in our society to “be seen”. Notice, that “being seen” means more than just seeing; it means getting to know the “other,” much as my new friend who had been observing me for weeks. He could see that exercising out in the fresh air everyday had made a difference; had changed me. I was deeply touched that of all the people who now had re-populated the parking lot, some of whom must have remembered me from the gym, it was only my new friend from Guatemala who had really seen me. To others I was invisible. I was one of those “others,” someone not quite like the rest of us. We all want to be seen, really.
We often talk about these invisible ones without really
knowing them. Without really knowing even one of them. And we come up with
so-called solutions we think they need without really consulting them. They
have become so prevalent in our society, in our towns, in our country, that
blues-musician Charlie Musselwhite has penned a song about them which goes in
part:
But you don’t see us/You don’t really try
We’re the invisible ones/Left outside
We are the invisible ones/The invisible ones
You’d let die/You’d let die/You’d let die
-Invisible Ones by Charlie Musselwhite
It turns out that long ago, Jesus gave invisible ones a name: Lazarus. Lazarus, and all the Lazaruses, are among the “every human being” we promise to treat with respect and dignity in our Baptismal Covenant. Lazarus lies in the street just outside “a rich man’s gate,” with a dog licking his sores. Lazarus is like the Syrophoenician woman Jesus insults, calling her and her people “dogs.” [Mark 7:24-30] Like her, Lazarus would settle for a few crumbs from the rich man’s table. Alas, the rich man does not see him. Only a stray dog seeks to comfort him by licking his sores. [Luke 16:19-31] The rich man has no name. But Jesus has made it his custom to know these “others;” to know these “invisible ones.” As the story goes in Luke, the rich man dies, and so does Lazarus. Lazarus was carried away by angels to Father Abraham, while the rich man ends up in Hades where he “is tormented” to the point of great thirst. He looks up and sees Lazarus, now for the first time in “the bosom of Abraham,” and begs for just a drop of water off of the Invisible One’s finger. The roles are now reversed. The first are last and the last are first.
Now the rich man knows what it feels like to have been Lazarus in this life. He is now the beggar, asking for mercy from Abraham. Abe says, in effect, you had your chance. You enjoyed good things. “Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.” I have five brothers, says the rich man. Please send Lazarus to them to warn them. Nope, we cannot do that, says Abraham. Besides, they have access to the wisdom of Moses and the Prophets. They should listen to them! He said, `No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.' Abraham said to him, `If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead." Curtain.
Now few of us are as rich as the rich man, and few of us are as poor as old Lazarus. Though some of us may feel as invisible as Lazarus, and some of us, like the rich man, may pass by the invisible ones in our world without them a thought. But all of us are very much like the five brothers – there’s a chance we might change our evil ways. There’s a chance we might see ourselves in this parable and, dare I say, wake up to a full understanding of what Moses, the Prophets, and Jesus really mean when they urge us to love our neighbors. Who urges us to recognize that the man or woman on the corner, or outside the supermarket, with a cardboard sign in their hands is our neighbor. Is the “least of my sisters and brothers,” and that whatever we do for them, whatever we don’t do for them, is what we do to Christ – because Christ is in them. They are Christ, holding the sign as a mirror in which we might, if we are fortunate, see ourselves for who we really are.
I see my friend from Guatemala almost every morning now. His fellow workers all say good morning. We have a short chat each day. Then I look to the news and hear someone like Stephen Miller telling me I ought to be afraid of these immigrant workers; that I should be happy that we, our government who represents us all, that “we” now round up all the folks we can find like them and lock them up, and try to send them out of the country. That somehow this will make America great. Again. We don’t even know who rounds-up all these people on our behalf because they all wear masks. Ironically, they make themselves invisible, on purpose. I don’t use my new friend’s name so as not to identify him to these anonymous gangs who roam our land.
We read this story of Lazarus and the rich man every three
years in church. But do we hear what Jesus is saying? Jesus, who in the
previous chapters of Luke tells us in no uncertain terms not only to
see the invisible ones, to see all the Lazaruses, but to invite them to sit at
our table to share a meal with them. And yet, as Dionne Warwick sings, we
continue to walk on by. We drive on by. We hit the accelerator and pass the
invisible ones as fast as we can. Because we are frightened by what we see. To
see what is being done on our behalf. To realize who we have become. All Jesus
wants us to do is to see “others.” All others. Really see them. Get to know them. This is how we begin to love
our neighbors as we love ourselves. It turns out it is the only way to enter
the gates of heaven. It’s the only way into eternal life in God’s kingdom. Here
and now. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow. When we see one another, truly see and
know one another, it makes all the difference. All the difference in the whole
wide world.