Making Our Song Alleluia

A sermon for Proper 21
September 25, 2022

“You only are immortal, the creator and maker of mankind; and we are mortal, formed of the earth, and to earth shall we return. For so did you ordain when you created me, saying, ‘You are dust, and to dust you shall return.’ All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.”

These words come from the burial service in our Book of Common Prayer. It is called the Commendation, the part of the service where we put our loved one into the merciful arms of our Savior forever, and we ask that God give them rest. If you, like me, watched some of the Queen’s funeral last Monday, you will have heard very similar words at her funeral at Westminster and at her committal at St. George’s. The Queen, after all, an Anglican was buried according to the liturgy of the Church of England’s Prayer Book, a service not reserved for monarchs alone, but for all of God’s people. Those same words spoken over her mortal body will be spoken over mine, and yours, someday. 

Death and burial bring into stark contrast what really matters in this life. So often we go through life on autopilot, not thinking too seriously about our deaths and the life to come. The death and burial of a loved one give us a moment of reflection. For as the Prayer Book says, “all of us go down to the dust,” we know not when.  

Jesus tells us a parable about death and eternal life today. He invites us to consider what happens to our souls after death, the consequences of our lives right now. Are we preparing for the life yet to come?

There was a rich man and a poor beggar named Lazarus. Of all the parables Jesus told, he only ever names one character: Lazarus. This is an important guy. Lazarus means “God has helped me,” but honestly, that doesn’t seem to be the case in this life. Lazarus lives a life of suffering. He is laid at the gate of the rich man, day after day. He can’t even get there himself; he must be carried. Day after day he is stepped over, ignored. All he wants is a scrap of food. Only the dogs attend him, licking his sores, trying to give him some relief. 

Then we have the rich man. He is no ordinary rich man. He is a very rich man. In Roman society, the rich would wear a white robe with a single thread of purple woven into it. That single thread would show just how rich they were. Purple dye was that expensive. This man, by contrast, wears all purple everyday. This is a Jeff Bezos, an Elon Musk, a Bill Gates. And how does this rich man use his extraordinary wealth, his many blessings? Jesus says he feasts sumptuously everyday. And in all his feasting, Lazarus wasn’t given a scrap. The scraps, we presume, are given to his dogs. 

Wealth wasn’t this man’s problem. Financial resources are a blessing from God, after all. Rather, his sin was living only for himself, greedily hoarding those blessings. 

Death comes for us all, and it came for the rich man and Lazarus. Jesus says, “The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried.” The poor man is carried away by angels and the rich man is not. The rich man is buried. But Lazarus, based on what Jesus says, or doesn’t say, is not. Ignored in life, he is ignored in death. But not by the angels of God. And they each go on to their reward. As they do, we see a dramatic reversal. 

Lazarus goes on to the bosom of Abraham, Jesus says. He is comforted. He is at peace. The rich man, who day after day feasted, who wore all purple, who showed off his extravagant wealth by building monuments to himself in this life and never reaching out a hand of compassion, he finds no comfort. From Hades, he sees Lazarus next to Abraham. He recognizes Lazarus. He knows him by name. He proves that he willfully ignored him day after day after day. 

And the rich man repented. He called out to Lazarus, my friend, forgive me. I should have done better–could have done better–by you. I had been given everything in that world, so many blessings from God, and helping you would not have put me in any bind. It would have been easy, but I chose not to. And I was wrong. Please forgive me, dear Lazarus. 

Well, the rich man could have said that. He should have said that. But he doesn’t. It turns out we tend to die the way we live. Even in death, he cannot acknowledge his wrong to Lazarus’s face. He cannot repent because he still sees Lazarus as beneath him. Don’t believe me? Consider that instead of calling out to Lazarus, he calls out to Abraham. Oh great Father Abraham, I am in agony. I need some assistance. Send your lackey, that Lazarus fellow, to help me out. Put him to work for me. He ought to serve me. I am still better than him. But Abraham tells him that’s impossible. There’s a chasm between them. As in life, so also in death. In life there was a gate, a wall, a separation of the rich man’s own making. In death, there is a chasm, also of the rich man’s own making. 

We will die how we live. If we live hoarding, we will die holding on to things that cannot come with us. If we live for ourselves, we will die alone. If we live angry or prideful, we will die full of anger and pride. If we live in fear, we will die in fear. If we live unrepentant, we will die unrepentant. If we live as if we will save ourselves, giving in to the illusion that we are somehow immortal, we will die with no hope. As in life, so also in death.  

We will die how we live. If we live generously, in thanksgiving for all of our blessings, showing the generosity of God to others; we will die generously, thanking God for everything we have and everything we are, and giving those blessings back to the God who gave them to us in the first place. If we live for God and for others, we will die surrounded by angels who will fly us to our rest. If we live in love, we will die in love. If we live peacefully, we will die at peace. If we live repentant, we will die trusting in the mercies and grace of God–as sheep of God’s own fold, lambs of God’s own flock, sinners of God’s own redeeming. 

“All of us go down to the dust; yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.” Alleluia literally means “God be praised.” We need to start practicing that song of praise right now, or we might not know how to sing it when the time comes. We need to make it our song right now while we are on this earth, for we will die how we live; as in life, so also in death. 

Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. God be praised! Unlike the songs of this world–the songs to ourselves, the songs to our wills, the songs to our ways, the songs to our power, the self-interested songs that lift us up–this is the song of heaven. It’s the song of saints and angels. This is the song of Lazarus and those who have lived and died in the fear of the Lord. 

We can sing this song in so many ways right now. We sing it right here on Sunday mornings, as our voices join the heavenly chorus already in progress. We sing it daily as we offer prayers to God, lifting up our lives as living sacrifices. We sing this song when we reach out a hand of love, a hand of compassion to someone in need. We sing this song when we call someone who is lonely on the phone, just to check in on them. We sing this song when we give of ourselves and make some sacrifice, whether big or small, in the Name of Christ, seeking to serve Christ in all persons and loving our neighbors as ourselves. 

Alleluia. God be praised! I hope that’s my song right now and as I take my final breath. And I hope it’s your song, too. Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia. God and God alone be praised, worshiped, and adored, now and forevermore. Amen.