“We may possess and may practice a dogmatics, an ethics, and a proper worldview such as the given tradition requires but still leave Lazarus lying before the door to be licked by dogs.”
— Ernst Käsemann
I dreamt last night of bright lights and clean lines,
of a stage bathed in blue glow,
of hands raised in perfect harmony.
The band played,
the screen beamed truth in bold fonts,
the sermon soared—
sharp, clear, certain.
We had doctrine, we had purpose,
we had the answers people needed.
Outside, the night pressed in,
but we were warm inside,
wrapped in faith,
sealed from the dark.
Then silence.
The glass doors slid open,
cold air rushing in,
and there he was—
Lazarus,
curled in the doorway,
skin cracked and worn.
The street dogs sat beside him,
their eyes steady,
watching us.
No one moved.
We saw him,
but our feet stayed planted
on the soft carpet of comfort.
A second dream within the dream—
Another place,
not ours,
not polished,
not staged.
A table in the open air,
laughter thick as bread,
hot chocolate steaming in chipped mugs.
Hands reached out—
scarred hands, healed hands,
hands that had known hunger
and did not turn away.
“Come in,” they said,
and Lazarus rose,
leaving behind the weight of the world,
his joy spilling like light
over a kingdom without walls.
I woke
to a locked church,
to a city where Lazarus still waits.
I rose,
went to the door,
and wondered
if I had the courage to open it.
- Rev’d Jon Swales, 2025
Artwork. James Tissot (Nantes, France, 1836–1902, Chenecey–Buillon, France). The Poor Lazarus at the Rich Man's Door
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