In the Bosom of Abraham

Sermon — September 28, 2025
The Rev. Greg Johnston
Lectionary Readings

“And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels
into Abraham’s bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried.” (Luke 16:22 KJV)

That was the King James version of the verse. Have you heard the song that comes from it?

Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham,
Rock my soul, in the bosom of Abraham,
Rock my soul, in the bosom of Abraham,
Oh, rock my soul.

This song has been recorded by Peter, Paul & Mary, and by Elvis, and it’s been sung in children’s ministries around the world. The tune is simple. The lyrics consist of a single line. If your Children’s Choir can’t memorize this, they’re not going to be memorizing anything. It’s popular, it’s sweet, and it is, without a doubt, one of the most subversive songs in history. (And I mean that in the best possible way!)

Like many great American songs, it originates as a Black spiritual. It was first written down in the book Slave Songs of the United States, published in 1867, shortly after emancipation. And I suspect that its initial popularity came in part from its combination of sweetness and heat. The lyrics are unobjectionable on the surface. And yet, to those with ears to hear, it is the most pious way possible to tell the people oppressing you that they can go to hell.

And I’m not just swearing from the pulpit. I mean that as a theological proposition. “Rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham” isn’t just a nice prayer that the singer go to heaven. It’s a claim that the singer is like Lazarus, specifically. “The bosom of Abraham” is not a common phrase for eternal life. In the whole Bible, that phrase is only used once, and it’s here, in this gospel story of Lazarus and the rich man. It evokes the whole story. To sing “rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham” is to claim that you are like Lazarus, who suffered evil in this life and was rewarded in the next—and also that the person who is doing evil to you is like the rich man, and he might want to think hard about the state of his soul.

(Not so sweet any more, huh?)

I want to offer three words to frame this fire-and-brimstone story. And those are: dignity, judgment, and knowledge.

First: this is a story about dignity. This story isn’t just about what we would call “economic inequality.” The rich man’s problem isn’t that he’s rich, per se. The details are important. Lazarus lies at his gate, suffering every day, and the rich man does nothing to help him. He “feasts sumptuously every day,” while Lazarus “longs” for just a few crumbs that have fallen from his table. (Luke 16:20) It’s not that the rich man doesn’t know that Lazarus is there. He does! He even knows his name. He recognizes him from a great distance; he says to Abraham, “Send Lazarus to help me!” (16:24) But what a difference a few words make: It’s not “Lazarus, have mercy and help me,” but “Abraham, have mercy—and send Lazarus” to dip his finger in water and cool my tongue. Oh, and “send him to my father’s house” to warn my family, too. (16:27) The rich man acts as though he’s entitled to power over Lazarus without having any responsibilities to Lazarus. He never helped him during his life. But he thinks he can command him after death. He doesn’t even offer Lazarus the respect of addressing him directly, once. And you can see why this story would make sense in a song written by a slave: to be enslaved, after all, is to be in the position of Lazarus, ordered around and treated as undeserving of basic human dignity by someone who mistreats and neglects you every day.

Second: this is a story about judgment. It subverts the all-too-common idea that we can look at the world around us and understand who is favored by God by looking at who is doing well in this world; that those who have wealth and power in this life have them because they deserve them, and those who suffer maybe deserve it, too. This is not a Christian idea. We can look at the world around us and see that good people do suffer and that wicked people do benefit. What goes around does not necessarily come around, in this life. There is a good and just God, but the timeline of God’s justice extends beyond this life—God is just and fair and rewards people for their deeds or misdeeds, but that process happens after death. The story of Lazarus and the rich man is an extreme case, a story of a world turned upside-down, in which our places in the kingdom of God can be very different from our places in the kingdoms of men. And so again, you can see why this would be popular with Christians who were enslaved: “rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham” is a theological claim: that the long-suffering but faithful Christian who received “evil things” in this life would be comforted in the next, and that those who did evil things to them might find themselves less comfortable in the world to come.

Finally: this is a story about knowledge and how it shapes what we do, or not. The rich man begs Abraham to send Lazarus to warn his brothers to treat their neighbors well, or they might “also come into this place of torment.” (Luke 16:28) Abraham replies that they have the Law and the Prophets—they have what we call the Old Testament—they have been told what love and justice mean. But no no no! They ignored all that, the rich man says. But if Lazarus rises from the dead to tell them, they’ll listen to him. And Abraham replies, in that foreshadowing phrase, “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” (Luke 16:31) Remember that it’s Jesus telling the story, Jesus saying these words. And Jesus did rise from the dead, and we have continued not to be convinced. We have continued leaving Lazarus at our gate—continued treating one another as servants to be commanded as we would. And this question of knowledge is at the heart of the song. There were faithful white Christian landowners in the South—and faithful white Christian shipbuilders and industrialists in the North—who built their fortunes on slavery. If they heard “rock my soul in the bosom of Abraham” and didn’t understand what it meant about them, it was because they were more ignorant Christians than the enslaved people they treated as less-than-human. And if they understood but didn’t care, then they were indeed among those who would not be convinced of the need to love their neighbors as themselves, even though Jesus had risen from the dead.

So maybe the rich man would’ve been better off if he’d had this letter from Paul to Timothy to remind him that “we brought nothing into the world, so that we can take nothing out of it,” (1 Tim. 6:6) to warn him against the temptations and the traps that await those who want to be rich, to tell him—in the famous but often-misquoted phrase—that “the love of money is the root of all kinds of evil.” (6:10) Perhaps he’d be better off if Timothy had met him and “command[ed him] not to be haughty.” (6:17)

Maybe he would’ve been better off if he’d absorbed this message from Amos, this condemnation of those devote themselves to luxury—to ivory and couches, lamb and veal, harps and wine and perfume—“but are not grieved over the ruin of Joseph”; in other words, not troubled by the distress and the suffering of the people around them.

But maybe not. Because, of course, that’s a part of the message of the story, too. Even though he had the prophet Amos, he acted this way. Even if Paul came to tell him to treat Lazarus well, even if Timothy came and commanded him not to be haughty, even if Jesus himself rose from the dead and told him personally to cut it out—he might not be willing to believe it. There is a chasm fixed between him and Lazarus, for sure—but he’s the one who wants to ensure that the chasm remains fixed where it is, that the distinction between him and Lazarus remains. He would rather be tormented by flames, than admit that Lazarus is his equal and ask him for help.

In a strange way, in the end, I think this is a story about stewardship. (Albeit maybe not a great theme for a stewardship campaign.) Not “stewardship” as the euphemism for “the church’s fall pledge drive,” but “stewardship” as in the question: what do we do with what we have? How are we good stewards of our possessions? Do we try to be “rich in good works, generous, and ready to share,” as Paul says? (1 Tim. 6:18) Do we use the things we have to help the people around us? Or do we let them puff us up into people who think like the rich man does: entitled to command Lazarus around, enjoying luxury while the people around us hunger for the scraps? Do we try to set that chasm between “us” and “them” in the world.

Or are we willing to admit that the kingdom of God is a world turned upside down—that God pays not attention to our hierarchies of worth—that we are all human beings, equally worthy of dignity and love, and that we will meet again in a world that’s not very much like this one at all?