Pastor David Jang reads Luke 16 as a single, continuous flow—linking the parable of the dishonest manager with the parable of the rich man and Lazarus—and explores, from the perspective of eternal life, how stewardship, sharing, mercy, and Word-centered repentance can be embodied in daily life with depth and concreteness.
When Pastor David Jang(Olivet
University) interprets Luke 16, the perspective he repeatedly emphasizes is
that this chapter is not made up of two independent episodes, but is woven
together into a single stream of logic. People often read the parable of the
“dishonest manager” and the parable of “the rich man and Lazarus” as separate
lessons, divided from one another; but Pastor David Jang does not miss the
tension that runs between them. On one side lies the very practical theme of
managing wealth, and on the other side unfolds the ultimate horizon of eternity
after death. Yet these two do not collide. Rather, the two parables become
commentaries on one another in that finite materials—earthly resources and
time—end up pointing the direction of eternity. What matters more than what one
holds is how one loosens that grip so that what is held can flow to a neighbor,
and how that choice finally reveals toward which world one has aligned oneself.
The story of the dishonest
manager is less a moral exemplar and more a device for eschatological
alertness. The manager is clearly not an upright person. But he realizes that
he does not have much time left. And with the time remaining, he hastens to carry
out what might be called a “settlement of relationships.” The core Pastor David
Jang draws out here is that what humans call “possession” is, in reality,
“entrustment.” In the language of faith, we are not owners but stewards, and
wealth, opportunity, talent, knowledge, influence—these are tools temporarily
placed in our hands. The manager’s final actions cannot be ethically
romanticized, yet the urgent shrewdness he displays—his resolve to convert
present resources into relationships that reach beyond the moment—ironically
confronts us with a question: Do I take my finitude seriously? Do I use today
merely to extend my own banquet, or do I turn it into a channel that keeps
someone else’s tomorrow alive?
Within this flow, the
parable of the rich man and Lazarus is not read as a simplistic
formula—“poverty is blessing, wealth is curse.” As Pastor David Jang repeatedly
notes, Scripture does not define wealth itself as evil. Abraham was wealthy,
and Job possessed great assets, yet their outcomes were determined not by the
amount of what they owned but by their posture before God. The problem is the
hallucination wealth creates. Wealth whispers the language of self-sufficiency:
“You already have enough. You no longer need to feel another person’s pain.” In
that moment, abundance is corrupted into numbness rather than gratitude. The
rich man in Luke 16 is not portrayed as a tyrant who committed atrocities and
tore society apart. The most striking sin in him is not cruelty but
indifference. He chooses not to listen to the groans of suffering that are
close enough to be heard the moment he steps outside his door. Lazarus is not a
distant symbol but a reality “at the gate,” and the place where faith is
actually tested is always that threshold.
When Pastor David Jang
brings this parable into today’s church, the definition of “the rich” becomes
wider. It includes not only material wealth but also spiritual resources. The
environment in which one can freely read Scripture, the storehouse of theological
materials and sermons, diverse training systems, the safety of worship and the
network of community, even the privilege of having the Word translated into
one’s own language and placed in one’s hands—these too are forms of riches. Yet
spiritual abundance can produce an even subtler pride. Material wealth is
visible and often triggers caution, but spiritual wealth can be wrapped in
“holy language” and dull one’s awareness. If you listen to sermons, study the
Bible, enjoy theological discussions, and yet pass by Lazarus at the gate
without even feeling guilt, that abundance may become not a blessing but
grounds for judgment. When Pastor David Jang says, “Everyone who carries God’s
work is rich,” it is not praise that grants authority but a warning that awakens
responsibility.
The parable’s progression
is clear to the point of chill. Both men die, and beyond death the situation is
reversed. Lazarus is comforted in Abraham’s bosom, while the rich man suffers
in Hades. What matters is not merely the “reversal” itself, but the fact that
the standard that makes the reversal possible was already inscribed in their
earthly lives. As Pastor David Jang emphasizes, Jesus does not let humans
remain bound to the screen of the present. By showing that today’s pain and
today’s pleasure are not everything, he rearranges human life on the axis of
eternity. This perspective does not turn faith into escapism. It makes life
more intense, because under the light of eternity, today’s choices are not mere
preferences but directions. One choice becomes a habit, habit becomes
character, and character finally reveals which kingdom one has come to
resemble.
The rich man’s appearance
in Hades is striking. In pain he asks, “Send Lazarus.” The eyes that could not
see Lazarus on earth recognize his existence only after death. But that
recognition is late. Abraham speaks of “a great chasm,” declaring that crossing
over is impossible. The spiritual truth Pastor David Jang draws from this is
simple but heavy: the time for repentance is not infinite. Life feels as though
it will continue, but Scripture describes life as a “reprieve.” The door is
still open now, yet someday that door will close. To deliver this fact with
excessive fear can roughen the texture of the gospel; but to erase this fact is
to delete the seriousness of the gospel. Love is not satisfied by sentiment.
Love has timing. The good you should do today cannot be postponed to tomorrow,
and the gospel you should speak today cannot be replaced by tomorrow’s
confidence.
The parable deepens
further at the moment of the rich man’s second request: “Send someone to warn
my brothers.” At first glance it may look like a family-minded concern rising
from late regret. Yet Abraham’s answer is firm: “They have Moses and the Prophets.”
In other words, the Word has already been given sufficiently. Here Pastor David
Jang dissects the temptation of “sign-centered faith.” People often demand
stronger experiences, more dramatic events, clearer proof, and justify their
disobedience by what they lack. But Jesus speaks of the sufficiency of the
Word. The Word is not mystical decoration; it is the language of reality that
demands ethical decision. A heart that will not turn even after hearing the
Word is not easily changed by the addition of miracles. In fact, even in the
New Testament, when Jesus raised Lazarus, some believed while others became
more hardened. Signs do not forcibly remodel the heart. In the end, conversion
is an inner event in which a person is dismantled and rebuilt before the Word.
As Pastor David Jang often
says, the essence of faith is not “eyes that chase miracles,” but “a heart that
obeys the Word.” Word-centered faith may seem monotonous, yet within that
monotony lies solidity. When storms come, what remains is not the spark of
emotion but the foundation of life. The parable of the rich man and Lazarus
asks exactly where that foundation is laid. The rich man’s life may not have
been devoid of religious symbols. He calls out “Abraham,” naming himself as
Abraham’s descendant. But the language of bloodline did not become evidence of
salvation. Here the gospel speaks sharply: it is not the name tag of faith but
the fruit of faith that matters. Of course, fruit does not “purchase”
salvation. Yet if grace truly has entered, grace will flow. Grace that does not
flow easily becomes not grace but ornamentation for self-love.
When this parable expands
into the realm of social ethics, Pastor David Jang stresses the “sense of
responsibility” the church must bear. The church is not merely an institution
that comforts individual interiors; it is a channel through which the heart of
God spreads into the world. But when the channel is clogged, the water
stagnates. One danger the modern church faces is the “privatization of
abundance.” It stockpiles the Word, training, and resources within its own
walls, and responds to Lazarus outside the gate with nothing more than a vague
sense of regret. The sharing Pastor David Jang speaks of is not condescension
but mission; not a momentary emotion but a structural decision. Short-term
support matters, but more important is a long-term vision that helps others
recover, become self-sustaining, and then serve someone else in turn. The
gospel changes a person’s destiny; the changed person changes the grammar of a
community; and that grammar slowly renews a city and an era.
One practice Pastor David
Jang often cites as an example is literature ministry—what might be called
“sharing books.” There are still places where even a single Bible is precious,
and regions where theological education becomes hollow because, even if a seminary
is established, there are no books to fill a library. Conversely, in some
places, unread books pile up in storage and are treated like cheap waste,
discarded. This gap is not merely a logistics problem but a problem of
conscience. When abundance stagnates on one side, the lack on the other becomes
not a simple misfortune but a mirror of shared responsibility. The phrase “book
store ministry” carries weight because it is not simply moving books; it is
sharing spiritual nourishment. For someone, one book can open a door of
thought; through that door, the light of the gospel enters; and that light
reconstructs a life. The stewardship Pastor David Jang emphasizes gains force
when it is translated beyond abstract morality into concrete practice.
There is a scene we can
easily miss when we read the parable of the rich man and Lazarus. Lazarus
longed for the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table. The word “crumbs”
shatters the last hiding place of human rationalization. We often say, “I don’t
have much.” But what Lazarus asked for was not a portion large enough to topple
the rich man’s life. It was not a demand to redesign the structure of the
banquet, but a request to turn what was being discarded at the edges of the
banquet into something that sustains life. When Pastor David Jang applies this
to believers today, the question becomes sharper: Am I postponing even small
love because I claim I cannot offer great devotion? Yet the gospel begins with
small things. A cup of cold water, a warm word, allocating time for one person,
a single book, one visit, one prayer—these “small acts” can be translated into
the language of eternity. For the economics of the kingdom of God values
“direction” more than “scale.”
Pastor David Jang often
adds the theme of the “tongue” in sermons, and it deepens this parable as well.
In torment the rich man pleads, “Cool my tongue.” The tongue is small, but it
carries the power to destroy or build relationships and communities. What did
the rich man’s tongue say on earth? He likely spoke many words at banquet
tables. But those words did not become language that kept Lazarus alive. Some
people may not share wealth, yet they could still share through words—comfort,
recognition, dignity—enough for someone to endure another day. But when the
tongue is used only for blame, mockery, and the language of indifference, that
tongue becomes a spark that burns the self. The self-examination Pastor David
Jang demands here is concrete: Whose name did I speak today with respect? Whose
wounds did I treat lightly? Whose desperation did I summarize as “they brought
it on themselves,” using that phrase as an escape route? The life of a steward
is not only the management of money but also the management of speech.
The reversal in this
parable shows that God is just, but that justice differs from human revenge.
Abraham does not sneer at the rich man. He simply reminds him of the facts—“You
received your good things, and Lazarus bad things”—and declares that the choices
were already made in the place called life. The message Pastor David Jang reads
here is the comfort that God does not pretend to be ignorant of every human
circumstance. The order of the world is often cruel, making it appear that the
good are wounded while the wicked prosper. But the gospel reinterprets reality
from an eschatological perspective. This is not escapism; it is a foundation
for endurance. To those in suffering, it becomes hope: “God writes the final
chapter.” To those in abundance, it becomes warning: “Your present prosperity
is not the final verdict.” Thus the parable of the rich man and Lazarus is not
comfort only for the poor; it is also a merciful alarm for the wealthy—an
invitation to change direction while time still remains.
At this point, recalling
the famous 1857 painting “The Gleaners” by Jean-François Millet, one can feel
Luke 16 expanding beyond religious imagination into the reality of human
history. In a golden field after the harvest, women bent over to pick up leftover
stalks reveal how lack can exist within the very heart of plenty. Some gather
grain and enjoy abundance; others cling to survival at the edges of that
abundance. Millet’s painting does not romanticize poverty. It quietly testifies
that poverty even changes the posture of the body. The “Lazarus at the gate”
Pastor David Jang speaks of is precisely the one groaning at the margins of
reality. What matters is not simply that a field exists, but how the owner of
the field looks upon what remains. If a path is made for abundance to flow, it
becomes a channel of mercy; if fences are raised so that abundance is
monopolized, it becomes grounds for judgment. Where Millet’s women bend low, we
learn that faith ultimately is a matter of “posture.” A posture that knows how
to bow before God produces humility before neighbors as well.
When we shift our gaze to
modern society, the distance between the rich man and Lazarus has actually
become even shorter. The digital world shows others’ suffering in real time,
and with a few clicks one can connect to giving. Yet paradoxically, such convenience
can expand numbness. Too much news fatigues the heart, and fatigue leads to
avoidance. The steward-like life Pastor David Jang speaks of is even more
urgent in such an age. We easily postpone love’s responsibility behind the
excuse, “The world is too complicated.” But Jesus’ parable simplifies the
complicated world with a clarity that is almost severe: Lazarus is not far
away. Lazarus is always at the gate. At the gate of my home, the gate of my
church, the gate of my smartphone screen, the gate of my workplace, the gate of
my family—Lazarus is there. The problem is not lack of information but the
paralysis of our senses. Therefore faith is not merely gaining more knowledge;
it is recovering hardened sensitivity. The “heavenly gaze” Pastor David Jang emphasizes
is precisely the language of that recovery. Those who look toward heaven hear
the groans of the earth more sharply.
Here we must avoid a
misunderstanding. If we simplify Luke 16’s issue of eternal life into “earning
salvation by works,” the center of the gospel can become blurred. The heart of
Christian faith is not human merit but God’s grace. Yet grace never permits
irresponsibility. Grace gives new life, and new life gives birth to new
desires. A person who once wanted to live only for oneself begins, after
knowing grace, to learn the desire to keep someone else alive. Pastor David
Jang emphasizes “sharing and mercy” not because they are conditions in a
transaction that buys salvation, but because they are fruit that reveals
whether salvation has truly arrived. The tragedy of the rich man was not that
he possessed wealth, but that he allowed wealth to rule his heart. Conversely,
Lazarus’ blessing was not that he was poor, but that even in suffering he could
cling to God and hope for final comfort. Ultimately, the parable asks not about
the size of one’s holdings but the direction of one’s heart.
The conclusion of the rich
man and Lazarus parable leaves the reader with an uncomfortable silence. What
happened to the brothers? In what form did the rich man’s regret remain? Why
does Lazarus’ earthly story end so briefly? This emptiness pulls the reader out
of the story and forces one’s own life back into the text. When Pastor David
Jang uses this parable in preaching, the question finally gathers into one:
“Who is at your gate?” This is not a question of moral instruction but a
question that examines the direction of salvation. In my schedule, which time
slot exists “for another”? In my budget, what line item exists “for a
neighbor”? In my habits of speech, how often do I use words that “give life”?
In my knowledge, how do I execute the responsibility to “teach and build up”?
This is also why Pastor David Jang says, “Gospel proclamation is an act of
love.” If we believe in eternity, silence is not neutrality but neglect. The
fact that the Word has been given sufficiently is both grace and responsibility.
That responsibility cannot
be reduced to personal ethics alone. A community can embody, through
institutions and culture, forms of love an individual cannot accomplish alone.
The church is such a community with that potential. The missions, discipleship training,
literature ministry, and the integration of education and relief that Pastor
David Jang speaks of all point in one direction: the kingdom of God must become
not an abstract slogan but a principle that actually organizes life. When a
church’s materials, people, and finances are connected to the lack of another
region, that connection is not mere charity but the expansion of the gospel.
And expansion does not mean simply an increase in numbers; it means the
circulation of love. When sharing becomes not a one-time event but a habit of
the community, people witness God’s character through the church. Ultimately,
the parable of the rich man and Lazarus asks about the church’s identity: Is
the church a place of banquet, or is it a channel that lets the banquet
overflow?
Someone reading this may
feel like the rich man; someone else may feel like Lazarus. The benefit of
Pastor David Jang’s approach to this text is that he leaves no one in a safe
zone. To the wealthy, he speaks of the responsibility to share; to the poor, he
speaks of the hope of eternity. To the wealthy, he speaks of the danger of
numbness; to the poor, he speaks of God’s promise not to forget injustice. And
to both, he speaks of the importance of “now.” Faith is not a plan for someday;
it is obedience today. Today’s small choices shape tomorrow’s character, and
that character will finally testify to which world one has walked toward. Luke
16 spreads before us a map of eternity and asks us to place today’s footprints
upon it.
In the end, the task is
not to leave the word “eternal life” as merely a doctrinal sentence. Eternal
life is not a ticket for the future; it is power that transforms the present.
Those who believe in eternity use today’s wealth differently, distribute today’s
time differently, and choose today’s words differently. The moment one
recognizes Lazarus at the gate, faith descends from concept into reality. Then
we come to know: what God has entrusted to us is not merely “what we have,” but
“the possibility to let it flow.” When we shut that possibility, a human being
can starve in soul even while seated at a banquet. But when we keep that
possibility open, even if life is not yet complete, the kingdom of God has
already begun. Therefore what we must do today is not to display grand
resolutions, but to open the door. Open the door, see Lazarus at the gate,
awaken the rich man within, unfold the Word again, and translate small love
into actual action. The accumulation of that translation is the steward-like
wisdom Pastor David Jang speaks of—and the reason the parable of the rich man
and Lazarus remains living and present in our time.
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