The Burden of One
There are truths we'd rather not think about. Subjects we avoid at dinner tables and skip over in our daily devotions. Yet some realities are so urgent, so eternally significant, that our silence becomes its own tragedy. The story Jesus tells in Luke 16 is one such reality—a window into eternity that demands our attention and compels our response.
The narrative is stark in its contrast. A rich man, clothed in purple and fine linen, feasting sumptuously every day. At his gate, a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, longing for the scraps that fell from the rich man's table. Even the dogs showed him more compassion than his wealthy neighbor did. Then death came for them both.
What follows is not allegory or metaphor. It's a straightforward, terrifyingly clear account of what happens when this life ends. Lazarus was carried by angels to Abraham's side—comfort, peace, eternal rest. The rich man found himself in Hades, in torment, fully conscious and utterly aware of his condition.
Perhaps the most chilling aspect of this account is the rich man's awareness. He lifted up his eyes. He saw. He remembered. He reasoned. He spoke. He pleaded. Now this is not the sleep of death. This is not annihilation or drifting into nothingness. This is conscious, painful, fearful torment. We know this because the rich man says, "Father Abraham, have mercy on me, send Lazarus to dip the end of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am in anguish in this flame."
The language here is visceral. The suffering is real. The desperation is palpable. If just one drop of cool water on the tip of his tongue could provide relief—that's the level of misery we're talking about.
Jesus described hell elsewhere as a place of "weeping and gnashing of teeth," where people would be "thrown into the fiery furnace." These aren't comfortable words, but they're Christ's words. The truth is that He spoke about hell more frequently and more seriously than anyone else in Scripture.
Abraham's response to the rich man's plea contains one of the most sobering statements in all of Scripture: "Between us and you a great chasm has been fixed, in order that those who would pass from here to you may not be able, and none may cross from there to us." This is not a temporary gap. This is not a bridge under construction. This is a fixed, permanent, irreversible separation. And the tragedy of hell isn't just the suffering—it's the finality. There are no second chances. No do-overs. No opportunities for reconsideration. Eternal destinies are decided in this life, which is why Hebrews urges us: "Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your hearts."
We know this to be true whether you are a believer or not. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. James reminds us that our lives are "a a vapor, a wisp of smoke, that appears for a little while and then vanishes." the reality is that hell is full of people who never intended to go there, who planned to get around to spiritual matters "one of these days." Sadly the road to hell is paved with "later."
Here's where the story takes an unexpected turn. The rich man, engulfed in torment, doesn't continue pleading for his own relief. Instead, his thoughts turn to those he left behind. "Then I beg you, father, to send him to my father's house—for I have five brothers—so that he may warn them, lest they also come into this place of torment."
Think about that. A man in conscious agony, experiencing unimaginable suffering, and his primary concern shifts to warning others. He has a prayer list with five names on it. He knows his situation is settled, but perhaps theirs doesn't have to be. Abraham's response? "They have Moses and the Prophets; let them hear them." The rich man persists: "No, father Abraham, but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent." Abraham's final word cuts to the heart: "If they do not hear Moses and the Prophets, neither will they be convinced if someone should rise from the dead."
This exchange raises a haunting question: If Jesus will not send someone back from hell to warn your family, then who will warn them? The answer is simple and sobering: The redeemed. The saved. The ones who were headed to hell themselves but have been rescued by grace.
God's plan for reaching the lost isn't built on supernatural appearances or ghostly visitations. It's built on ordinary believers sharing an extraordinary message. Romans 10 tells us that "faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of God” The testimony we carry is urgent. The burden we should feel is real. And the opportunity we have is limited to this side of eternity.
Some might ask, "How can a loving God allow such a place as hell?" But we must also ask: "How can people look at the cross of Christ and still refuse Jesus as Lord and Savior?" The cross is God's loudest statement about both His love and His holiness. God didn't shrug off sin or wink at rebellion. He dealt with it by sending His only Son to drink the cup of wrath that belonged to us. 2 Corinthians 5:21 says it plainly: "For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God."
God doesn't delight in punishment. He made a way of escape. As 2 Peter 3:9 reminds us, He is "not wishing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance." Hell isn't preached because God hates sinners. It's preached because God loves sinners enough to warn them of impending judgment while offering them complete salvation. If hell is real—and it is—then our silence is not kindness, politeness, or sophistication. It's tragedy.
We must recover our burden for the lost. It's possible to be genuinely saved and practically silent. It's possible to love the Lord and drift into comfortable forgetfulness about where people are headed. But Jesus didn't save us merely to keep us out of hell. He saved us to make us witnesses for Him. Listen, you don't need to be a theologian. You just need to be honest: Here's who I was. Here's what Christ did. Here's how He changed me. Here's how He can save you.
For those reading who cannot say with confidence, "I have eternal life," hear this clearly: God doesn't want you guessing about your eternity. 1 John 5 was written so that you may know you have eternal life. Salvation requires recognizing that Jesus Christ is Lord, that He died for your sins, rose from the grave, and offers you forgiveness and eternal life.
Repentance means agreeing with God about your sin, turning from it, and turning to Him. Faith means personally trusting in Jesus—resting your soul on His death, burial, and resurrection.
Eternity is entirely too long to be wrong. And love—real love—warns.
The man in hell begged for a drop of water, for mercy, and for a messenger. Heaven's response was clear: they have the Word. The fact is that We have the Word too. We have the gospel. We also have neighbors, coworkers, family members who may be closer to eternity than we realize.
Will we speak? Will we warn? Will we love enough to tell the truth?
The burden is ours. The urgency is now. And the message is still the same: Jesus saves.
The narrative is stark in its contrast. A rich man, clothed in purple and fine linen, feasting sumptuously every day. At his gate, a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, longing for the scraps that fell from the rich man's table. Even the dogs showed him more compassion than his wealthy neighbor did. Then death came for them both.
What follows is not allegory or metaphor. It's a straightforward, terrifyingly clear account of what happens when this life ends. Lazarus was carried by angels to Abraham's side—comfort, peace, eternal rest. The rich man found himself in Hades, in torment, fully conscious and utterly aware of his condition.
Perhaps the most chilling aspect of this account is the rich man's awareness. He lifted up his eyes. He saw. He remembered. He reasoned. He spoke. He pleaded. Now this is not the sleep of death. This is not annihilation or drifting into nothingness. This is conscious, painful, fearful torment. We know this because the rich man says, "Father Abraham, have mercy on me, send Lazarus to dip the end of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am in anguish in this flame."
The language here is visceral. The suffering is real. The desperation is palpable. If just one drop of cool water on the tip of his tongue could provide relief—that's the level of misery we're talking about.
Jesus described hell elsewhere as a place of "weeping and gnashing of teeth," where people would be "thrown into the fiery furnace." These aren't comfortable words, but they're Christ's words. The truth is that He spoke about hell more frequently and more seriously than anyone else in Scripture.
Abraham's response to the rich man's plea contains one of the most sobering statements in all of Scripture: "Between us and you a great chasm has been fixed, in order that those who would pass from here to you may not be able, and none may cross from there to us." This is not a temporary gap. This is not a bridge under construction. This is a fixed, permanent, irreversible separation. And the tragedy of hell isn't just the suffering—it's the finality. There are no second chances. No do-overs. No opportunities for reconsideration. Eternal destinies are decided in this life, which is why Hebrews urges us: "Today, if you hear His voice, do not harden your hearts."
We know this to be true whether you are a believer or not. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. James reminds us that our lives are "a a vapor, a wisp of smoke, that appears for a little while and then vanishes." the reality is that hell is full of people who never intended to go there, who planned to get around to spiritual matters "one of these days." Sadly the road to hell is paved with "later."
Here's where the story takes an unexpected turn. The rich man, engulfed in torment, doesn't continue pleading for his own relief. Instead, his thoughts turn to those he left behind. "Then I beg you, father, to send him to my father's house—for I have five brothers—so that he may warn them, lest they also come into this place of torment."
Think about that. A man in conscious agony, experiencing unimaginable suffering, and his primary concern shifts to warning others. He has a prayer list with five names on it. He knows his situation is settled, but perhaps theirs doesn't have to be. Abraham's response? "They have Moses and the Prophets; let them hear them." The rich man persists: "No, father Abraham, but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent." Abraham's final word cuts to the heart: "If they do not hear Moses and the Prophets, neither will they be convinced if someone should rise from the dead."
This exchange raises a haunting question: If Jesus will not send someone back from hell to warn your family, then who will warn them? The answer is simple and sobering: The redeemed. The saved. The ones who were headed to hell themselves but have been rescued by grace.
God's plan for reaching the lost isn't built on supernatural appearances or ghostly visitations. It's built on ordinary believers sharing an extraordinary message. Romans 10 tells us that "faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of God” The testimony we carry is urgent. The burden we should feel is real. And the opportunity we have is limited to this side of eternity.
Some might ask, "How can a loving God allow such a place as hell?" But we must also ask: "How can people look at the cross of Christ and still refuse Jesus as Lord and Savior?" The cross is God's loudest statement about both His love and His holiness. God didn't shrug off sin or wink at rebellion. He dealt with it by sending His only Son to drink the cup of wrath that belonged to us. 2 Corinthians 5:21 says it plainly: "For our sake he made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God."
God doesn't delight in punishment. He made a way of escape. As 2 Peter 3:9 reminds us, He is "not wishing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance." Hell isn't preached because God hates sinners. It's preached because God loves sinners enough to warn them of impending judgment while offering them complete salvation. If hell is real—and it is—then our silence is not kindness, politeness, or sophistication. It's tragedy.
We must recover our burden for the lost. It's possible to be genuinely saved and practically silent. It's possible to love the Lord and drift into comfortable forgetfulness about where people are headed. But Jesus didn't save us merely to keep us out of hell. He saved us to make us witnesses for Him. Listen, you don't need to be a theologian. You just need to be honest: Here's who I was. Here's what Christ did. Here's how He changed me. Here's how He can save you.
For those reading who cannot say with confidence, "I have eternal life," hear this clearly: God doesn't want you guessing about your eternity. 1 John 5 was written so that you may know you have eternal life. Salvation requires recognizing that Jesus Christ is Lord, that He died for your sins, rose from the grave, and offers you forgiveness and eternal life.
Repentance means agreeing with God about your sin, turning from it, and turning to Him. Faith means personally trusting in Jesus—resting your soul on His death, burial, and resurrection.
Eternity is entirely too long to be wrong. And love—real love—warns.
The man in hell begged for a drop of water, for mercy, and for a messenger. Heaven's response was clear: they have the Word. The fact is that We have the Word too. We have the gospel. We also have neighbors, coworkers, family members who may be closer to eternity than we realize.
Will we speak? Will we warn? Will we love enough to tell the truth?
The burden is ours. The urgency is now. And the message is still the same: Jesus saves.
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