Homily—26^th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

Fr. Timothy W. Castor

Do you remember the message of last week’s Gospel? It was the parable of the unjust steward, and how, using his money, he made friends for himself to help him in his time of need. Our Lord applies this to us, his disciples, by saying, "I tell you, make friends for yourselves with dishonest wealth, so that when it fails, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings." In other words, money is tainted—we have a tendency to be deceived by its false promise of happiness and security. So, use it to help those in need: the poor, the less fortunate. By doing so, you will be making friends who will welcome you into a place of eternal happiness and security—our true home in heaven.

Today’s parable follows last week’s very closely in St. Luke’s Gospel; and it is, in fact, meant to be an illustration of the lesson, "make friends for yourselves with dishonest wealth". Or, to be more precise, an illustration of what happens when we don’t make friends with dishonest wealth.

It’s set against the background of a common Jewish belief that divine justice demands balance in the universe: If a man selfishly enjoys comfort, wealth and admiration in this life, he will suffer pain, poverty and loneliness in the next. Conversely, if a man suffers in this life through no fault of his own, he will be comforted in the life to come. But that’s not really the message of this parable, and Jesus neither approves nor disapproves of this simplistic view of justice. He merely uses it as a familiar basis upon which to build and to teach a much more important truth.

Nevertheless, this parable does give us a rare glimpse into the afterlife, and what awaits us when we die. Notice, first of all, that the poor man has a name. Nowhere else in all the parables does Jesus name one of the characters. Yet here there is a name, Lazarus, which in Hebrew means "helped by God." But the rich man—who is really the central character of the story—has no name. Why? Saint Augustine speculates that the rich man goes unidentified because his name was not found written in the Book of Life, whereas the poor man’s name was. So in hell, it appears that the damned lose their identity—they certainly lose the help and comfort of God.

But Lazarus, who had known nothing but abandonment, hunger and sickness in this life, now enjoys the company and consolation of Abraham and all the saints in that eternal banquet of joy and peace—a banquet where he is known and called by name because God has been his help.

The rich man, in his torment, calls for Lazarus by name. In doing so, he is not so much asking for relief from his physical pain. Rather, he is asking for a friend—a companion to comfort him in this place of utter abandonment. He mentions flames. Is this material fire? Or is it a burning desire for peace, for reassurance, for forgiveness which only a friend can give. He burns with desire for friendship—a desire which will never be satisfied.

You see, the rich man had already lost his opportunity to make Lazarus his friend—an opportunity he had been given countless times during his happy and luxurious life as daily he ignored the beggar lying outside his door, longing for a few scraps from his garbage—and yet the rich man couldn’t even afford that. He was so wrapped up in pandering to his own comfort, his own pleasure, that he turned a blind eye to those in need. He was unable to see past his own well-fed belly to the starving man lying at his feet.

When he finally recognizes his hopeless condition (and that’s really what hell is: a place without hope), he seems to express some concern for his brothers. "Send Lazarus to my five brothers, so that he may warn them, lest they too come to this place of torment." Has our hero finally become aware of the needs of others? Has the spark of charity at last ignited in his heart? I’m afraid not. He’s merely trying to justify himself. He’s really saying this: "I’m just like my brothers, and if I had been visited by someone from the dead, I would have repented. It’s all your fault, Father Abraham, for not giving me fair warning." But Abraham calls his bluff: "Even if someone should rise from the dead, they—just like you—would not repent."

Remember that Our Lord is speaking to the scribes and Pharisees who had the witness of Moses and the Prophets and who still refused to amend their ways. A short while after he spoke these words, someone—ironically, someone whose name actually was Lazarus—rose from the dead at our Lord’s command. And did the scribes and Pharisees repent? No. They plotted to kill Jesus so as not to jeopardize their own position and standing in Israel.

And what about us? Jesus himself has risen from the dead. What more can he do to convince us that his way is the way that leads to eternal life. Many of us know financial hardship, or even real poverty. But remember: almost always there’s someone worse off than we are. The Lord has told us quite clearly to use our wealth—little though it may be—to make friends with the poor so that they will welcome us into eternal dwellings. The only friendship worth having is friendship with God and with his saints. Let’s not be slow—let’s not be grudging—in using the means he has given us to obtain that friendship which will last for all eternity.

© 2004, The Rev. Timothy W. Castor

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