Last week in Luke 16 we heard the very strange story of the dishonest steward. I spoke about the joy of forgiveness, and how the steward’s clever scheme, while perhaps superficially unjust, shows the value of forgiveness and grace.
But in today’s parable of Lazarus in the rich man (Dives in the Latin, and in much of the Western art tradition), we see an object lesson in the Lord’s command to “make friends for ourselves by unrighteous mammon” (16:9). According to some of the old commentators, like St. Bede, this parable is meant directly as a confirmation of that principle.
How so? Because Dives had an opportunity to use his wealth—however it was gained—for the good of someone in need right in front of him. Had he done so, perhaps when that wealth failed, he might have been “received into the eternal habitations.”
The “make friends by unrighteous mammon” instruction, then, isn’t a general commendation of dishonest business practices, but a reinforcement that what may be “unrighteous” in the world of money-making may end up being “righteous” in the world of eternity. Helping lift a poor, ailing man out of poverty isn’t going to win the rich man any friends or give him any rewards in this life, but it gains him a friendship and reward for the life to come, which is ultimately more important.
Does this parable mean that helping the poor will bring us to heaven, or that failing to help the poor will send us to hell? Maybe, but we had better be careful about an approach to almsgiving and the works of mercy that treats it like a simplistic credit in the cosmic accounting — almost like the businesses proudly saying that they plant a tree for every item sold. Salvation isn’t a marketing gimmick, and we can’t buy our way into heaven, as if it were just a matter of doing a work of kindness to counteract every work of selfishness or greed. Ultimately, our presence with God in heaven comes down to our relationship with Jesus: have we turned away from sin, away from our own desires, and cooperated with the grace wherein he unites us to himself?
So I think Augustine’s reading of this parable is helpful. He says Lazarus is a type of Christ. He is the wounded man sitting on the doorstep waiting for us to notice him. Augustine even gives us a rather vivid and unsettling image of the Gentiles as the dogs licking the poor man’s sores: they may be dogs, but they at least partake of the Lord’s own body and blood!
Lest we think this Christological reading of the parable means that the Lord doesn’t think we should notice and care for the poor in a more general way, remember that haunting reminder about the “least of these” in Matthew 25. The only path to eternal life is noticing Jesus, and this requires not only noticing his particular life as it appears to us in history, or even his life as it is presented to us in the Church and its sacraments, but also his life as it appears to us in one another. Suffering doesn’t make one holy any more than poverty does, but both suffering and poverty can bring us closer to Christ in a way that riches and comfort never can. So an attitude like that of the parable’s rich man, where we despise and ignore the poor and suffering lest they violate our own comfort and pleasure moves us toward hell in that it represents a habitual lack of interest in finding Jesus where he has promised us he will be.
The final words of this parable further reinforce our Christ-centered reading: “If they do not hear Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced if some one should rise from the dead.” It may sound heartless, but remember that only a few chapters back, Jesus appeared on the mountainside alongside Moses and Elijah, the Law and the Prophets. In other words, he’s saying, if you will not listen to me, there is nothing else, no higher or clearer proof that preserves human freedom.
The Fathers and later readers often speak about the “unbridgeable chasm” between Lazarus, in the “bosom of Abraham,” and Dives in hell. This chasm does of course support the idea, maintained by Catholic teaching, that there really is a division and an immediate judgment at the point of death. We may be further purified and perfected, but there is no additional change to revivify a soul that has committed itself to eternal death.
There is, however, another way of looking at this chasm, which is that, if we take Augustine’s Christological reading to heart, we can see the incredible generosity of Christ in bridging the gap between death and life, in rising from the dead as a sign not of necessity, but of overwhelming love and favor. Yes, we should have listened to Moses and the Prophets, but we didn’t. So he is going to make a way through his own flesh. He is going to lower himself to the lowest state possible, even the state of death, so that he might burst open the doors of the eternal habitations.
So although the parable of Dives and Lazarus is a warning, it is also a promise: that conversion is possible in this life. We do not have to follow the way of the world, the way of pleasure and comfort and wealth for its own sake. We can instead turn and follow Christ, recognizing that in the final eternal scheme, all our worldly wealth and status are the most abject poverty in light of his glory and power. Yet he wants to share all his goodness with us, if only we can toss aside the many things of this life holding us down.