It wasn’t like he didn’t remember the name. In Hades, being in torment, the
rich man cried out, “Father Abraham, send Lazarus to dip his finger in the
water and cool my tongue.” If, during his life of leisure he had been summoned
to a police station, he could have picked out Lazarus from a lineup.
The problem was, though he remembered the name, he didn’t
remember Lazarus himself, when it counted. There lay the poor man at his gate,
hungry, outranked not just by the rich man himself but by the rich man’s dogs—they,
at least, got what fell from the table. But the poor man got nothing but the
dogs’ mercy. They, at least, saw his
wounds; they, at least, helped him
the only way they knew, by licking his wounds.
Why do you suppose the rich man forgot Lazarus? I think
it was because he was buried already when he was alive. Elsewhere the Lord
speaks of seed that gets choked by the cares and pleasures of life. Well, this
rich man was buried by the things he had: covered by fine clothes, good food, a
wonderful house, servants, pets—all those things he had, really had him. His mind was preoccupied with them. So it had
no space for Lazarus. He couldn’t see the needs of his neighbor. He simply
forgot.
So Abraham says to him, Son, remember. Remember the good things you enjoyed in life. That was
then. This is now.
I have a sneaking suspicion that during his earthly days,
the rich man didn’t think of all his fine clothing, and food, and all as good
things. I think he probably experienced them as burdens, not as joys. He worked
to gain them. He worried about losing them. And after a while, all the
so-called “finer things” in life aren’t so fine. If you saw the movie “Citizen
Kane,” you’ll remember the rich man’s last word was “Rosebud.” Everyone tried
to figure out what that word meant; it was the name of the sled he had enjoyed
when he was a child.
I think that about the rich man, because that’s how I
treat so many of the things I’ve gotten, over the years. They’re not fun.
They’re just more to take care of, more to protect, more to worry about. If I’m
not careful, I can grow attached to things
instead of to my neighbor. How easy
to forget…how hard to remember!
And when I care for things more than I care for people, brick
by brick I build a wall, shovel by shovel I dig a gulf and cut myself off. Note
what Abraham tells him: “Those who would
pass from here to you may not; and no one can
pass from you to here.” Nothing traps us, nothing cuts us off more effectively from God and each other than our own passions
and desires.
If we are to escape the rich man’s fate, beloved, we must
remember, while there is still time.
“Your life is given you for repentance,” says St. Isaac the Syrian, “do not
waste it in vain pursuits.” And St. James says, “True religion and undefiled
before God the Father is this: to remember the widows and orphans in their
affliction, and to keep ourselves unstained by the world.” Now, while we are in
the flesh, is the time to repent, to return, to remember.
For God, in his mercy, has not forgotten us. In Exodus 2,
it says, “Then the children of Israel groaned because of the bondage, and they
cried out; and their cry came up to God because of the bondage. So God heard
their groaning, and God remembered
His covenant with Abraham, with Isaac, and with Jacob. And God looked upon the
children of Israel, and God acknowledged them.” The rest of Exodus shows what that remembering means. God sent Moses,
who freed them from bondage and made them a people fit for God. God’s delivering Israel, foreshadowed his
great remembering, when he took on flesh for us in the Virgin’s womb, and
served, and shared, and suffered.
While Christ suffered, on the cursed tree, the wise
thief cried out, “Jesus, remember me when you come in your Kingdom.” He
was assured, “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” In Isaiah God
says, “I will not forget you; you are engraved on the palms of my
hands”—powerful words when we remember they come from one who is crucified for
us and alive again.
In this time and space, God
remembers us. Let us call on him. Let us bring him our cries and our tears for
all the ways we have forgotten him and our neighbor. Let us relax our grip on
things, and on passions, so that we may receive him as he comes to us in his
body and blood.
“Do this in remembrance of me,”
he says in a few moments, and by that he doesn’t mean “Think of long ago and
far away,” but rather, “Here I am, as I promised. Remember whose flesh and
blood you receive, and for what purpose.” Remember. Remember. Remember.