26th Sunday 2022
Amos 6:1,4-7; 1 Tim 6:11-16; Luke 16:19-31
Where’s Lazarus? You may be familiar with “Where’s Wally?” a page which crops up in puzzle books in which Wally, a distinctive character in a red and white striped jumper and a red tam-o-shanter, has to be found among a crowd of people. Wally isn’t always easy to spot: Lazarus should be, because he pops up in so many guises in so many different people.
Lazarus is to be found in the refugee, who lies almost literally at our door, having made a perilous journey over land and sea, and probably having seen many of his companions die. He may be a man, a woman, or a child, and his arrival causes difficulties, but he is entitled to a compassionate and generous reception while decisions are made about him and, please God, in consultation with him.
The far right, with the connivance of certain politicians, would have us do what the rich man of the parable did not do, and actively ill treat him: we, on the other hand, must press for a just and compassionate response to his situation, and must seek to alleviate those conditions in his home land which caused him to set out on his journey.
We find Lazarus too in many citizens of developing countries, suffering as a result of unjust trading conditions and, as we are becoming increasingly aware, of the degradation of the planet, which impacts most on the poorer regions of the world.
He is found also closer to home, sleeping in our streets. Homelessness has many causes, some of which appear to defy solution, but the effort must be made. Whether we bawl to the sound of the harp and drink wine by the bowlful may be up to us, but I daresay that most of us sprawl on our divans at times, as Amos suggested. Either way, we cannot claim the excuse that the sprawlers and the bawlers, and the rich man of the parable may have claimed, that they didn’t know that Lazarus was there. We know about Lazarus: we cannot argue with the, probably mythical, Highland preacher who thundered from the pulpit, “It will be no use saying ‘But Lord, we didna ken’, because He will reply ‘Well, ye ken the noo’!”
Yet Lazarus also takes less obvious, more subtle forms. He may be the outsider in the neighbourhood, the workplace, the classroom, the parish, or even the family. I suspect that there was a Lazarus in every form or class at school, the kid who didn’t fit in; who attracted derision, dislike, even outright bullying. There was certainly one in my form: even if you didn’t pick on him, it was difficult to summon the courage to actively befriend him; much easier to ignore him, as the rich man ignored Lazarus.
And in the family, is there an awkward child, an unpopular aunt or uncle, a sibling banished to the margins, perhaps because of a dislike of his/her spouse or partner, or his/her lifestyle? This too is Lazarus, deserving of our notice, entitled to justice and love.
Many women would say today that they are Lazarus in the institutional Church. I would put in a claim for that endangered species, the working class Catholic of average education, for long the backbone of the Church in this country, but now largely ignored or despised, alienated from what is often called the chattering Church of the chattering classes, once active in the SVP or the UCM, but now adrift in the sea of study groups and parish programmes.
How do we respond to Lazarus? Charitable giving is important, but it is not enough. Action is needed. We must begin at home, by being aware of the needs and entitlement of those close to us, but then we must widen our horizons. Hands-on support for Lazarus in our midst is vital, but we must also work for justice on the larger scale. We may feel that the joining of campaigns, the lobbying of MPs is not our style, yet we do not have the right to do nothing, “ensconced snugly” wherever we may be. Lazarus is at our gate: on our response to him, says Jesus today, depends our eternal salvation.
