You have heard today, brethren, both the end of poverty, and you have learned what kind of exit riches have, as the Lord says: 'There was a certain rich man, who was clothed in purple and fine linen, and feasted sumptuously every day' (Luke 16). 'And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, full of sores, who lay at his gate, desiring to be filled with the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table, and no one gave to him: but the dogs also came and licked his sores. And it came to pass that the poor man died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom. But the rich man also died, and was buried in hell.' Behold, brethren, how lamentable a reversal of things: the angels carry the poor man, hell swallows the rich man.
Behold, brethren, the death of the poor man conquered the whole life of the rich man, and the mere carrying-up of the poor man transcended the whole pomp and glory of the rich man. Why does the burial thus deceive the eyes? why does it thus lie by the pomp of the funeral rites? For the honor of the rich man the whole city moves out, when his funeral is borne forth; the poor man goes alone, the compassion of two bearers carries the poor man, and not four as for a dead man, but two beneath a single litter, as though the porters were assigned unwillingly to cast off a burden. Deservedly are angelic services soon assigned to him, deservedly divine attendances, to whom the very last rites of humanity were so cruelly denied. A mournful crowd of servants precedes the rich man's funeral; a multitude of psalm-singing angels goes before the poor man's bier.
In a marble tomb and in a well-tended garment the enclosed body of the rich man lies; the poor man's flesh rests in the natural clay, and in its material resting-place knows not the gnawing of worms, but forestalls them by putrefaction and stench. But let us inquire, brethren, what was the rich man's fault, what the crime, what the wickedness that consigned him to the torments of hell, and, before the sentence of his condemnation, made his indictment to be sung for so many ages, the Judge himself relating it, as the Lord says: 'There was a certain rich man, and he was clothed in purple and fine linen, and feasted sumptuously every day. And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, who lay at the rich man's gate, and desired to be filled with the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table.' Are riches by themselves alone criminal?
or are garments alone and by themselves to be condemned before God? and are feasts by themselves so to be punished, that they not only lack the reward of good things, but also bear and deserve the destruction of all evils? Or is beggary so approved and sanctified by itself, and are sores so hallowed, that by the hands of angels they should be snatched to the bosom of holy Abraham? And it is a marvel, brethren, that Abraham, once rich, now spurns the rich man, as the Scripture says: 'And Abraham was very rich' (Genesis 13); and him whom he had as an equal in present goods, he now reproves and suffers to be under punishment—especially since the divine discourse has betrayed neither the good deeds of this poor man nor the evil deeds of that rich man. Why then does Abraham now embrace the poor man, flee and refuse the rich man?
Or how is it that riches held this Abraham innocent, yet made the rich man criminal; that they promoted the one to the rest of all the blessed, and consigned the other to the abyss of all evils? But lest the proposed discourse long weary your mind and suspend your hearing, we must hasten the solution of this question. Abraham, brethren, was rich not for himself but for the poor, and desired not to possess wealth but to disburse it: more and more he was eager to store up his resources in the bosom of the poor rather than in barns, as is fully taught throughout the whole ordering of his life. For a pilgrim himself, he labored unceasingly, and thus he ensured that no pilgrim should feel himself a pilgrim (Genesis 18): dwelling himself under a tent, he did not suffer the stranger to remain without a roof;
and he himself, a guest, always received a guest; an exile from his fatherland, without knowledge of a fixed dwelling, he was himself both lord of all things and a fatherland; knowing himself to be set not as a hoarder but as a steward of the divine bounty, that he might defend the oppressed, release the captives (Genesis 14), and rescue those on the very point of death—he, a new warrior, dedicated himself to death, in whom devotion toward another was dearer than his own life. Abraham stood by the guest he had received, he did not sit down; and he was not a fellow-diner with the guest, but a servant. Abraham, seeing the stranger, forgot that he was a lord; himself the bringer of the meal, solicitous, he assigned his wife to a most refined cooking: and he who entrusts and commits himself and all that is his to his servants, scarcely dares to entrust the guest to a wife however well-proven.
And what more, brethren? His humanity in short was so holy, so always ready with holy hands, that he invited God himself to lodge with him and compelled him to be his guest. He came to Abraham, he came to the rest of the poor, he came to the receiving-place of guests, who will confess in the future that he was received in the guest and the poor man, when he shall say: 'I was hungry, and you gave me to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave me to drink; I was a stranger, and you took me in' (Matthew 25). 'And it came to pass that the poor man died and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom.' Not undeservedly, brethren, did he then receive all the saints in rest, and in that very heavenly beatitude discharges the office of a steward:
because, since here he always received pilgrims and the poor, he merited to receive God himself with the angels, to see him a guest under his own tent, whom he always had as a bountiful giver. And in truth, brethren, he would have counted himself but little blessed, if in that supernal glory itself he should cease from the pious office of hospitality. And he would enjoy the divine gifts alone, who here believed himself cruel to anyone if he denied him human goods.
Abraham, brethren, always ran out to meet those coming from afar; even those passing by he called with entreaty; the unwilling he compelled with much supplication to his table; he always set the first and fattened of his flocks before his guests; with his own hands and those of his wife he always offered warm loaves freshly made, which his constant kindness by no means allowed to be cold and stale. But that rich man—nay, the captive of riches, the slave of wealth, and fettered by his very revenues, so great in the ignoble tomb of pomp, in which every sense of piety had utterly failed, both sight and hearing—despises now not the person, not the poor man, but mercy itself, with Lazarus lying thus at his gate. In purple, in fine linen, in delicate garments, in soft feasts, the cruel one nourished the iron entrails of his soul:
whom God, the eager seeker of man's salvation, desiring to soften, cast down at the gate not so much Lazarus as the very crucible of his piety: I said 'crucible,' on account of the iron entrails. To his impious eyes therefore the beggar Lazarus is thrust and brought near, and, that the rich man might be able to give, the rich man's revenue is more and more heaped up; but the rich man, harder than adamant, whatever God bestowed as revenue for the poor man's sake, for the sake of the rich man's feeding, either poured out shamefully or cruelly stored away.
Again God, that he might not keep silence, that he might cry out, that he might admonish the rich man, that the fasting poor man might show that he sought only bread, that he might drive the abounding man's mind to bestow at least the smallest things—the poor man's hunger is increased. 'He desired,' it says, 'to be filled with the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table.' But the rich man, gorged with various dishes, belched his indigestion up to heaven, lest he should hear the voice of the poor man lying there in such a state. Again God, because to the deafened ears the voice of one mouth crying out was nothing, opens the poor man's whole body with wounds to open the rich man's heart, so that in admonishing the rich man the poor man might have as many mouths as wounds.
The entrails are loosened, the sores are brought forth, the gaping of the wounds is widened, the corrupt matter pours out, and the entire flesh of the poor man is arranged as a stage of piety: but he whom the voice of the hungry man had not moved—whom neither sighs, nor pains, nor groans, nor the whole heap of miseries could move—the rich man, with proud eye and insatiable heart, scorns to hear, and to see, and to feel all these things. God still seeks in what manner the rich man may be loosed from his obstinacy. He loosens the poor man's hands from his own joints, so that he might not even drive away the rich man's dogs, which he was going to feed with his own wounds unto a wound: and in a new way, brethren, the order of humanity is changed;
human beggary comes to be, so that inhuman greed may be exposed. The rich man does not feed the poor man even with the crumbs falling from his table, and Lazarus the poor man, because he had nothing else, proved humane even to the dogs from his own flesh. Wretched rich man, if you gave no bread, why did you refuse even to drive away the dogs? But your dogs are gentler than you—nay, you are fiercer than your dogs: for while you rage, they spare, they who bring forth not teeth to bite but tongues to serve, so that after the manner of a sponge they do not vex the wounds but wipe them clean. Rich man, in your dogs piety conquered hunger; in you satiety did not overcome pity. For that the dogs did this with such care, use itself, which is always before our eyes, proves.
For dogs by licking always tend their own wounds: the dogs tend the poor man by the tutelage of nature, and man neglects man, with nature herself gravely accusing him. It is true, it is true, that the rich man cannot even give crumbs, since the avaricious man is always in need. The discourse must be deferred, brethren, because we have both used up the time for speaking, and the passages of the reading which must most of all be treated by us follow next. Our discourse today, brethren, ought, in so far as it suffices, to recount the virtues of holy Andrew; but because concerning that rich man and Lazarus, the evangelical poor man, we said we would render what remains, and the prerogative of blessed Andrew's apostolate and martyrdom suffices and abounds for his glory, if it please you, let us render what we promised, what we owe, the Lord himself granting it.
For knowing that weariness always breeds tedium both in the speaker and in the hearer, in the previous discourse we deferred the greatest part of the proposed reading, so that with the strength of our minds restored we might take in the sequel of the saving word with all vigor and with the attention due to it. For after those things which we have said, these follow: 'And lifting up his eyes, when he was in torments, he saw Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. And lifting up his eyes' (Luke 16). Late does the rich man lift up his eyes on high, which he always kept cast down to the earth. Rich man, the eyes you lift up are your own accusers; the eyes you lift up do not appease the judge, but inflame him;
they bring back not pardon, but guilt; and they demand a heap of punishments, not consolation. Whither do you lift your eye? why do you still cry out, rich man? whither do you look, rich man? There is Lazarus, there is the betrayer of your impiety, the witness of your crime, the asserter of your cruelty. 'And he cried out,' it says, 'Father Abraham, have mercy on me.' Now you acknowledge a father, and now you do not know him to be your father—him whom in Lazarus you so spurned as a father: now the just one meets you, who then, that he might be kindly to you, long suffered Lazarus to be tormented. Unhappy man, whom his very origin thus accuses, whom the very Author of light thus condemns; unhappy man, for whom in judgment, because of the greatness of the crime, neither could a father have mercy, nor a father pardon, nor affection come to his aid.
What do you still cry out, rich man? Still rich, but in crime, not in wealth; not in substance, but in guilt. What do you cry out? what do you ask? In this place there is now no petitioning, but a controversy, where over against you stands the very one who suffered: but the place of the pleaders is diverse: this one pleads from nearby, that one from afar; this one urges from a bosom, that one cries out from Tartarus; the one prays from rest, the other complains from punishment. But since the rich man says: 'Father Abraham, have mercy on me.' You would say it well, if Lazarus resting in the bosom did not hold the very heart of the judge; you would say it well, if Lazarus did not possess all the secrets of that most just Recognizer. In vain does he ask the judge, whom the innocent witness thus accuses;
and in vain does he believe the judge can come to his aid, when he himself who endured so much things is pronounced by the mouth of the judge. 'Have mercy on me, and send Lazarus.' Are you still thus cruel toward Lazarus? Send Lazarus. Whither? To hell from the bosom, from the lofty throne to the deepest chaos, to the gnashing of torments from holy rest, from so great a silence of the blessed. 'And send Lazarus.' As I see, what the rich man does is not of a new grief, but of an old envy, and he is more inflamed by heaven than by Gehenna. Grievous is that evil to them, an unbearable burning is theirs, to see those happy whom they once held in contempt. Still malice does not desert the rich man, whom punishment already possesses, who asks not that he be led to Lazarus, but wants Lazarus to be led down to himself.
To the bed of your torment, rich man, the pious Abraham cannot send Lazarus, whom you did not deign to admit to your table. Now the roles are reversed for you: you see the glory of him whose suffering you thus despised; he sees your torments, who then marveled at you in your glory. But let us see, brethren, why he thus laments that Lazarus should be sent to him. 'Send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue.' You were mistaken, rich man; this flame is not so much of the tongue as of the mind, not so much of the tongue as of the heart; and as yet this is the heat of conscience, not that final burning which awaits and expects you.
For if the whole fire of the final judgment already encompassed you, and the sentence of that despaired-of condemnation already held you, you would never lift your eyes, never converse with the father, never ask on your own behalf, never presume to intercede for your brethren. Surely, if the whole fire of hell already possesses you, if the flame of Gehenna embraces you, why do you desire to be relieved by the coolings of the tongue alone? Except that, while the flame of its own crime and guilt makes your breast pant, the tongue the more is burned, blazes, and boils, which insulted the poor man, which denied him mercy:
this goes ahead to judgment, this first tastes and suffers the torments, this feels the burning first of the whole body, which, when here it first tasted the various foods of delights and the perfumed cups, would not command that piety be shown, did not order that mercy be made, but even disparaged it while others did it. He it is who was clothed in purple and fine linen. What is it, rich man? does fine linen not protect against the heat? does purple not withstand hell? These things remained behind; these things deserted him, and he himself now sweats naked and burns, who once insulted the heats of others, clothed in an artful nakedness. 'And send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue.' What is it, rich man?
Where now are the torrents of your winepresses? Where are the barns that you widened for the poor man's hunger no less than for your abundance of goods? Where are the wines kept for years, aged into the very oblivion of time while the poor man went in want? Where are the outpourings, the overflowings, the lavish blasts of your household service? All these things have perished for you, given over to your indictment; you who now beg for a single drop from a fingertip's edge, though, had you given that drop alone to the poor man, you would not now be thirsting. A single drop has made you merciless, a single crumb has made you inhuman toward those things in which the whole sustenance and life of the poor man consists. I would gladly know, rich man, whether, set as you are in your own punishment, you can forgive even your own self; for you would not have come to these evils, had you then given a crumb from such great barns, a drop from such great winepresses.
Little is it that the flesh needs, that nature demands, that suffices for life; it is avarice that causes a man to lay up great and many things, not for himself but for others, plainly to his own present or future torment. But you say, rich man: Even if I refused wine, I ask for water, which the Author of all himself and nature provided in common to every living creature. I think, rich man, that you refused even water to the poor man, against whom, lest he enter your door, lest he reach your well, you set as many dogs as you could. But what is it you say? Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water — and does he not bring the water himself? Then the water is close at hand; and if it is close at hand, why do you not take it from what is near?
Why? Because your hands have been justly bound, rich man, for you scorned to succor Lazarus when his hands were loosed and disabled by weakness. A man ought, he ought to share his own members with the disabled; and Job, since he did not merely give but rather rendered them their due, spoke thus: I was an eye to the blind and a foot to the lame; I was a father of the helpless (Job 29, according to the Septuagint). O man, if you have no coin, give the poor man your hand, for he shows the greater mercy who leads the poor and disabled man by the hand to his own table. He gave his very self to the poor man, who fitted himself for the service of the poor, who fitted himself for the poor man's servitude. Again, brethren, let us defer the fullness of the present word, that at a third hearing we may set forth what sentence the rich man received from the most blessed Abraham.