The abundance of the earth is a gift from God, born of
divine benevolence for the good of all living beings. While society often
values generosity and kindness, encouraging charity for the vulnerable, a
profound tension arises when wealth accumulates excessively in the hands of a
few.
The Gospels, in many ways, present a radical critique of
unchecked wealth, illustrating how it can blind individuals and corrupt
systems.
The Rich Young Man (Matthew 19:16-22), who “had many
possessions,” was closed within his own wealth. He was not able to free himself
to follow Jesus. The parable of the Rich Fool (Luke 12:13-21) condemns greed
and self-sufficiency. He could think of his abundant harvest, only to
"eat, drink, and be merry" for many years. But the story tells us
that security can be found only in the benevolence of God. The rich man in the parable
of the Rich Man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31 is blind to Lazarus's hunger and wounds.
His dress of purple and fine linen is also seen with the pious Pharisees who
prayed in the marketplaces. Under this system of hypocrisy, the poor become
negligible and invisible. It is a permitted ethical failure.
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I am Lazarus, and I lie still,
Outside the gate, upon your hill.
You wear the purple, the finest thread,
While dogs come softly to lick my head.
You feast within your golden hall,
But my shadow casts no shade at all.
You pass me by, with hurried step,
My suffering is a secret kept.
Your holy robes, your pious plea,
Are sewn on a world that doesn't see.
The poor are now negligible, I'm told,
A permitted failure, growing cold.
I am Lazarus, and I lie still,
Outside the gate, upon your hill.
You pass me by, with hurried step,
My suffering is a secret kept.
When wealth is power, and coins decide,
You look away from the turning tide.
In lands of conflict, chaos, and dust,
Your favour leans where you can trust
To gain advantage, a quick return,
While homes and bodies crumble and burn.
Your short-term interest, a selfish game,
Writes impunity upon my name.
You justify the awful cost,
The human measure that is lost.
You see no hunger, no gaping wound,
Just silent dirt on hollow ground.
I am Lazarus, and I lie still,
Outside the gate, upon your hill.
You pass me by, with hurried step,
My suffering is a secret kept.
You see no hunger, no gaping wound,
Just silent dirt on hollow ground.
The child's burned face, the flowing tear,
The homeless fright, the constant fear—
These are the things you choose to hide,
As if the heavens have never cried.
But hear this truth, whispered and stark:
My wounds don't vanish in the dark.
You pass me by, with hurried step,
My suffering is a secret kept.
You see no hunger, no gaping wound,
Just silent dirt on hollow ground.
But hear this truth, whispered and stark:
My wounds don't vanish in the dark.
For two or three generations on,
The horror lives, from dusk to dawn.
The pain you permit, the grief you justify,
Will echo in every child's sad eye.
Will this cycle break? Will this suffering cease?
Will the world finally choose lasting peace?
The answer waits upon your choice,
Will you finally hear the Lazarus voice?
The poor are here. The wound is fresh.
Will you be responsible for the broken flesh?
Will you come near the burned faces of the innocent?
You pass me by, with hurried step,
My suffering is a secret kept.
I am Lazarus, and I lie still,
Outside the gate, upon your hill.
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