By Sam Ikedinachi Otti
Chinua Achebe titled his last work: There Was a Country, a historical masterpiece worth reading a thousand times. But my choice of the headline is not drawn from Achebe’s book. Instead, it comes from my personal reflection on the Gospel of Luke 16:19: “There was a rich man, who was clothed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day.”
That passage struck me like a thunderbolt when it was proclaimed this morning in the Catholic Church. A rich man that once luxuriated in abundance was described in the past, famished by thirst in the fiery flames of hell.
Many of us are familiar with this story of a rich man who once lived in pomp and luxury, only to descend at last into eternal torment. Wealth and riches, however dazzling, provide only temporary comfort. Their glitter soon fades, and their glory turns to dust. Even gold rusts and lose value; and fame fades like a beautiful flower scorched by a blazing sun.
In the evening of our lives, we shall look back and see the waste we accumulated in our frenetic race for material possession. While we are busy feathering our nests, we ignore the distressing cries of our brothers pining in want. In our frenzied quest for comfort, we lose ourselves like a leaf tossed on a flowing river. Draped in sweat and toil for years on earth, we end up at dusk with nothing at the door of eternity.
At the rich man’s gate sat beggarly Lazarus, reduced to skin and bones by the adversities of life. The earth denied him basic comfort and burdened him with sores that even dogs came to lick. Forgotten by the world, he longed for crumbs from the rich man’s overflowing table, yet none came his way. His only companions were the pets of the wealthy, a ravenous dog that lusted for the blood of its poor victim.
Today, countless Lazaruses sit at the gates of our modern mansions. In our homes, offices, parliaments, churches, palaces, government buildings and public places are Lazarus with festering sores. They are not asking for the most expensive jewels or the latest designer clothes in your wardrobe. They plead only for our cast-offs: discarded shoes, worn clothes, leftover food, a little kindness. Around us, in our neighborhoods and beyond, families live on the edge of survival, praying for daily bread. Yet like the rich man, we sin daily when we turn away, indifferent to their plight.
The rich man didn’t drive Lazarus away, but he neglected him by denying him love.
For the rich man, Lazarus was a daily spectacle, perhaps even an object of mockery. Pride swelled in his heart; he congratulated himself that he was not like Lazarus. His table overflowed with abundance, but his soul starved of virtue.
But when death came, the roles were reversed. Lazarus was carried by angels into Abraham’s bosom, while the rich man was cast into Hades, the abode of the damned. There, stripped of his pride, he lifted his eyes and begged for mercy. Ironically, the same Lazarus whom he once despised became the one he now depended on. He pleaded for a drop of water to cool his tongue, but his appeal for kindness was denied because he never showed mercy.
A French king once lamented on his deathbed: “Even with all my powers, I cannot persuade death to wait one more hour for me.” Death is the great equalizer. It levels kings and servants, scholars and illiterates, the wealthy and the poor. In the end, dust returns to dust.
What, then, is the true meaning of riches? It is not in champagne that costs millions, destined only to fatten the flesh for termites. It is not in the millions stashed in banks while your neighbour starves. True wealth lies in lifting others, in easing the burdens of those at your gate, in using your blessings as instruments of mercy.
You are poor indeed if your brother lives in deprivation while you live in excess. Wealth used for noble purposes—feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, sheltering the homeless—is the only wealth that endures. That is the definition of true riches.