My brothers and sisters, today’s Gospel presents us with the striking parable of the rich man and Lazarus. It is a story told with great simplicity, yet it pierces the heart. We are not given the rich man’s name, only his purple robes and fine meals. But Lazarus is named, though he is covered in sores, hungry, and cast at the rich man’s gate. In God’s eyes, it seems, the man whom the world forgets is the one remembered and honoured, while the one whose table is full but whose heart is closed remains nameless in eternity.
For us who gather here in the quiet of this monastery, this parable is not remote. Cistercian life is built upon vigilance of the heart, a training in seeing what matters. We live simply so that our eyes may be free to notice the Lazarus at our gate — the one who longs not simply for bread, but for kindness, attention, or dignity. Saint Bernard reminded his monks that “the poor are our masters,” for in them Christ comes to us. To neglect them, to walk past them, is to blind ourselves to God’s own presence.
The rich man’s tragedy is not wealth itself, but his indifference. He allowed the gulf to grow between himself and Lazarus, until in the next life that gulf became unbridgeable. Here is the Gospel’s warning: salvation is not an abstract idea but something lived in acts of mercy. The question each of us must ask is not, “How much do I have?” but, “Whom do I notice?” Do I recognise Christ in the weak, the tired, the awkward, the unwanted?
For you, our visitors, who come seeking peace in this place, or to engage in our social media output, remember that the stillness of a monastery is never an escape from the world’s needs. It is meant as a schooling in compassion, so that when you return to your homes and families, your eyes and hearts may be sharpened to see Lazarus waiting at your own gate. Prayer and silence must always flow outward into mercy.
Let us, then, ask for the grace of attentiveness: that we may not be blind to the suffering laid at our doorstep, that our prayer here may stretch our hearts wider, and that we may recognise the poor as Christ himself. In that recognition lies our salvation, and the joy of the Kingdom where the hungry are filled and the forgotten are named and cherished.