Presiding over mass that Sunday was a rather nondescript, retired priest, who had sat quietly beside the altar, and when he rose to deliver the Gospel, he approached the lectern slightly bent with age. With a slow and steady voice, he read the following passage from Luke:

There was a rich man who dressed in purple garments and fine linen and dined sumptuously each day. And lying at his door was a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who would gladly have eaten his fill of the scraps that fell from the rich man’s table. Dogs even used to come and lick his sores.

When the poor man died, he was carried away by angels to the bosom of Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried, and from the netherworld, where he was in torment, he raised his eyes and saw Abraham far off and Lazarus at his side. And he cried out, ‘Father Abraham, have pity on me. Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue, for I am suffering torment in these flames.’

Abraham replied, ‘My child, remember that you received what was good during your lifetime while Lazarus likewise received what was bad; but now he is comforted here, whereas you are tormented. Moreover, between us and you a great chasm is established to prevent anyone from crossing who might wish to go from our side to yours or from your side to ours.’

He said, ‘Then I beg you, father, send him to my father’s house, for I have five brothers, so that he may warn them, lest they too come to this place of torment.’

But Abraham replied, ‘They have Moses and the prophets. Let them listen to them.’

He said, ‘Oh no, father Abraham, but if someone from the dead goes to them, they will repent.’

Then Abraham said, ‘If they will not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded if someone should rise from the dead.’

Fr. Pfeffer paused a moment and stretched out both hands on either side of the lectern, wrapping his fingers around its edge. He looked down once more at the text and then scanned those assembled. When his eyes reached the far wall, they followed it upwards as he drew a deep breath. Finally, he spoke.

“You know, I often wonder what the rich man did to earn an eternity in Hell. He never beat Lazarus. He wasn’t verbally abusive to him. He didn’t spit on him, nor mock him, nor go out on the street and try to shoo him away.

Instead, it appears the rich man didn’t even notice him. I suppose that, my friends, is enough.”

And with a final look at the text, he unwrapped his fingers from the lectern, walked back to his chair, and sat in the simple silence of the place.