At the very beginning of the Catholic Mass we present our credentials for being here. We let everyone know that we belong by confessing that we are sinners. The one requirement for entry into our worship is that we face our sinfulness, our need for God’s forgiveness and healing. Non-sinners need not apply. Sinners are welcome. We turn to God and pray, “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.” It is divine mercy which provides the entry fee for our participation at the table of the Lord. We often use a prayer that goes by the old Latin title for it, the “confiteor.” I confess to almighty God, and to you, my brothers and sisters. I not only confess to God but I also confess to you, my brothers and sisters. After all, my sins don’t hurt the almighty God, but they all too often wound and sting those who have to put up with me. The prayer goes on that “I have sinned through my own fault.” I can’t blame anyone else. I don’t sin because of my poor upbringing. I don’t sin because I have a poor self-image. I don’t sin because the devil made me do it. I sin through my own fault, my choices, my wants, my desires trumping the will of God for me. And I sin “in my thoughts and in my words.” God doesn’t like ugly, the ancestors taught us. Yet ugly is the only way to describe some of the thoughts I have about others, some of the words that I use in dealing with others. There’s a nursery rhyme: sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me. Unfortunately, that is not true. The things we think about one another, the things we say to one another do hurt. The prayer continues, we confess what we have done and what we have failed to do. Most often we consider what we have done when we ponder our sinfulness. Did I lie? Did I steal? Did I commit adultery? Did I disobey? Certainly it is a necessary that we examine the things we do and confess our faults and failings with a firm purpose of amendment, that we will stop doing those things which are displeasing to God.
However, that’s not all the prayer says. The prayer has us confess not only the things that we have done but also the things we have failed to do. There are not only sins of commission but also sins of omission, as the catechism used to put it. Eliminating the evil and ungodly parts of our lives is necessary – but it is not sufficient. We must also make sure that we are doing some of the things that need doing in order to get right with God. Don’t just eliminate the curse word, add the kind word. Don’t just avoid stealing, be a good steward of the resources provided to you. Don’t just stop lying, speak the truth in love to those who need to hear it. We haven’t fulfilled our obligations to God merely by eliminating the negative. We also must accentuate the positive.
All of which serves as an introduction to the parable of the rich man and Lazarus. As Jesus tells it, the rich man is not guilty of any sin of commission. But his sin of omission caused him to suffer torment in flames in the netherworld. Look at the text. As near as we can tell the rich man was a nice guy. He certainly cared about his brothers. He knew his Bible, Moses and the prophets. There is no evidence that he violated any commandment or spoke any harsh words. We can supposed that he worshiped God as any good Jew would have. What landed him in torment was what he failed to do: he failed to see a poor man named Lazarus, lying at his door. It’s not that he was mean to him or harsh towards him. The rich man was so wrapped up in his own world he simply failed to notice the needs of his brother. He failed to understand that the riches he possessed were not his to squander as he willed but a responsibility to be shared with others. For what he failed to see, to understand, to respond to he paid the price of damnation.
Church, Jesus did not tell this as a story of the long ago and far away. This parable is current events. Lazarus is lying at our door, sick, hungry, covered with sores right today. Will we see him? Or will we walk by? Some of those who suffer as Lazarus did are obvious to us: the homeless, the hungry, the poor. We might not be sure what to do, but we know that we must do something. We can’t just let them lie at our door, covered with sores and begging for scraps. Other examples of Lazarus are more ambiguous. We’ve all learned to avoid eye-contact when riding the “L” so that the panhandler won’t recognize us as an easy mark. We’ve grown so accustomed to the presence of violence that we hardly notice it anymore. What to do about situations like these is not obvious but we can’t meet our maker saying, I failed to do what I could to help. That’s the kind of response that lands one in the torment of flames.
Then there are the personal Lazaruses that we walk by. Is Lazarus perhaps a family member who covered with sores of old hurts and resentments? Or maybe Lazarus is a young person who is hungry for time and attention and guidance and direction. Or Lazarus could be that shut-in neighbor that we always mean to go visit but never seem to find the time? We certainly don’t want to tell St. Peter, Oh, I was going to get around to it – to extend the hand of forgiveness, to give of my time and talent, to visit the sick – but somehow I failed to do so. That’s the kind of admission that will soon make one yearn for a finger dipped in cool water.
After confessing our sinfulness, the “confiteor” concludes: I ask the Blessed Mary, ever virgin, all the angel and saints and you, my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God. The instinct seems to be: we need to keep praying for each other as church in order to become the people God has made us to be. And perhaps as church we can help each other to see the face of Christ in all those whose needs are all around us. Our prayer for one another can be: may we never fail to do the kind and compassionate thing that should characterize us as the children of our Heavenly Father.