I was a hospital eucharistic minister for seven years. Sometimes, when I approached the hospital, I imagined that behind this complex medical facility was the lived tableau of a crucifixion. The physicians and researchers, caregivers and cleaners, cooks and chaplains were prominent in the life of the hospital, but it was the suffering patients who gave it coherence and spiritual energy because, by virtue of their neediness, they elicited acts of charity from others.

It was this charity—much of it hidden even to those who performed it—that made this teaching hospital into a holy place, peopled by those who at the Last Judgment might ask, “When did we see you ill?” (Matt 25:39). The Lord was there, in their midst. They did not see him, but they served him.

A different kind of not-seeing afflicted the rich man who remained oblivious to Lazarus even though Lazarus was right before him, sprawled at the doorstep of his lavish home, his very being a rebuke to the thoughtless hedonism of wealth. It’s easy to gloat over the just punishments endured by the rich man, but I suspect all of us have Lazaruses sprawled on the doorsteps of our personal and communal lives.

And I suspect all of us have been like those attending to the needs of the Lazarus who lies in a hospital bed, shivering from fever, stripped of dignity and any hope of agency. And I suspect all of us, at one time or another, have been Lazarus, mutely commending ourselves to the charity of others.

That is why it behooves us not to judge our brother or sister. Only God knows what we have done and what we have failed to do. Only God can judge rightly. All we can do is ask the Lord to give us sight, and leave the rest to his mercy.

Rachelle Linner

Rachelle Linner is a freelance writer, reviewer, and a spiritual director. She has a master of theological studies from Weston Jesuit School of Theology.