Guy N. Woods
In the only recorded instance of a prayer directed to a “saint,” the effort was unsuccessful. The rich man, in Hades, in that portion of the realms of departed spirits where the wicked pass at death to await the resurrection of the body and the judgment day, “cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame” (Luke 16:24). Figures, of which this is doubtless one, are of frequent occurrence in the Scriptures and are employed, not because the reality is less than the figure but greater. It is here taught, and that all the more firmly because, incidentally, that following death, the souls of the finally impenitent suffer as terribly as if a fire were tormenting their bodies.
To the pitiful plea of the tortured man, Abraham replied: “Son, remember.” Memory is indeed a wonderful and blessed faculty. It enables us to recall the glorious and thrilling moments of a joyous past and experience again the joys that brought delight to our souls. Memory can be, and often is, a tortuous, terrible thing, causing it to loom into our consciousness, which we would gladly give the world to forget. Without attempting to enter the discussion of whether the fires of hell will be literal or figurative, we may be sure that if the only fire that awaits the disobedient is the fire of memory, that will be insufferable enough! When the books are opened on the judgment day, memory and conscience will be volumes among them. The waters of the river of death are no Lethe, bringing with them the forgetfulness of all past evil. Truly did Tennyson say: “Sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things!”
It is not unusual for one, faced with sudden death, to have pass in review, and in minute detail, every act, both good and bad, of his past life. On such occasions, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, every action, every design of one’s past life, becomes a part of a giant jigsaw puzzle, each of which fits into and becomes manifest in relation to the whole design of one’s subsequent existence. A man’s forgotten sins are not unlike old, disused coins rusty and illegible—but each with an image and superscription, dates, and symbols full of meaning. In the hands of the assayer, the rust is brushed aside, and the letters again become legible. So, will it be at the last day with the sins long forgotten by men but indelibly recorded in the book of God’s remembrance?
Two reasons are assigned by the worthy patriarch why the rich man’s request could not be granted. The first grew out of the fitness of things. “Thou in thy lifetime…good things,…Lazarus…evil things.” He had already received his good things! Having chosen this life as his portion, he had already received and enjoyed his reward, having used none to make provision for the next life. The inexorable law of compensation made it inequitable and unfair that he should be allowed to profit in both spheres of existence. (How many of us in the church today need this lesson? How many of us are laying up treasures to ourselves—spending our means for fleshly gratification—and are not rich toward God? As free agents, we may do so, but we should not complain in judgment when we are reminded that we elected to receive our “good things” in this life). A second reason was drawn from the necessity of the case. A “great gulf ” had been fixed between them through which it was impossible to pass. The gulf symbolizes the inherent character difference between the saved and the lost. Whatever other fixed gulf there may be, the permanence of character is certainly the gulf of separation. The rich man’s character was fixed in evil; that of Lazarus, in good, and in the world to come, there is no change.
Finally convinced of the awful and irrevocable helplessness of his wretched state, in a glance backward at the earth he had for evermore left, he remembered his five brothers who were living as he had lived and whose destiny would, therefore, be the same as his. “Send Lazarus to warn them,” he pleaded. He imagined that such a phenomenon would influence them to turn from their wicked courses. Abraham reminded him that they had “Moses and the prophets” throughout the Old Testament revelation. It was not that they lacked sufficient warning to keep them from the torment he suffered; they, like him, would not heed what they had. Mindful of his stubbornness of heart and certain that theirs was the same attitude, he felt this was insufficient. He thought that if one went unto them from the dead, indeed, they would repent. He would thus have had a miracle performed to convert his wayward brethren. His followers are legion. Many today subscribe to the same philosophy and, therefore, minimize the importance of sacred writings and seek supernatural portents.
Abraham denied that the results the rich man expected would be obtained in this fashion. In the dialogue which ensued, we may paraphrase their conversation thus:
The rich man said: “They will repent.”
Abraham replied: “They will not even be persuaded.”
The rich man contended: “If one went to them from the dead—”
With a prophetic glance at the world’s unbelief in far greater matters, Abraham answered: “No, not if one rose from the dead!”
This is, in effect, to say: “A far greater act than you demand would be ineffectual for producing a far slighter effect.” One from the dead might terrify them and fill them with awe, but it would not change their nature nor produce repentance in their hearts.
The rich man’s request contained the veiled charge that God’s revelation was insufficient for the purpose for which it was designed. It implied that the rebellion that characterized his brothers was excusable: if God would provide additional—and, therefore, satisfactory—evidence, they would believe. His implication was false and wicked, a deliberate and highhanded accusation against the goodness and wisdom of the Great Jehovah. The lesson is that if men will not be faithful with the advantages that they have, they will not with greater advantages. Those who reject the revelation given would not surrender to His will were He to make available a thousand additional revelations. There are at least three reasons why this is so: (1) Men would not believe that the messenger came from the dead. Jesus came forth from the dead, and the evidence of this fact is complete and satisfactory, yet men reject it without hesitation. (2) Facts that then existed evidenced the truth of Abraham’s statement. Marvelous manifestations of miraculous power left the hypocritical and supercilious Pharisees unmoved. Soon after the incidents of this lesson, Jesus raised Lazarus, the brother of Mary and Martha, from the dead, and the Pharisees tried to kill both on account of it. The Lord Himself had come from the land on the other side of death and was at this very time testifying of what He had seen and knew regarding it, but they rejected Him. Afterward, He rose from the dead, but still, they did not believe. (3) Were an additional revelation given, it would have to contain (a) more light, (b) stronger proofs, or (c) more powerful motives.
But, on what subject, about man’s duty, does he need more light? The conditions are set forth so clearly that it is impossible to misunderstand them without expert help. As to stronger proofs, if the evidence of the Christian religion is rejected as insufficient, then it is impossible to establish a historical proposition; we can subsequently be assured of nothing, save that within the sphere of our observation. A new revelation could not provide more impelling motives—hope, fear, duty, and love. We cannot conceive of any stronger degree than in the Bible. There could be no better heaven to hope for, no more dreadful hell to escape, stronger sanctions of duty, or greater love than is found in God and Christ. If men do not surrender to these, no power in this world or the next can make them truly good.
