The gate never opened for boys like me.
I swept the street outside the rich man’s house every morning—dust, petals from the fig tree, and once, a gold ring too small for my stubby fingers. I wore it for only a second before slipping it under the stone where I kept things. Things that belonged to people like him.
His gate was carved cedar, polished every week, and taller than two men. I used to stare at it, wondering how wide it would swing open when the rich man left for banquets in his purple robes. But I never saw it open for Lazarus.
Lazarus lay just outside, belly pressed to the dust, like he was too tired to sit. His skin was thin, like old linen—torn and stretched. Flies liked him. So did the dogs. They’d lick the open wounds on his legs while he whispered something I couldn’t hear.
“Why doesn’t someone help him?” I asked my father once.
“He’s cursed,” my father said. “Must’ve done something awful.”
But I wasn’t so sure.
Every morning, Lazarus murmured words I didn’t understand. Not hunger or begging. Words with rhythm. Maybe prayers. Once, he smiled at me and I saw something strange: peace. A man starving to death… smiling.
The rich man never looked down. Even when he brushed past, his sandals flinging dust into Lazarus’s hair, he walked like nothing important lay that low.
Then one morning, the street outside the gate was empty.
No scribbled prayers in the dirt. No flies. No dogs.
Just silence.
Not long after, rumors buzzed around the market like bees trapped in a jar. “The rich man died,” a seller whispered as he bagged dates. “Buried in a fine tomb.” Another added, “And Lazarus, too. Gone the same week.”
I waited by the gate every morning after that. I don’t know what I hoped to see.
Until one night—yes, truly in the night—I saw something I still hardly believe.
He was there. Lazarus.
But not on the ground, not covered in sores.
He stood in light.
His face shone, not like the moon, but like joy. And beside him—somehow holding him like a father shelters a child—stood Abraham. Yes, the Abraham from the scrolls, the ancestor of our people. He looked down at something far below, eyes full of sorrow.
From beneath the light, I heard a cry—a voice I’d known.
“Father Abraham! Have mercy! Send Lazarus—just dip his finger in water for my tongue, I’m in agony here!”
It was the rich man.
But he wasn’t wrapped in purple anymore. Firelight flickered instead, and his voice trembled like dry leaves.
Abraham answered gently. “Child, remember in your life, you had good things, while Lazarus had nothing. Now he’s comforted, and you’re in pain. And besides—there’s a great chasm between us. No one can cross it.”
I don’t know what hurt more—hearing the rich man beg, or realizing it was too late.
I never saw the vision again. But it changed me.
I stopped waiting for the gate to open.
Instead, I opened mine.
There are always Lazaruses near us—quiet, hurting, too small to matter in the world’s eyes. But Heaven sees differently.
The rich man feasted in life and begged in death. Lazarus begged in life—and is feasting now.
Not because of poverty.
But because he trusted a better kingdom.
And now, so do I.
The gate never opened for boys like me.
I swept the street outside the rich man’s house every morning—dust, petals from the fig tree, and once, a gold ring too small for my stubby fingers. I wore it for only a second before slipping it under the stone where I kept things. Things that belonged to people like him.
His gate was carved cedar, polished every week, and taller than two men. I used to stare at it, wondering how wide it would swing open when the rich man left for banquets in his purple robes. But I never saw it open for Lazarus.
Lazarus lay just outside, belly pressed to the dust, like he was too tired to sit. His skin was thin, like old linen—torn and stretched. Flies liked him. So did the dogs. They’d lick the open wounds on his legs while he whispered something I couldn’t hear.
“Why doesn’t someone help him?” I asked my father once.
“He’s cursed,” my father said. “Must’ve done something awful.”
But I wasn’t so sure.
Every morning, Lazarus murmured words I didn’t understand. Not hunger or begging. Words with rhythm. Maybe prayers. Once, he smiled at me and I saw something strange: peace. A man starving to death… smiling.
The rich man never looked down. Even when he brushed past, his sandals flinging dust into Lazarus’s hair, he walked like nothing important lay that low.
Then one morning, the street outside the gate was empty.
No scribbled prayers in the dirt. No flies. No dogs.
Just silence.
Not long after, rumors buzzed around the market like bees trapped in a jar. “The rich man died,” a seller whispered as he bagged dates. “Buried in a fine tomb.” Another added, “And Lazarus, too. Gone the same week.”
I waited by the gate every morning after that. I don’t know what I hoped to see.
Until one night—yes, truly in the night—I saw something I still hardly believe.
He was there. Lazarus.
But not on the ground, not covered in sores.
He stood in light.
His face shone, not like the moon, but like joy. And beside him—somehow holding him like a father shelters a child—stood Abraham. Yes, the Abraham from the scrolls, the ancestor of our people. He looked down at something far below, eyes full of sorrow.
From beneath the light, I heard a cry—a voice I’d known.
“Father Abraham! Have mercy! Send Lazarus—just dip his finger in water for my tongue, I’m in agony here!”
It was the rich man.
But he wasn’t wrapped in purple anymore. Firelight flickered instead, and his voice trembled like dry leaves.
Abraham answered gently. “Child, remember in your life, you had good things, while Lazarus had nothing. Now he’s comforted, and you’re in pain. And besides—there’s a great chasm between us. No one can cross it.”
I don’t know what hurt more—hearing the rich man beg, or realizing it was too late.
I never saw the vision again. But it changed me.
I stopped waiting for the gate to open.
Instead, I opened mine.
There are always Lazaruses near us—quiet, hurting, too small to matter in the world’s eyes. But Heaven sees differently.
The rich man feasted in life and begged in death. Lazarus begged in life—and is feasting now.
Not because of poverty.
But because he trusted a better kingdom.
And now, so do I.
