THEOSISJohn Chrysostom
Such warnings He proclaims daily. But you may question how often we truly support Him. Is it just for a few days? Is it ten, or twenty? Yet He desires our care not only during those days but throughout our entire earthly existence. The wise virgins possessed oil, but it was not enough for their salvation. They lit their lamps, yet were excluded from the wedding feast. This was justly so, as their lamps had gone out before the bridegroom arrived. Thus, we must ensure we have an abundance of oil and compassion. Hear the prophet's call: ‘Have mercy on me, O God, according to Thy great mercy’ (Psalm 50:3). Likewise, we should extend mercy to others in correspondence with the great mercy we can offer. Our treatment of our fellow servants will prepare the kind of Master we will encounter.
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When is mercy considered great? It is when we give not from our excess, but from our need. And if our giving does not emerge from abundance, what hope can we grasp? What will rescue us from such challenges? Where can we find refuge and salvation? If the virgins, after enduring significant toil, found no comfort, who will advocate for us when we are confronted with those daunting words, when the Judge Himself chastises, saying, ‘You did not feed me when I was hungry’?
Will we also hear this blessed voice? I cannot say this with certainty, for we often neglect the needs of the impoverished. Behold the season of fasting, the teachings on essential doctrines, the unceasing prayers, the daily gatherings—what value does this edification hold? None at all. As we depart this place, we see lines of beggars standing faithfully on either side, yet we pass by them unfeelingly, as if they were mere columns, not human souls. We rush home as if we were encountering lifeless statues rather than living beings. They suffer from hunger, we say. But let their hunger prompt us to pause; for those who are full, as the saying goes, fail to comprehend the plight of the hungry, and those in want, due to their own scarcity, can empathize with the needs of others. Yet, can they truly grasp the depth of that need? You race to the plentiful table and can scarcely bear to share even a little. Meanwhile, the destitute stands until evening, striving to gather enough for daily sustenance, plagued by the knowledge that the day has ended and insufficient money remains for their basic needs. Anxiety grips them as they are compelled to do what exceeds their capacity. Thus, in the evening, the beggars press upon us more urgently, swearing, crying, and extending their hands, often resorting to desperate measures without shame. They dread that after returning home, they may roam the city like wanderers in a desolate wilderness. As storm-tossed sailors clutching a plank seek to reach the shore before nightfall, so too the hungry rush before dusk, hoping to gather enough for bread, lest they be left abandoned as others retire for the night. Their refuge lies in the outstretched hands of those who can assist.
Yet we remain unmoved by their suffering, neither in the public square nor in the comfort of our own homes. In fact, even when abundance is prepared for us, often filled with countless luxuries—if we can call food consumed in light of our cruelty a luxury—when a feast is laid before us, we remain indifferent, even as we hear them walking along narrow paths, calling out loudly at crossroads, existing in utter darkness and emptiness. When we have eaten our fill and drift off to sleep, and during that time hear their wails once more, we disregard them, as if we were hearing a dog bark rather than a human lament. We ignore the hour—when late at night all are slumbering, one alone suffers—and the simplicity of the request—merely bread or a small amount of money, nothing more—and the gravity of their plight—as they battle relentless hunger. We overlook the humility of the one asking—who, burdened by need, does not dare to approach closely, but calls out from a distance. If they receive assistance, they send up countless prayers; if they do not, they bear no harsh words nor scorn those who could help but choose not to. Instead, just as a condemned person, led by an executioner to a cruel fate, pleads with passersby yet receives no mercy, so too this one, lured out by hunger as if by an executioner's command, stretches out their hands in deep distress, beseeching those within the houses, yet finding no compassion, is met with great cruelty and despair. But none of this resonates with us. After such inhumanity, we nonetheless dare to lift our hands to heaven, asking God for mercy and seeking forgiveness for our sins, with no fear that divine wrath might fall upon us following such prayers, amidst such callousness! How, I ask, do we retire to rest without concern that this beggar may dream of being thin, dirty, dressed in rags, sorrowful, weeping, and accusing us of our cruelty? I have frequently heard from many that after refusing assistance to the poor by day, they dreamt at night of being bound, dragged by the beggars, tormented and suffering greatly. But this is merely a dream, a fleeting torment. Are we not fearful, I ask, that this sorrowful, crying, pleading beggar may one day be seen in the bosom of Abraham, as the rich man saw Lazarus? (Luke 16:23). What comes next, I leave to your conscience, to comprehend—the bitter and inescapable punishments—the pleas for water that go unheard, the burning tongue, the unending torment, and the absence of pardon despite great entreaties.
May God grant us grace to avoid such experiences, having heard the warning in words, to shun it in actions, and, having proven ourselves worthy of the love of our forefather Abraham, to attain the same place with him, through the grace and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom the Father and the Holy Spirit are glorified, now and forever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.