Amos 6:1a, 4-7; 1 Tim. 6:11-16; Lk. 16:19-31
Even in ancient societies outside Israel, we see this truth recognized. In Egypt, the Book of the Dead describes how a soul must answer before the gods whether it has fed the hungry and clothed the naked. In Mesopotamian codes, kings were praised when
they protected the weak, the orphan, and the widow. In ancient Mesopotamia, King Hammurabi of Babylon (18th century B.C.) gave the world one of the earliest and most famous legal codes. Inscribed on stone, the prologue to Hammurabi’s Code does not begin with laws of property or trade, but with his duty to defend the weak. He declares that the gods appointed him "to cause justice to prevail in the land, to destroy the wicked and the evil, that the strong might not oppress the weak, to protect the widow and the orphan." This shows that even in societies far removed from the covenant of Israel, rulers were judged not only by their military strength or wealth, but by whether they upheld justice for the most vulnerable. It reflects a deep, universal human recognition that the worth of a civilization is measured not by the splendor of its palaces, but by how it treats its Lazarus at the gate. Across cultures, humanity has understood that wealth without compassion is corruption. Yet Jesus’ parable goes further—it places eternity itself at stake. The "great chasm" between the rich man and Lazarus in the afterlife is but the eternal consequence of the chasm the rich man himself allowed to exist at his own gate in life.The saints remind us of this truth lived out. St. Lawrence, a deacon of the early Church, when ordered by the Roman prefect to surrender the Church’s treasures, gathered the poor, the widows, and the orphans, and declared: "These are the treasures of the Church." St. Vincent de Paul dedicated his life to the abandoned, turning the attention of France’s nobility toward those rotting in prisons and starving in streets. St. Teresa of Calcutta bent over those whom society considered untouchable, kissing the wounds of lepers, holding the hands of the dying. Each of these saints heard the cry of Lazarus and chose to cross the chasm in this life, rather than waiting to regret it in the next.
In our own time, Lazarus still lies at the gates of our abundance. He lies in the refugee who flees war only to find closed borders and suspicion. He lies in the migrant worker whose sweat builds skyscrapers, while he lives in a cramped dormitory without proper food or rest. He lies in the elderly abandoned in care homes, forgotten by children too busy to visit. He lies in the single mother who skips her own meals to feed her children while society debates whether she deserves help. Meanwhile, modern feasts continue—lavish lifestyles fueled by overconsumption, entertainment, and the pursuit of luxury. The danger Jesus warns of is as real today as it was in the courts of the Pharisees.
When we hear about refugees starving in camps or food being wasted in distant countries, it can feel like problems far removed from our own lives. But the truth of this parable reaches into our daily choices. Lazarus is not only on the television screen—he is often right at our doorstep. He may be the delivery worker who brings food to our table yet cannot afford a proper meal for himself. He may be the housemaid who tends our homes with a smile but lives apart from her own children, sending her small wages back to them. He may be the elderly neighbor living alone, too frail to cook or shop, whom we pass by without noticing. At the same time, we are often surrounded by abundance—tables filled with more than we can eat, wardrobes crowded with clothes we barely wear, gadgets and luxuries bought not from need but from desire. How often do we forget that what we take for granted could be life-saving for someone else? The parable asks us to look honestly at the gap between our comfort and another’s suffering, not in some faraway land, but here in our own streets, workplaces, and families.
For the Church, this parable is not an option but a mandate. The Body of Christ cannot turn a blind eye while Lazarus lies outside our gates. To preach the Gospel while neglecting justice is to live half the truth. Pope Francis has often reminded the Church that "a Church without the poor at its center is not the Church of Jesus Christ." Christians are called not merely to charity but to solidarity, to see in every Lazarus the very face of Christ who said, "Whatever you do to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you do to me" (Matthew 25:40).
One powerful modern example is Dr. Vikas Amte and the work of Anandwan (“Forest of Joy”) in India. Dr. Amte, inspired by the suffering of those afflicted with leprosy—people whom society rejected and treated as untouchables—dedicated his life to giving them dignity. He built a community where the sick, the poor, and the disabled could live with self-respect, work, and support one another. What began with a few patients grew into a thriving village with farms, schools, hospitals, and workshops, where people once discarded by society became artisans, teachers, and leaders. His life testifies that when one person sees Lazarus at the gate and chooses compassion over indifference, the chasm of suffering can be bridged, and an entire community can find new life.
Jean Vanier, the founder of the L’Arche communities, another striking modern witness to the Gospel of Lazarus. In 1964, moved by the suffering of people with intellectual disabilities who were often hidden away in institutions, Vanier invited two men, Raphael and Philippe, to live with him in a small house in France. What began as an act of kindness became a worldwide movement of communities where people with and without disabilities share life as equals, eating at the same table, working side by side, and building friendships rooted in dignity and love. Vanier showed that the poor and vulnerable are not burdens to be pitied but gifts who reveal the face of Christ. By opening his home and heart to those society overlooked, he chose to see and serve the Lazarus of his time, and in doing so, created spaces of healing and joy where the Kingdom of God shines visibly on earth.
For each of us personally, this parable calls us to examine our lives. Who is the Lazarus at our gate? Is it a neighbor, a coworker, a stranger on the street, or even someone within our own family? Do we pass by their pain, too absorbed in our comforts? Do we wait for a miracle or a dramatic sign before we act? The rich man begged for a messenger to be sent to his brothers, but Abraham’s response echoes today: "They have Moses and the prophets; let them listen to them." We already know what we are called to do.
The parable leaves us with a sobering warning but also with hope. The chasm of eternity begins in this world, yet it can be bridged here if we open our gates and our hearts- by acts of mercy, by choosing justice over indifference, by sharing our bread with the hungry and welcoming the stranger. The measure of our lives will not be the purple linen we wear or the feasts we host, but whether we have recognized Christ in the one at our doorstep.
And so, this Gospel leaves us with a choice. We can continue living like the rich man, shutting our gates and silencing the cry of Lazarus, or we can open our eyes and hearts to the suffering around us. The Lord does not ask us for miracles—He asks us for mercy. He asks us to share what we have, to listen to His Word, and to recognize His presence in the poor, the weak, and the forgotten.
Satish