We carry two hungers in our chest: the hunger for comfort and the hunger for meaning. Luke’s story of the rich man and Lazarus brings those hungers into collision—asking whether our comforts blind us to suffering, and whether our religion can ever substitute for mercy. It’s a sharp, uncomfortable mirror: are we the man feasting while Lazarus lies at our gate?
In Luke 16:19–31 Jesus tells of a rich man who lives in luxury and a poor man named Lazarus who lies at his gate, covered in sores and longing for scraps. When both die, Lazarus is carried to Abraham’s side and comforted, while the rich man finds himself in torment and begs relief. Abraham explains that the present reversal reflects choices made in life; a fixed chasm now prevents crossing back. The rich man then pleads that someone be sent to warn his brothers, but Abraham answers that they have Moses and the Prophets—if they won’t listen to Scripture, neither will a miraculous sign persuade them. This parable is unique to Luke (it doesn’t appear in Matthew, Mark, or John).
Jesus here exposes an essential truth about God’s kingdom and the human heart: God notices the poor, and the Gospel reverses worldly calculations of worth. The parable is not a casual bedtime story but a weighty summons—our indifference has consequences. There’s both a warning (the danger of hardening into self-absorption) and grace (God acknowledges and comforts the overlooked). Jesus uses stark, concrete images because moral softness around wealth and compassion is one of the quickest ways our faith becomes decorative rather than transformational.
So what do we do with this? Start small and specific: name one “Lazarus” in your life—the lonely coworker, the neighbor whose bills you don’t ask about—and do one humble thing for them this week (a meal, a listening hour, practical help). Read a passage of Scripture with the explicit question, “What does this call me to do for those who suffer?” Let generosity and attention become spiritual disciplines that reshape your desires. The Gospel calls us not only to feel sorrow but to let mercy rearrange our days.
In Luke 16:19–31 Jesus tells of a rich man who lives in luxury and a poor man named Lazarus who lies at his gate, covered in sores and longing for scraps. When both die, Lazarus is carried to Abraham’s side and comforted, while the rich man finds himself in torment and begs relief. Abraham explains that the present reversal reflects choices made in life; a fixed chasm now prevents crossing back. The rich man then pleads that someone be sent to warn his brothers, but Abraham answers that they have Moses and the Prophets—if they won’t listen to Scripture, neither will a miraculous sign persuade them. This parable is unique to Luke (it doesn’t appear in Matthew, Mark, or John).
Jesus here exposes an essential truth about God’s kingdom and the human heart: God notices the poor, and the Gospel reverses worldly calculations of worth. The parable is not a casual bedtime story but a weighty summons—our indifference has consequences. There’s both a warning (the danger of hardening into self-absorption) and grace (God acknowledges and comforts the overlooked). Jesus uses stark, concrete images because moral softness around wealth and compassion is one of the quickest ways our faith becomes decorative rather than transformational.
So what do we do with this? Start small and specific: name one “Lazarus” in your life—the lonely coworker, the neighbor whose bills you don’t ask about—and do one humble thing for them this week (a meal, a listening hour, practical help). Read a passage of Scripture with the explicit question, “What does this call me to do for those who suffer?” Let generosity and attention become spiritual disciplines that reshape your desires. The Gospel calls us not only to feel sorrow but to let mercy rearrange our days.