Today’s readings speak with one voice. They give us a warning, a challenge, and an invitation. And they leave us with one very powerful question: Are we really seeing the people around us?

When I read today’s Gospel about Lazarus lying at the rich man’s gate, my mind immediately goes to the images we see almost every day on the news: the children of Gaza, crying in the rubble of war… families displaced, hungry, searching for safety. They are like Lazarus—wounded, broken, longing for even the smallest scraps of dignity and peace.

But it’s not just Gaza. Sometimes it’s closer to home. How many times have we walked past a homeless person in the city? How many times have we crossed the street to avoid someone who looked unsafe? How often do we change the TV channel because the news is just too heavy? And we tell ourselves: “It’s not my problem.”

But Jesus tells us today: It is your problem. Because when we ignore Lazarus, we ignore Christ Himself. Remember his words: “Whatever you did not do for one of these little ones, you did not do for me.”

The prophet Amos, in our first reading, shouts against those who live in comfort while others suffer. And he’s not only talking about war or violence. He’s talking about something quieter, something we all know too well—complacency. That moment when we get so used to our own comfort, that we stop noticing the pain of others. Amos says: That is darkness.

And Jesus paints that darkness for us in the Gospel. The rich man—he doesn’t even get a name. Just “the rich man.” He dresses in purple, feasts every day. And at his gate lies Lazarus, covered in sores, hungry, begging. The rich man doesn’t beat him, doesn’t chase him away. He simply ignores him. He chooses blindness.

And in the end, that blindness becomes his prison. Even in hell, he still cannot see Lazarus as a brother. “Father Abraham, send Lazarus to bring me water. Send Lazarus to warn my brothers.” He still treats him like a servant. That’s the deepest darkness: when our hearts no longer recognise the humanity of another person.

Friends, Lazarus is still with us today. He’s the refugee, the lonely neighbour, the single mother stretched to her limits, the elderly man who hasn’t had a visitor in weeks, the child in a war zone. And sometimes, the hard truth is this: we are the ones feasting inside, while Lazarus waits outside our gate.

But here’s the Good News: it is not too late. Jesus is calling us to wake up. To open our eyes. To see Lazarus—not as a problem, not as a burden, but as our doorway to heaven. If we listen to his cry, if we share what we have, if we welcome the stranger, then we walk in the light of Christ.

So let’s take this question with us today: Who is Lazarus at my gate this week?
Is it someone I’ve been ignoring? Someone who needs my help, my time, my love?

My friends, don’t wait. Don’t look away. Christ is here. He is the light in our daily life. And he is asking us to step out of the shadows and walk with Him.

May God give us the courage to see, to love, and to act.

Amen.