Lazarus is knocking

Preacher: Met. John Gregory

Lessons: Amos 6:1-7; Ps 146; 1 Tim 6:11-19; Lk 16:19-31

Every week the lectionary places the voices of scripture in conversation. Today we hear Amos thundering from the eighth century before Christ, warning those who live at ease in Zion. We hear Paul urging Timothy not to be seduced by wealth, but to “be rich in good works.” The psalmist sings of the God who defends the stranger, the orphan, and the widow. And Jesus tells a story that still unsettles: a rich man clothed in purple, feasting every day, and a poor man named Lazarus, lying at his gate, covered with sores, longing for crumbs (Luke 16:19–21, GNT).

The warning is clear: comfort can blind us, indifference can damn us, and generosity is the way of life.

Amos does not mince words: “How terrible it will be for you that have such an easy life in Zion” (Amos 6:1, GNT). He mocks the elites stretched on ivory beds, feasting on lambs, drinking wine by the bowlful, inventing new songs, but deaf to the suffering of their people (Amos 6:4–6). Jesus takes that same indictment and places it in a parable. The rich man lives in luxury while Lazarus lies starving at his gate. The tragedy isn’t that he was wealthy, but that he was blind. Comfort lulled him into forgetting the poor man right in front of him.

We know this pattern well. Here in Phoenix, gleaming high-rises rise downtown. Rooftop bars overflow with laughter. At the same time, tents line Jefferson Street, and hundreds of men and women sleep under overpasses. Last year, more than 600 people in Maricopa County died from heat-related causes. The city grows, the markets surge, yet the Lazaruses of our time die outside in the heat. Comfort can be a narcotic. It dulls our vision, numbs our compassion, and lets us walk past Lazarus without a thought.

And here is the deeper truth: the greatest danger is not hatred but indifference. Notice what Jesus does not say. The rich man never cursed Lazarus. He never struck him. He simply ignored him. Day after day, he walked past the man at his gate. That was his sin. Abraham tells him: “Between you and us a great abyss has been fixed, so that those who want to cross over from here to you cannot do so” (Luke 16:26, GNT). That abyss did not suddenly appear. It was dug every day of his life by indifference.

Indifference numbs us slowly. It creeps into families when the lonely one in the home goes unnoticed. It creeps into workplaces when mistreatment is met with silence. It creeps into churches when we exchange polite greetings but never ask, “How are you, really?” And it creeps into our community when migrants — undocumented, fleeing poverty or violence — labor in fear, raising children in constant anxiety. They are Lazarus at our gate.

The psalmist reminds us: “Happy is the man who has the God of Jacob to help him and who depends on the Lord his God, the Creator of heaven, earth, and sea, and all that is in them. He always keeps his promises; he judges in favor of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry” (Psalm 146:5–7, GNT). God is not indifferent. But too often, we are.

So what is the alternative? Paul offers the answer. “Command them to do good, to be rich in good works, to be generous and ready to share with others. In this way they will store up for themselves a treasure which will be a solid foundation for the future” (1 Timothy 6:18–19, GNT). Generosity is not just a matter of giving money. It is a way of living — of opening rather than closing the gate.

For us as a parish, this must take concrete form. Hospitality in a city of extreme heat means offering water, shade, and rest. Partnership means working with shelters, food banks, and immigrant aid groups already doing the work. Advocacy means raising our voices when policies punish rather than protect the vulnerable. And prayer must fuel action, softening our hearts so that we do not grow numb to Lazarus at our gate.

Amos warns the complacent. The psalmist lifts up the God of the oppressed. Paul calls for generosity. Jesus tells a parable of blindness and exile. And all of them press the same truth: Lazarus is still knocking.

He knocks in the migrant mother who fears losing her children.

He knocks in the man who dies on the pavement in the heat.

He knocks in the child who goes to bed hungry in Maricopa County.

And Lazarus is Christ himself. To answer him is to answer Christ. To ignore him is to ignore Christ.

The question is still before us: will we be numbed by comfort and blinded by indifference, or will we open the gate? Exile or embrace begins here. The chasm or the bridge is built now. Lazarus is knocking. Christ is knocking. May we answer.