Some stories are so familiar that we risk letting them pass like background noise. Today’s readings refuse that. They take up residence on our doorstep—the very place where comfort and human need meet—and ask what kind of people we are becoming, one ordinary day at a time (Am 6:1a, 4-7; Ps 146:7-10; 1 Tm 6:11-16; Lk 16:19-31).
A chasm built one ordinary day at a time (Lk 16:19-31)
Jesus paints a striking contrast: an unnamed rich man, robed in purple and fine linen, and a poor man named Lazarus laid at his gate, covered with sores, longing for scraps, with only dogs for comfort (Lk 16:19-21). After death, the positions reverse: Lazarus is comforted in Abraham’s embrace; the rich man is tormented and suddenly desperate for mercy (Lk 16:22-24). The detail that lingers is the “great chasm” fixed between them (Lk 16:26). That chasm did not appear out of nowhere; it was excavated gradually by daily habits of indifference. The rich man’s sin is not flamboyant cruelty but cultivated blindness: even in torment he still speaks of Lazarus as someone to be sent—still a servant in his imagination (Lk 16:24, 27).
Jesus underlines how sufficient God’s word already is: “They have Moses and the prophets; let them listen to them” (Lk 16:29). If we will not heed Scripture’s persistent call to love the poor, even a miracle won’t move us (Lk 16:31). In a world with push notifications for everything, the Gospel’s notification has been on for centuries.
The prophet’s siren against comfort without compassion (Am 6:1a, 4-7)
Amos does not denounce beauty, music, or good oil; he indicts comfort insulated from compassion. “Woe to the complacent in Zion… who drink wine from bowls… yet are not made ill by the collapse of Joseph” (Am 6:1a, 6). The issue is not enjoyment; it is immunity—pleasure untethered from the pain of one’s neighbor. The prophet warns: the ones feasting first will be the first to go into exile (Am 6:7). If our joys do not widen into generosity, they will shrink into chains.
It is easy to translate “ivory beds” into our time: curated feeds that filter out suffering, neighborhoods zoned to keep poverty out of sight, full calendars that make love inconvenient. Amos says: comfort that does not listen becomes a lie.
Who God is—and what praise looks like (Ps 146:7-10)
The psalm gives a portrait of God’s priorities: “secures justice for the oppressed, gives food to the hungry… sets captives free… raises up those who were bowed down… protects strangers… sustains the fatherless and the widow” (Ps 146:7-9). Praise is not mood music; it is alignment. To say “Praise the Lord, my soul!” (Ps 146:1b) is to desire what God desires. If our worship never moves our wallets, calendars, and thresholds, we are praising a projection, not the Lord who reigns “through all generations” (Ps 146:10).
Competing well for the faith in a consumer age (1 Tm 6:11-16)
Paul’s charge is spiritually athletic: “pursue righteousness, devotion, faith, love, patience, and gentleness. Compete well for the faith” (1 Tm 6:11-12). The Christian life is not a drift; it is a training regimen aimed at “the appearance of our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Tm 6:14). That horizon keeps our loves rightly ordered. The One we await is “King of kings and Lord of lords… who dwells in unapproachable light” (1 Tm 6:15-16). When eternity, not acquisition, sets the pace, generosity ceases to feel like loss and begins to look like preparation—like learning the language of the kingdom where Lazarus has a name.
The Alleluia verse interprets the whole day: “Though our Lord Jesus Christ was rich, he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich” (cf. 2 Cor 8:9). The poverty of Christ is not a strategy; it is revelation. God’s power arrives as self-giving love.
Voices from the early Church: seeing, sharing, standing firm
- St. Ambrose of Milan taught that what we hoard for ourselves was entrusted to us for others. He urged Christians to recognize that the goods of the earth are meant for all, and that refusing the poor is a form of injustice, not merely a lack of charity. His vision lands squarely on today’s Gospel: if Lazarus is at our gate, then part of our “purple” belongs to him.
- St. Justin Martyr described Sunday worship in the second century not only as Word and Eucharist, but as a community that immediately gathered offerings “to help all who are in need”—orphans, widows, the sick, prisoners, and strangers. For Justin, the table of the Lord expands into the table of the poor; otherwise we have not truly recognized the Logos made flesh in our midst.
- St. Clement of Rome urged the early Church to repentance, harmony, and “eagerness for good works,” insisting that order in the Church is ordered to love. His pastoral voice complements Paul’s: keep the command “without stain or reproach” until Christ appears (1 Tm 6:14)—a command that always includes the works of mercy.
Bridging the chasm: practices for today
Grace does not shame; it trains. If the rich man’s chasm was dug by daily choices, then daily choices can begin to build a bridge.
- Practice proximity: learn the names and stories of the “Lazarus” near you—the neighbor without housing, the single parent, the newcomer. Names undo indifference (Lk 16:20).
- Rebudget for mercy: decide a concrete percentage for the poor and for your parish’s outreach; automate generosity so compassion is not left to impulse (Ps 146:7).
- Share your table: keep a standing practice of hospitality—a weekly open meal, a spare chair intentionally filled. The Gospel moves faster over dinner.
- Simplify to free: identify one comfort you can release this season to create margin for service and almsgiving (Am 6:4-6).
- Advocate wisely: support policies and local efforts that protect the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow (Ps 146:9), while staying engaged with real people, not only ideas.
- Train the heart: pray with 1 Timothy 6:11-12 each morning, asking for righteousness, devotion, faith, love, patience, and gentleness. The virtues we ask for become the habits we live.
Listening now to Moses, the prophets, and the risen One
Abraham’s final word is sobering: if we will not listen to Scripture, even a risen witness will not convince us (Lk 16:31). Yet the Risen One still speaks—in the Gospel proclaimed, in the poor named, in the Eucharist that makes us one Body. Today is a good day to ask where our gate is, who lies there, and how Christ’s poverty might reshape our plenty (cf. 2 Cor 8:9).
“Praise the Lord, my soul” becomes more than a refrain when our lives begin to sound like Psalm 146. With St. Paul, we keep the command unstained, not by withdrawing from the world, but by loving it in God’s way, until the appearing of the “King of kings and Lord of lords” (1 Tm 6:14-15)—the One who, in mercy, has already crossed every chasm for us.