Luke 16:23

This verse comes from one of Jesus' most sobering parables — the story of a rich man and a poor beggar named Lazarus. In the story, both men die. Lazarus ends up in a place of peace described as 'Abraham's side' — Abraham was the founding patriarch of the Jewish people, so being at his side was a way of saying Lazarus was in the place of honor and rest. The rich man ends up in anguish and torment, able to see Lazarus from a great distance but unable to reach him. Jesus told this story not to give a detailed map of the afterlife, but to confront his listeners with a specific kind of blindness: the rich man walked past Lazarus every single day and simply never truly saw him. The reversal after death is the whole point of the parable.

Father, forgive me for the people I walk past without really seeing. Open my eyes to the Lazarus at my gate today — not as a problem to solve or a project to manage, but as a person you love and brought into my path on purpose. Don't let me sleepwalk past them. Amen.

There's a specific kind of blindness Jesus is diagnosing here — and it's not the dramatic kind, where someone actively despises the poor. It's the ordinary kind. The rich man in this story didn't abuse Lazarus. He didn't chase him away. He just didn't notice him. He walked past him every single day, probably thinking about other things, and that habit of not-noticing slowly became the shape of his soul. That's the detail that should make all of us uncomfortable, not just 'wealthy people' in some abstract category. Who is at your gate right now that you've gotten good at not seeing? The coworker who's drowning but always says 'fine.' The neighbor whose lights are always on at 2 AM. The person whose name you don't know yet but whose face you recognize. Jesus tells this story not to terrorize but to interrupt — to ask whether your eyes are open while there is still time to open them.