Have you ever noticed that sometimes the greatest tragedies in history did not happen because of what people did, but because of what they failed to do? Think of the disasters that could have been avoided if someone had spoken up, stepped in, or simply cared. Silence and inaction can be as destructive, if not even more destructive than violence. There is a famous saying often attributed to Edmund Burke: “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Whether he said it or not, history proves it true. Wars escalated, injustices spread, and human dignity was trampled, not always because of what wicked people did, but because of the silence of those who could have stopped it. Evil grows well in the shadow of inaction.
That is the heart of today’s Gospel passage. Jesus tells the story of a nameless rich man and a poor man named Lazarus. The shocking part of the story is that the rich man is not condemned because he committed terrible crimes. He is not accused of stealing, cheating, or violence. His sin was subtler; he did nothing. Yes, the sin of doing nothing is subtle but deadly. He stepped over Lazarus at his gate day after day, but he never opened his hand, he never lifted his eyes, he never allowed compassion to move his heart.
The sin of the rich man was clear to the Fathers of the Church. For example, St. John Chrysostom warned, “The rich man was not condemned because he was rich, but because he neglected the poor man.” St Augustine added, “The rich man did not gain his punishment because of what he did, but because of what he failed to do.” The Catechism of the Catholic Church calls this sin the sin of omission: when we fail to do what charity demands (CCC 1853, 1868). The Letter of James puts it clearly: “Whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin” (James 4:17).
Surprisingly, Jesus gives the poor man a name, Lazarus, while the rich man remains anonymous. In our world, it is usually the wealthy who are remembered, and the poor are forgotten. But in the Kingdom of God, the tables are turned. The poor who trust in God are known by name, while the rich, who are arrogant and selfish, fade into obscurity. The name Lazarus means, “God is my help.” The poor man’s very name tells us why he was carried to Abraham’s bosom: not because of his suffering alone, but because, in his weakness, he relied on God.
The First Reading from the prophet Amos warns against the complacency of the comfortable. Wealth, status, worldly connections, or privileges numb us against the sufferings around us. The danger is that the walls we build in this life, such as the walls of indifference, pride, discrimination, and exclusion, become, after death, an eternal chasm that no one can cross. The rich man had no idea that the protection his wealth gave him against Lazarus on earth would make it impossible for Lazarus to be able to cross over and give him as little as a drop of water.
This Gospel passage is not just about material wealth and poverty. There are many kinds of “Lazarus” at our gates. A neighbor grieving in silence. A coworker struggling with loneliness. A classmate who is excluded from the group discussion. A family member we have refused to forgive. Yes, sometimes, the poverty is material; other times it is emotional, spiritual, or relational. The temptation is always the same: to walk away, to say nothing, to do nothing, maybe because I was not the cause of their poverty; perhaps because I think they deserve the suffering.
It hurts to hear the cry of the rich man in hell. It is even more unfortunate that the judgment is final; he can no longer retrace his steps. Fortunately for you and me, we still have the opportunity to retrace our own steps, though we have no idea how much longer we have. Now is the time we are sure of; the time to notice, to act, to reach out. And it does not take extraordinary gestures to bridge the gap: a meal shared, a listening ear, a word of forgiveness, a hand extended in kindness. These are the small bridges that echo into eternity. Our current privileged positions may tempt us with a numbing sense of comfort. Pope Benedict XVI once reminded us: “The world offers you comfort. But you were not made for comfort. You were made for greatness.” That greatness is found in love, not the love we feel, but the love we show. So, as we step out of Mass today, the Gospel asks us: Who is the Lazarus at your gate? Will you walk past, or will you notice, stop, and act? Because in the end, the greatest danger is not what we do wrong, but the good we fail to do.
Homily for 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C 2025
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