Inside the gate: a rich man, clothed in purple, linen, and fine things.
Every day a banquet. Every day music, wine, laughter.

Outside the same gate: a poor man.
His name is Lazarus.
Hungry, skin cracked, sores licked by dogs.

Two men.
Two gates.
Two worlds.
Two eternities.

The distance between them is only a few steps.
But in eternity, it becomes a gulf that cannot be crossed.

Notice carefully.
Jesus does not say the rich man hated Lazarus.
He did not strike him.
He did not mock him.
He did not even throw him out.

His sin was worse: indifference.

He saw him.
He stepped over him.
And he did nothing.

Hell is not just populated by murderers and villains.
It is populated by respectable men and women who looked the other way.

You don’t have to hate your neighbour to be damned.
You only have to ignore him.

Even the dogs had more mercy.
They licked Lazarus’ sores.
The beasts pitied.
The man did not.

When a dog shows more humanity than a human, sin has blinded the soul.

Then comes death.
The poor man is carried by angels to Abraham’s side.
The rich man is buried — and wakes in torment.

St Ambrose notes: Lazarus is named, but the rich man is not.
Because God remembers the poor and forgets the proud.

Here Christ is unflinching.
The soul survives death.
Judgment is real.
Heaven, hell, purgatory are not stories, but realities.

Paul VI declared in the Creed of the People of God:
“We believe in eternal life. We believe that the souls of all who die in the grace of Christ — whether purified in purgatory or received immediately into paradise — go to be with Christ until the resurrection of the body.”

Death does not cancel responsibility.
It reveals it.

The rich man begs for water, for mercy, for a warning to his brothers.
But Abraham answers: “A great chasm is fixed.”

That chasm was not dug at death.
It was dug in life.

Every step over Lazarus widened it.
Every look away deepened it.

At death, what was invisible becomes visible.
The wall in his heart becomes a gulf in eternity.

St John Chrysostom warns:
“As long as we live, let us repent. After death, there is no remedy. Even if you have a father or son close to God, no one will be able to set you free if your own deeds condemn you.”

No bribery, no second chances, no excuses.
The time is now.

For the Pharisees listening, this was scandalous.
They believed wealth meant blessing, and poverty meant curse.

Surely the rich man was righteous — he could afford sacrifices, he could give alms without cost.
Surely Lazarus was cursed — hungry, sick, unclean, touched by dogs.

But Jesus turns it upside down.
The poor man is carried to Abraham.
The rich man is cast into torment.

The Gospel overturns worldly wisdom.
It overturns ours too.

Now, let’s be honest.
When we hear this parable, many of us think:
“But Father, most beggars today aren’t genuine. They’re scammers, addicts, not really poor.”

Yes, sometimes.
But notice: Jesus never checks Lazarus’ paperwork.

The parable doesn’t test Lazarus.
It tests the rich man.

God doesn’t ask: “Does he deserve help?”
He asks: “Is your heart open?”

Prudence matters.
You don’t have to hand over coins if it will do harm.
But prudence is never an excuse for indifference.

You can be careful with money.
But never stingy with mercy.

And Lazarus today?
The single mum stretched to breaking.
The elderly neighbour no one visits.
The teenager drowning in loneliness.
The unborn child with no voice.

The question is not whether they deserve it.
The question is whether we even notice them.

The rich man’s sin was not bad charity.
It was no charity.
Not cruelty.
Blindness.

Hell begins the day we stop seeing people as people.

The rich man begs: “Send Lazarus to warn my brothers!”
Abraham replies: “They have Moses and the prophets. If they will not listen, they will not be convinced even if one rises from the dead.”

And it happened.
Lazarus of Bethany rose — and they plotted to kill him.
Jesus rose — and many still refused to believe.

The problem is not lack of miracles.
It is lack of repentance.
Not lack of light.
But closed eyes.

Amos roars in today’s first reading:
“Woe to those stretched on ivory couches, drinking wine by the bowlful, not grieving at the ruin of Joseph!”

It is not the feast that is evil.
It is the feast without compassion.
Luxury without love.

And Paul tells Timothy:
“Fight the good fight. Take hold of eternal life.”

Faith is not reclining on cushions.
It is wrestling on the battlefield.
Not feasting daily.
But carrying the Cross daily.

Here, at St Edward’s, this parable bites harder still.

St Edward the Confessor was a king.
He wore crowns, feasted in halls, held power and wealth.

But he is remembered not for palaces, but for piety.
Not for riches, but for mercy.
Not for splendour, but for sanctity.

Edward knew what the rich man never learned:
that true kingship is service,
true wealth is mercy,
true glory is holiness.

He noticed the Lazarus at his gate.
He used what he had for justice and for generosity.

That is why he is crowned in heaven.
Not because he wore purple on earth,
but because he clothed the poor with compassion.

So here, in his church, we must ask:
Will we be like the nameless rich man?
Or will we be like Edward, who knew Christ is the only true wealth?

As individuals — who is Lazarus at our gate?
As families — do our children see us share, or only spend?
As a parish — do we welcome the outsider, the forgotten, the needy?
Or do we feast among ourselves while Lazarus waits outside?

Edward’s witness makes it plain: palaces fall, crowns fade, names are forgotten.
But mercy endures.
Holiness endures.

The rich man discovered the truth too late.
At death, the door shut.
The chasm was fixed.

Better to repent now with tears of mercy than later with tears of regret.
Better to open our hands now than to wring them forever.
Better to see Lazarus now than to be blind forever.

The time is short.
Eternity is long.

So let us be clear.

Catholicism is not a lifestyle upgrade.
It is salvation from hell and the road to heaven.

A faith that costs nothing is worth nothing.
A love that notices no one is not love at all.
A church that forgets the poor is a church Christ will pass by.

The Gospel is not advice.
It is an ultimatum.
Not “try harder.”
But “repent, believe, follow.”

Two men.
Two gates.
Two destinies.

One feasted for a moment — and starves forever.
One starved for a moment — and feasts forever.

The world remembered the rich man’s wealth.
God forgot his name.

The world forgot Lazarus.
God remembers him forever.

Which one will you be?

Eternity begins at the gate.
Christ Himself waits in the Lazarus you ignore.
The Cross is the only bridge across the chasm.

So — open your eyes.
Open your hands.
Open your heart.

Because Edward the king is crowned in heaven not by gold, but by mercy.
And if we walk in mercy too, then one day, by God’s grace,
we shall feast with Lazarus, with Edward, and with Christ forever.