His name was Lazarus. In all the parables that Jesus shares throughout His ministry, this is the only character He ever names. Think about that. That says something, doesn’t it? The rich man has no name, but Lazarus does. To God, the rich man is a cautionary tale, but Lazarus is a son.

We can imagine him: lying at the gate, covered with sores, ignored by those who stepped past him (or worse, stepped over him). We learn that dogs were his only companions. He longed for mere scraps from people’s excess, but no one gave him anything. To the world, he was invisible. To God, he was unforgettable. Jesus remembers the names the world forgets.

The tragedy of the rich man is not that he was rich; it’s that he never learned Lazarus’ name. He clothed himself in purple, but never once clothed Lazarus in mercy. He feasted every single day of his life, but never thought to share bread with a man who had nothing. He had the means to help, but he was blind to the sufferings of this man who literally sat at his door.

And so, when death came, there was a great reversal. Lazarus, who was despised in this life, is lifted into Abraham’s embrace. On the flip side of that, the nameless rich man, who ignored Lazarus, is left to cry out; he is left on the outside looking in. What Jesus is telling us is shocking: Jesus remembers the names the world forgets.

The Church Fathers often said that Lazarus is more than a beggar; in this instance he is a portrait of Christ, he is a picture of Christ’s own poverty. When we look at the entirety of the story of Jesus, we see those moments of poverty. He was born in a stable, in a manger, a food trough for animals. He became a refugee in Egypt. When they did return to Nazareth, He was raised in a humble home, the son of a poor maiden and a carpenter. He worked in a manual trade. He was an itinerant preacher with no place to call home. He was ostracized by those who watched Him grow up, by the religious authorities of the day. He was sentenced to crucifixion like a common criminal. On the cross, Christ became poor, wounded, rejected. He was laid outside the gates of the city in a donated tomb, abandoned, neglected by His closest friends. But that wasn’t how His story ended. God raised Him up in glory. That is a similar reality when we look at Lazarus. When we meet those Lazaruses at our gates, we are, in a way, meeting Christ. That changes everything. Suddenly, this parable isn’t about someone out there, it’s about Christ knocking at our door in disguise.

The prophet Amos in our first reading warns those who “lie upon beds of ivory” and feel secure while others collapse. Part of our human nature is that when we’re comfortable, we become blind to the struggles and sufferings of others. In a way, wealth and success insulates. Self-interest hardens the heart. But Paul tells Timothy: pursue righteousness, devotion, faith, love, patience, and gentleness. In other words, we have to be awake; we have to live with eyes open to the people that we encounter, to the people who are in our lives who are our Lazaruses.

So, let me ask: Who is the Lazarus at your door? Maybe it’s the homeless man you pass on the way to work or to the store. Maybe it’s the immigrant family seeking to start over in a strange land, a land of more promise. Maybe it’s the young person silently battling anxiety or depression. Maybe it’s the widow in the pew next to you who longs for someone to notice her. Maybe it’s the family member who pushes every one of your buttons, or the neighbor whose politics or personality you’d rather avoid. Maybe it’s the friend carrying more pain than they let on, or the child in your own family craving attention.

Every Lazarus has a name. Every Lazarus bears Christ’s face. And Jesus remembers the names the world forgets.

Our Gospel today is not meant to crush us, it’s meant to wake us up, to recognize Jesus present in the least among us. It’s not about guilt; it’s about grace. It’s about seeing the world the way God sees it. God doesn’t measure a life by comfort or success; He measures it by love. The rich man’s wealth didn’t follow him. Likewise, Lazarus’s poverty and suffering didn’t define him. What mattered was whether there was love.

And here is the Good News: it is not too late for us. We’re still alive; we’re still able to see, still able to act, to change our ways. We have the Scriptures, we have the Eucharist, we have the voice of Christ calling us today: “Do you see your Lazarus? Do you know his or her name?”

This week, find your Lazarus. Look for the one person you usually overlook, the one person who makes you uncomfortable, the one person the world passes by. Learn their name. Know their story. Show them mercy and love.

Because when we see Lazarus, we see Christ. When we love Lazarus, we love Christ. And when that final day comes and we are called home to the Lord, we will finally see the fullness of the truth of how Jesus remembers the names the world forgets.

Painting: The Rich Man and Lazarus, Girolamo da Ponte, c. 1600. Wikimedia Commons. Used under Public Domain designation.