Introduction

Some stories slip in quietly and sit down beside you. Others knock at the front door and ask to be heard. Jesus tells one that stands at the gate. We can see him, can’t we? A rich man with linens crisp as a spring morning. A poor man with sores that sting like salt. A gate between them. A table behind it. The clink of silverware on the inside. The cold of the stones on the outside. And the question we cannot ignore: Who is at our gate?

Martin Luther King Jr. once asked, “Life’s most persistent and urgent question is, ‘What are you doing for others?’” It is persistent because it will not go away. It is urgent because souls and stories hang in the balance. Some of us have passed the gate all week long. A neighbor who aches with loneliness. A single mom counting pennies. A teenager who wonders if anyone sees him. God does not shame us. He invites us. He hands us a key called compassion. He whispers, Open the door.

This is a word about seeing. About seeing the person by the threshold and the threshold in our own hearts. It is about indifference that builds a chasm we cannot cross. It is about opening our tables to the one at the gate. It is about living the Scriptures with urgency and justice—today, while it is called today. The good news? Grace gives new eyes. Mercy gives new hands. The Spirit gives holy courage for ordinary obedience.

Let’s listen to Jesus.

Luke 16:19-31 (KJV) 19 There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day: 20 And there was a certain beggar named Lazarus, which was laid at his gate, full of sores, 21 And desiring to be fed with the crumbs which fell from the rich man's table: moreover the dogs came and licked his sores. 22 And it came to pass, that the beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom: the rich man also died, and was buried; 23 And in hell he lift up his eyes, being in torments, and seeth Abraham afar off, and Lazarus in his bosom. 24 And he cried and said, Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus, that he may dip the tip of his finger in water, and cool my tongue; for I am tormented in this flame. 25 But Abraham said, Son, remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things, and likewise Lazarus evil things: but now he is comforted, and thou art tormented. 26 And beside all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed: so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence. 27 Then he said, I pray thee therefore, father, that thou wouldest send him to my father's house: 28 For I have five brethren; that he may testify unto them, lest they also come into this place of torment. 29 Abraham saith unto him, They have Moses and the prophets; let them hear them. 30 And he said, Nay, father Abraham: but if one went unto them from the dead, they will repent. 31 And he said unto him, If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead.

Friend, notice how few words Jesus needs to paint a world we recognize. Purple robes and fine linen are not just fabrics. They are headlines about a heart. Crumbs and sores are not just details. They are cries for mercy. That gate could be a picket fence, a calendar full of meetings, a screen that never sleeps, a fear that says, Keep moving. Yet the Lord is kind to stop us here. He places a man named Lazarus within arm’s reach of a man with a feast and asks, Will love open the door?

Indifference never sits still. It grows. It hardens. It hides. It builds a canyon as silent as midnight and as deadly as a cliff. But so does compassion. It grows. It warms. It moves. It spreads like light down a hallway. It sets an extra place at the table. It carries a bag of groceries. It learns a name. It listens longer than is convenient. That is the invitation today: to open your table to the one at the gate and to live the Scriptures with urgency and justice. Not later. Now. Not when it’s easy. When the Spirit nudges.

What if our city felt the ripple of this room’s love? What if every home here had a chair that squeaked because it got used so often by guests who needed grace? What if our calendars were interrupted by holy appointments at the edge of our gates? The rich man’s regret came from requests he never made and neighbors he never noticed. We have this moment to notice. We have this moment to ask for eyes that see, feet that move, wallets that open, and words that bless. Mercy has a melody, and the church can hum it loud enough to be heard on the other side of the street.

Let’s pray.

Opening Prayer: Father of mercies, we come to You with open hands and, at times, slow hearts. Speak, Lord. Give us eyes to see Lazarus at our gate. Give us ears to hear the cry beneath the noise. Give us courage to open our tables and our lives. Tear down the small fences we’ve built and lead us to the people You love. Let Your Word search us and shape us. Holy Spirit, kindle a fire of compassion that will not fade by sunset. Lord Jesus, thank You for crossing every chasm to reach us. Make us quick to repent, quick to obey, and quick to bless. Today, let justice roll and mercy run through us like a river. In Your name we pray, amen.

Indifference Builds a Chasm We Cannot Cross

Indifference starts small. It begins with a glance away. It grows with a shrug. It becomes habit. It turns a neighbor into background noise. The man in Jesus’ story lived near a person in need every single day. He walked past the same spot. He stepped over the same body. He ate rich meals while a hungry person lay within earshot. This is how a gap forms. Choice by choice. Day by day. It settles into the bones. It shapes what we see and what we ignore. Then one day the story says there was a distance that could not be crossed. It did not appear in a moment. It was the final shape of many neglected moments.

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Open Your Table to the One at the Gate

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