By Abbot Marion Nguyen

The parable of the rich man and Lazarus (Lk 16:19–31) is striking not because the rich man is portrayed as wicked, but because he is portrayed as ordinary. Jesus does not accuse him of cruelty, dishonesty, or exploitation. There is no indication that he acquired his wealth unjustly or that he used it for evil. His failure was far more subtle: negligence. He simply did not see.

Lazarus lay at his very doorstep, but the rich man passed him by day after day without recognition. The chilling irony is that from the netherworld the rich man finally calls Lazarus by name, but in life he had never acknowledged his suffering. He recognized Lazarus the person, but never Lazarus the poor. It was not malice that condemned him, but indifference.

This is precisely why the parable has such relevance for us today, particularly in America, the wealthiest nation in the world by GDP. The danger for us is not necessarily cruelty or exploitation, but blindness. Comfort dulls sight. Prosperity numbs compassion. The tragedy of the rich man is that he was anesthetized against empathy. The question for us is urgent: how do we guard against the same fate?

St Gregory the Great, in his Pastoral Rule (Book III, ch. 2), provides keen guidance for those entrusted with addressing the wealthy. His wisdom is as relevant in the twenty-first century as it was in the sixth. Gregory makes several key distinctions.

First, wealth itself is not evil. Poverty does not guarantee virtue. The poor can harbor pride and insensitivity despite their lowly state; the rich can be humble and generous even amid abundance. The spiritual physician, therefore, must adapt his medicine to the patient. To the proud poor, stern rebuke is required; to the humble rich, gentle encouragement.

Second, Gregory insists that the proud rich must be confronted with fear: they must be reminded that riches are fleeting, and that they cannot truly possess what they behold. Wealth is, at best, a temporary stewardship. Such warnings shake the complacency that easily sets in when abundance lulls the soul into security.

Third, he highlights the power of gentle exhortation. Just as David soothed Saul’s tormented spirit with the harp (1 Sam 16:23), so too must preachers soften the hearts of the wealthy by playing upon the strings of compassion. Indifference is rarely broken by harshness; it is softened by melody. In our time, we might recall the power of music and art—songs such as We Are the World or Heal the World—which awakened consciences not by accusation, but by stirring the imagination toward solidarity. Beauty cultivates empathy where arguments alone may fail.

Finally, Gregory notes a second effective strategy: indirect exhortation. Nathan’s parable to David (2 Sam 12:1–7) is paradigmatic. By speaking of injustice as though it belonged to another, Nathan disarmed David’s defenses until he declared judgment upon himself. “You are the man.” So too, those hardened by wealth may be best approached obliquely. This requires creativity — what the Gospel last week called the “shrewdness” of the unjust steward (Lk 16:1–8) — but directed toward virtue rather than vice.

The rich man’s downfall was not hatred, but blindness. He could not recognize the poor man at his gate. Recognition — of the person, of the suffering, of the image of God before us — is the antidote to indifference. The Gospel demands that we cultivate eyes that see. Gregory, in turn, teaches us that such sight is fostered by a combination of warning, encouragement, gentle appeal, and indirect storytelling. For unless our hearts learn to see Lazarus in the here and now, we may find ourselves one day recognizing him from afar — but too late.