They Have Moses and the Prophets

A Reflection on the Twenty-Second Sunday after Pentecost

Beloved in Christ,

In the Gospel appointed for today, we can discern a glimmer of humanity and charity the final request of the rich man in Our Lord’s parable. Having discovered that the great gulf separating himself from Abraham and Lazarus cannot be crossed, he turns his attention to his five brothers, still living in the world. He begs that Lazarus might be sent to warn them, lest they also come into that place of torment.

Abraham answers him a somewhat startling simplicity: “They have Moses and the prophets; let them hear them.”

But the rich man is not satisfied. He is convinced that something more extraordinary is needed. The words of Moses and the prophets, it seems, are insufficient. But surely the appearance of one who has returned from the dead would accomplish what the Scriptures have failed to do. “No, father Abraham,” he protests, “but if one went to them from the dead, they will do penance.”

And then comes the terrible conclusion of the parable: “If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they believe, if one rise again from the dead.”

It is a remarkable and sobering answer, and one which reaches far beyond the immediate circumstances of the rich man’s brothers. For it raises a question which confronts every generation of Christians: What more are we waiting to be told?

The rich man’s proposal rests upon an assumption which, if we are honestly, is not entirely unreasonable. Surely an extraordinary event would command extraordinary attention. If a man known to have died were suddenly to appear among the living, bearing testimony concerning the judgment of God, would not even the most indifferent person be moved to repentance? Perhaps he would. At least for a time.

But Abraham’s answer directs our attention away from the spectacle of the proposed miracle and toward the disposition of those who would witness it. The brothers have already received a revelation of God’s will. They possess the Law and the Prophets. They have been taught what righteousness requires, what mercy demands, and what judgment awaits those who persist in wickedness. And among the things which Moses and the prophets have taught them is the obligation to care for the poor.

The Law had commanded that the hand be opened to the needy brethren. The prophets had denounced those who oppressed the poor, neglected the afflicted, and imagined that their religious observances could compensate for injustice. The Lord had declared through Isaias that the fast which He had chosen was one which loosed the bonds of wickedness, relieved the oppressed, and shared bread with the hungry. None of this was obscure. None of it required the interpretation of some hidden mystery. The rich man and his brothers did not need an angel to explain that a starving beggar ought not to be abandoned at the gate of a house overflowing with food.

They had Moses and the prophets. They simply had not listened.

And here we encounter a state of mind and soul which is more disturbing than mere ignorance. For ignorance may be instructed, and confusion may be corrected. But there is the other condition of the soul, a complacency, in which a man knows perfectly well what he ought to do, yet has become so accustomed to doing otherwise that he no longer feels the weight of the commandment. He does not need further instruction. He needs repentance.

There is a persistent temptation in religious life to imagine that our difficulties would be resolved if only God would make Himself a little more obvious. If we could witness some undeniable miracle, we tell ourselves, our faith would become unshakable. If we could hear a voice from heaven, our doubts would vanish. If we could receive some unmistakable sign of divine approval or displeasure, we would finally possess the certainty necessary to amend our lives. Yet the history of salvation offers little encouragement for such confidence.

The children of Israel witnessed the plagues of Egypt, passed through the Red Sea, and received manna in the wilderness. Nevertheless, they murmured against God and repeatedly turned from His commandments. Those who encountered Our Lord during His earthly ministry saw the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, and the dead restored to life. Yet not all believed. Indeed, some who witnessed His works became only more determined to destroy Him. The difficulty was not always that the evidence was insufficient. Often it was that the human heart resisted the conclusion to which the evidence pointed.

A miracle may astonish a man without converting him. It may disturb his complacency without destroying it. It may compel him to acknowledge that something extraordinary has occurred, while leaving him unwilling to surrender the habits and attachments which govern his life. For repentance is not simply the admission that God exists, or even that His judgments are real. It is the turning of the whole person toward Him. And this is something which no spectacle, however magnificent, can accomplish in a heart determined to remain unchanged.

Returning to the Gospel, we should not overlook the particular circumstances in which Our Lord places the teaching of today’s parable.

The rich man is not condemned merely because he possessed wealth, nor is Lazarus received into Abraham’s bosom simply because he was poor. Abraham himself had been a man of considerable possessions. The Scriptures nowhere teach that material prosperity is necessarily a sign of divine displeasure, any more than they teach that material deprivation automatically confers holiness. The terrible feature of the rich man’s life is his indifference!

Lazarus lies at his gate, covered with sores, longing to be filled with the crumbs which fall from his table. The rich man feasts sumptuously every day, while another human being suffers within reach of his generosity. There is no suggestion that Lazarus has wronged him. There is no indication that the rich man has been deprived of the means to help. The beggar is simply there, and the rich man continues with his feasting.

It is worth observing that Our Lord does not describe some spectacular act of cruelty. The rich man is not shown beating Lazarus, driving him into the wilderness, or deliberately inflicting his wounds. He simply does nothing. And that is enough to reveal the dreadful condition of his soul.

For the opposite of love is not always hatred, or acts of wanton cruelty. Most often, it is indifference: the quiet, settled refusal to recognize another person’s suffering as having any claim upon our own lives.

The rich man’s sin was not that he had failed to perform some extraordinary deed of heroic generosity. It was that he had neglected the ordinary demands of mercy. He did not need a revelation from the dead to learn what he ought to have done for Lazarus. He needed only to open his gate.

The final words of Abraham acquire an even more solemn significance when heard by those who live in the light of Christ’s Resurrection. “If they hear not Moses and the prophets, neither will they believe, if one rise again from the dead.”

Our Lord spoke these words before His Passion. Those who first heard them could not yet have understood their full significance. But we hear them knowing what was to come. Christ Himself would suffer death. He would be laid in the tomb. And on the third day He would rise again, overthrowing the dominion of death and opening the way of everlasting life. The very event which the rich man imagined would surely compel repentance has taken place. And yet the world has not universally repented.

The Resurrection is the supreme vindication of Christ’s divine mission, the foundation of Christian hope, and the proclamation of His victory over death. But even this greatest of miracles does not abolish the freedom of the human heart. There remain those who refuse to believe. And, more troubling still, there remain those who profess belief in the Resurrection while living as though Christ had never spoken!

For it is very possible to confess the risen Lord with our lips while refusing to hear His commandments. It is possible to honour His Cross while remaining indifferent to those for whom He suffered. It is possible to celebrate His victory over death while clinging stubbornly to the very sins from which He came to deliver us.

Saint Paul, in the Apostle appointed for this Sunday, speaks of those who desire to make a fair appearance in the flesh, seeking outward conformity while avoiding the scandal of the Cross. Against such religion of appearances, he declares: “But God forbid that I should glory, save in the Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.” And he adds that neither circumcision nor uncircumcision avails anything, “but a new creature.” Here is the transformation which the Gospel demands.

It is not merely a new argument by which we may defend our beliefs. Not merely a new outward sign by which we may distinguish ourselves from others. Not even a new and astonishing experience which may briefly awaken our religious enthusiasm. But a new creature: a human being transformed by grace, whose faith has begun to bear fruit in repentance, humility, and charity.

There really is a certain tragedy in the rich man’s final request in today’s parable. He is concerned that his brothers should not share his fate, but he still imagines that the solution lies in receiving something more than they have already been given. Abraham’s answer is not a refusal of mercy. It is a reminder that mercy has already spoken.

God has not left man without instruction. He has revealed His commandments, sent His prophets, and, in the fullness of time, spoken to us by His Son. We have been told to love God with our whole heart, and our neighbour as ourselves. We have been commanded to forgive, to show mercy, to feed the hungry, to comfort the afflicted, and to receive the stranger. We have been warned against pride, hypocrisy, avarice, and hardness of heart. We have been shown the Cross. We have heard the proclamation of the Resurrection. What more are we waiting to be told?

The question is not whether God has spoken clearly enough, but whether we are willing to hear Him.

And perhaps the most searching application of this Gospel is not to imagine ourselves standing among the rich man’s brothers, awaiting some extraordinary messenger from the other world. Perhaps it is to recognize that, even now, Lazarus may be lying at our own gate. He may not be covered with sores. He may not be starving for bread. His poverty may be loneliness, sorrow, rejection, or the simple longing to be treated with the dignity which belongs to every human being made in the image of God. And we may pass him by, not because we have never heard the commandment of charity, but because we have become accustomed to hearing it without obeying.

The Lord does not ask us to perform miracles before we begin to love our neighbour. He asks us to be faithful in the ordinary opportunities for mercy which His providence places before us. There is still time to open the gate. There is still time to hear the Word. There is still time to repent. For the One Who has risen from the dead has indeed spoken to us. And blessed are they who, having heard His voice, do not harden their hearts!

1 November 2026