“As You Did to Me”
Matthew 25:31–46
“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.’ Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?’ Then he will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”
About 9 years ago a bronze sculpture depicting Jesus as a homeless person sleeping on a park bench was unveiled in Toronto.[i] The sculpture is designed in such a way that Jesus is huddled beneath a blanket, his face and hands obscured. Only the crucifixion wounds on his feet reveal his identity.
The sculptor, Timothy Schmalz, a practicing Catholic describes the sculpture as a “visual translation” of the Gospel reading for today, in which Jesus identifies himself with the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the prisoner, and then tells his followers: “Whatever you did to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”
Public reaction to the statue has been wide. Some people find it offensive, even creepy. Others adore it. Pope Francis blessed it. People sit and pray beside it. In one city, a woman called the police within minutes of the sculpture’s installation, assuming that the figure beneath the blanket was a real homeless person.
Today the Church celebrates the Reign of Christ, a liturgical hinge between the long “Season After Pentecost,” and the beginning of Advent next week. Today we pause to reflect on the meaning of Christ’s reign over the Church, the world, and our lives. What kind of king is Jesus? What does his rule look and feel like? What does it mean to live and thrive in the reign of Christ?
We all have some vision of the power and pageantry associated with royalty. So, this bible reading seems out of place. Wouldn’t it be more fitting to read something today from Revelation, with a Jesus decked out in splendid robes and a jeweled crown. But no. The royalty Jesus describes in Matthew’s Gospel is of another order, entirely. It is the self-emptying Jesus. The homeless Jesus. Sick Jesus. Imprisoned Jesus. Hungry Jesus. Naked Jesus. He is the royalty that stoops.
This Christian festival “Reign of Christ” is a recent addition to the Western liturgical calendar. In 1925 Pope Pius XI instituted it with the hope that a world ravaged by World War I might find in Jesus’s humble kingship a needed alternative to empire, nationalism, consumerism, and secularism.
Does it seem like the Pope’s vision has yet to be realized? Today, Covid-19 cases are soaring across the United States, not least because millions of people are refusing outright to wear masks and practice distancing. What is that, if not a refusal to see and tend to Jesus in our most vulnerable neighbors? Is not then the Jesus of this text even now lying in thousands of hospital beds, struggling to breathe? Is not our king hungry, thirsty, and naked after months of Covid-induced unemployment? Isn’t Jesus even now languishing in a million prison cells, feeling utterly expendable as the coronavirus rips through our jails and prisons?
It seems that many people, instead of embracing the possibility of a humble, wounded king, have given over to a version of kingship that is all about power, supremacy, triumphalism, and greatness. Does it seem to you that we have forgotten that the only power Jesus wielded on earth was the power to give himself away. He’s the king who entered humanity in complete dependence, a king whose greatest displays of power included riding on a donkey, washing dirty feet, hanging on a cross, and frying fish on a beach for his questioning friends. How did we shift from the self-emptying of Jesus’ own will to becoming so focused on God’s divine will?
Many Christians long to “see Jesus” And rightly so. We pray for an experience of Jesus’s presence. We yearn to feel him close. We sing hymns, recite creeds, hear sermons, and attend Bible studies — all in the hope of seeing and knowing Jesus in a deeper and more meaningful way.
There is nothing wrong with these practices — unless they keep us at comfortable arm’s length from where Jesus actually is. Unless they lead us to believe that the work of justice and compassion is somehow secondary to the “real” business of Christianity. The real business of Christianity is bending the knee to Jesus. And where is Jesus? Jesus is in the least and the lost and the broken and the wounded. Jesus is in the un-pretty places. In the faces we do not smile at. In the people we quickly dismiss or turn from on the sidewalk or street corner.
It is not that we earn our way to majestic King Jesus by caring for the vulnerable. It is that majestic King Jesus, by his own choice and volition, has stooped and surrendered in such a way that he IS the vulnerable. There’s no other way to get to him. None.
So, what is it in us that turns away when Jesus offers us his whole self in such provocative, unbearable simplicity? This is a real question — and its worth wrestling with. What are we afraid of? Vulnerability? Jesuit theologian James Keenan defines mercy as “the willingness to enter into the chaos of others.” Is that what we’re afraid of? Other people’s chaos and struggle?
The thing is, it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to have questions. It’s okay to see the huddled figure on the bench, and not know exactly what to do. But at some point, our fears must come face to face with reality: “Whatever you did to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” There is simply no way around it. Not if we take Jesus’s kingship seriously.
Likewise, there is no way around the perplexing fact that our reading for this Reign of Christ Sunday — a reading that describes the final judgment of all humanity — says nothing about belief. Think about that. Matthew 25 depicts a scene from the heavenly throne room. It’s a scene describing the culmination of history, when all nations will gather before Christ, and Christ will separate his people as a shepherd separates sheep from goats. Notice the criteria he’ll use for the separation. What will it be? Not our confessions of faith. Not our beliefs, not our doctrinal commitments, not our purity, not our “personal relationships” with Jesus. The criteria will be compassion, and compassion alone.
Surprised? I am. But yes, this is our king, and yes, we are meant to be provoked and bewildered by his priorities. The One sits upon his glorious throne with all the nations gathered before him is the same one who, at the very apex of divine power reveals that the universe turns upon a cup of water given to the littlest ones in his name.
If we are not at least a little bit unnerved, then we’re not paying enough attention.
Soon, we will enter Advent, a season of waiting, longing, and listening. Soon we will walk into the growing darkness, waiting for the light to dawn, for the news of a baby born to redefine kingship, authority, and power forever. But on this Sunday, here and now, we are asked to see Jesus in places we would rather not look. We are asked to remember that every encounter we have with “the least of these” is an actual encounter with Jesus. It is not a metaphor, nor wordplay. It is not optional. The person huddled
[i] Timothy Schmalz. Regis College, University of Toronto
