Over 500 hundred years ago, a young man named Francis was living the good life. He was rich, handsome, pampered, popular. And though nominally a Christian, Jesus was a stranger to him. One day, Francis was forced to interact with a loathsome leper. In a moment of dreaded touch, the leper was transformed, literally becoming before his eyes the very image of Christ. And Francis was changed. From that day forward, he felt called to discover the Christ in each person and creature around him, no matter how poor or insignificant they might seem to be. For Saint Francis of Assisi, that day was New Year’s Day — the first day of the rest of his life — a dying and a rising to all things new.
It is this kind of transforming imagination that our gospel lesson for this morning has the power to unleash in us. Our text from Matthew is Jesus’ final teaching — his final lesson to his disciples and to us before he faced torture and death. There is an urgency in these words. There was a special authority in this vision. This, my friends, is the only version of the last judgment that appears in the gospels and the only one that comes from Jesus’ lips.
Old time religion — and increasingly right-wing religion — is religion based not on faith, but on fear. Some of the greatest art in the world depicts the last judgment day in gory, fearful detail — no more spectacularly than Michelangelo’s breathtaking mural in the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel. With flames, distorted bodies, and anguished faces the artist shows those who are “damned” twisting in the agonies of hell. All the while, in smug, serene safety the “saved” float effortlessly in cloudy heaven. Sitting stoically in the center of this frenetic scene is an impassive Christ, holding a tiny varmint in his fingers, precipitously dangling over the flames of hell. Where will this hapless soul end up? In heaven? Or in hell? Careful study shows that the face of this fragile creature, hanging tenuously from Christ’s hand, is the face of Michelangelo. And so, this image is central for the artist, and for all of us who observe the painting. Which way will you go? Which way will I go? Are we sheep, to be embraced by the peace of heaven — or are we goats, destined to writhe in the horrors of hell?
It is interesting to me that Jesus’ vision of the last judgment day, as recorded in Matthew, could never be considered the blueprint for Michelangelo’s painting. Why? Because Matthew’s vision is not a vision based on fear. It is vision based on compassion. And Jesus’ image has less to do with the salvation — the judgment — of individuals as it does with the judgment, the salvation of nations. Instead of one terrified soul hanging over the pit of hell, what we see in Matthew 25 are all the nations lined up in front of the throne of heaven. And Jesus is not the one making the pivotal decision. The decision has already been made by those who stand in front of the throne. Both the sheep and the goats — through the actions and decisions of their lives — have already determined which direction they will go. Jesus is there simply to render the sentence, not to render the verdict.
Now, before we go any further, let us remind ourselves what the word “salvation” really means. To be “saved” does not mean acceptance into a special club that makes us better and happier than others. No, “salvation” means completion. It means the complete wholeness of abundant life, the blessing of health and justice and joy for everyone. Salvation, in scripture, means the completion of the reign of God. It is a process — the realization of the vision of shalom — rooted in both testaments of the Bible. Jesus’ vision of the last judgment was an attempt to provide an answer to a different kind of question: not who will be saved and who will not, but when all is said and done — when the end time finally comes — when you and I are about to breathe our last — what will have really mattered to us — and what will have been the ultimate worth, the ultimate meaning of our lives? Will our lives be judged by how much money we’ve earned or how many hours we’ve worked or how many books we’ve written? Will our lives be judged by how often we’ve attended church or how many years we’ve tithed? Will we be “saved” by accepting Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior? Jesus’ answer to all of these questions is a resounding “No!” When all is said and done, the abundance, the wholeness, the meaning of our lives will be judged in one simple way. How well did we respond to human need? How specifically did we feed the hungry, visit the sick, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, connect with the prisoner? How tangibly did we honor the image of God in our neighbor? The question will not be how well we accepted Jesus into our hearts. The question will be: How well did we embody Jesus in our lives? And if the answer to that question is “Not very well,” then we will die unsatisfied, unfulfilled, restless — not because Jesus has judged us, but because we — through our decisions and our lifestyles — have judged ourselves.
There is one detail in this very familiar biblical passage that I noticed for the first time this last week. The sheep — the good guys — in this story — were surprised, they were bewildered, even a bit astonished when Jesus thanked them for feeding him, for visiting him, and for welcoming him. When did they ever relate to him? After all, what they did they did instinctively, automatically, freely, not because they were trying to win brownie points, but because it felt good. And they were loving their neighbor, not Jesus. But my friends, this is the good news, the surprising news of this story. When we love and serve our neighbor, we automatically love and serve Jesus. When we honor the image of God in each person, then we honor God. It is as simple and wonderful as that.
The Washington Post occasionally has some good heart stuff in its pages. A few years ago I read about a man named Alfred Rascon, the Vietnam veteran who after 33 years of bureaucratic bungling finally received the Congressional Medal of Honor. Rascon was a Mexican immigrant who, because there was no money for college, joined the army when he was seventeen. Trained as a medic, he was assigned to the 173rd Airborne Brigade, which turned out to be the first army combat unit to be sent into South Vietnam. In March of 1966, Rascon’s platoon woke up to close and heavy enemy fire. Three times during that ambush, the young Alfred threw his body on top of other soldiers in order to shield them from the fire that pummeled his body instead. At one point a bullet entered his hip, traveled up his spine, and exited by his shoulder. His face was hit and blood poured from his nose and his eyes. But he continued to do his work, protecting soldiers, binding up wounds, even running into direct fire to remove a machine gun from enemy reach. Rascon saved lives that day at a tremendous cost to himself, and his buddies kept on trying to get him the proper recognition he deserved.
The quiet center of this storm today serves as an inspector general for the Selective Service system in northern Virginia. When questioned about his courage and commitment over forty years ago, Rascon seemed surprised by all the fuss: “It has nothing to do with me. It’s just a matter of me doing what I had to do that day like any other day. I am dumbfounded by these guys who remember that day and haven’t given up. It’s an honor to realize how much they still care for me.” Like the sheep in today’s vision who end up in the kingdom of God, Alfred Rascon was astonished by the positive reward that now, years later, he received. Like any ordinary person he was just doing what people are supposed to do — rejoicing in the gift of his own life, and honoring the gift of life in others.
My friends, how we choose to use our time, our energy, our wealth, and our talents has everything to do with how abundant our lives will eventually turn out to be — not abundant in “stuff” but abundant in love and grace. Every time we visit our aged mother, volunteer in our child’s classroom, bring in generous amounts of non-perishable food for thanksgiving baskets, volunteer at a soup kitchen, take a moment to greet that visitor sitting in the pew next to us, write an extravagant check for disaster relief in Haiti, we are promoting shalom. We are promoting the vision of harmony and wholeness that God offers us in scripture. And we do it not because we have to but because we want to and because as God’s ambassadors, we need to.
But, my friends, let us be reminded again that according to Matthew’s vision, individual, one-on-one effort is not enough. Remember that it is not individuals who are sentenced and saved in this vision. It is the nations. And as citizens of this nation, we must care about how our nation as a whole is doing the work of shalom.
Feed the hungry. How are we doing in child nutrition programs, international debt relief, foreign aid to countries that really need it — not just countries that serve our national interest? Visit the sick. Why is it that guaranteed national health coverage continues to be a nasty partisan fight? Welcome the stranger. How hard are we working as a congregation to encourage humane and hospitable immigration reform in this country? Brothers and sisters, when we refuse to consider these corporate justice issues — these social, “nation-based” problems — we are, according to today’s text, refusing to serve Jesus. And as a result, we are excluding ourselves and others from the abundant life that Jesus has come to offer.
The final good news in today’s story is that this vivid picture which Jesus paints for us is a vision. It is a future possibility not yet a present reality. We still have time to reexamine our lives. We still have time to recreate our values and priorities, not because we want to be “saved,” but because we yearn for the meaning, the purpose, the wholeness which only compassionate service in Christ’s name can bring.
And Jesus said, “If you have done it unto one of the least of these, you have done it unto me.” It’s not rocket science, my friends. It’s just simple caring. This is our call and this is our purpose. And this is the one sure path to full and abundant life.
May it be so for you and for me. Amen.