As usual, this is the most important: Matthew 25:31-46
I have this ongoing to-do list. I keep a word document open on my computer all the time. On it is my laundry list of things I need to do. Currently, I have nineteen things listed. Among them, include things like “Write a letter to Grandma,” “Vacuum the stairs,” “clean out my email in-box” and “get my 11 year old niece a present for her birthday”, which, by the way, was over two weeks ago. I try to put things on the list that I will actually do as well, things like “write a sermon” and “walk the dog” and “go to Starbucks.” That way, I can have at least some satisfaction when I get to use the backspace key and delete a line or two from the list. Many things aren’t listed either - things like “brush my teeth,” “wash my hair,” and “stop at the gas station” and “clean out the cat box.” These are things I do with some regularity, and it’s actually more tedious - and overwhelming - to write down all the things I do on a regular basis, just so I can digitally “cross” them out, as satisfying as that can be. But there are some things that I’ve given up on listing. When I write them down, they just sit there, staring at me at the very top of the list, mocking me for not getting it done sooner. Things like - clean out the basement, do your daily quiet time, walk 10,000 steps, and unpack one box — uh, we moved into our new house over a year ago. So even though I do things that aren’t on the list, and I don’t do things that are on the list, making the list-making, essentially, pointless, I still make them. Sometimes it’s a good reminder of things I need to do, sometimes it helps me focus at the beginning of a potentially overwhelming day, and sometimes, I just use it to make me feel, sort of, important, like I’m indispensable or something - as if there’s no one else around to do the laundry, buy chickpeas and Oreos at the grocery store, or sweep the leaves off the front porch. And I like my lists, even though I render them perfectly useless, because I can feel as if I’ve accomplished something, as if I’ve made the most of my day, as if I’ve done what I was supposed to do. Lists, of course, have the opposite effect on me as well; if I get to the end of the day and the list looks the same, well, then I’ve obviously not done what I was supposed to do, and thus, I’ve wasted my day. I didn’t do what I should have done. I get a big ol’ black mark in the negative column of “Jenn’s moral character.” The list becomes a measurement of okayness for me. Did I do the things? Great! “Come, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.” But did I fail to do the things? Sorry. “You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.”
And that’s what this passage has become for most of us. Another couple of things to write down on our to-do list. “Do the laundry,” “clean out from under the couch,” “reply to the email,” “feed the hungry, give a drink to the thirsty, welcome the stranger, clothe the naked, take care of the sick, visit the imprisoned.” And when I’ve done all the things, I get to check them off of my list, sit back, put my feet up, and be absolutely sure that I’m a sheep, not a goat, and I’m going to end up with the righteous “into eternal life.”
I’ve worked quite a bit with folks who are experiencing homelessness. I’ve tried to feed them, to listen to their stories, to help them get social services, driven them to emergency mental health clinics. But there was one guy, let’s call him “Dave,” who was all the things, all at once. He was the quintessential “least of these.” He was hungry, thirsty, a stranger, practically naked, definitely sick, and he’d seen the inside of a prison cell more times than he could count. When we offered to take him to Subway, he insisted that Bob’s Subs was better. He was physically addicted to alcohol, so he always carried a Lipton Iced Tea bottle around with him, filled with some dark brown liquid that was most definitely not iced tea. He wore the same tattered jeans that drooped dangerously below his waist, he was always coughing up something, and he’d slept more nights that year in the Allegheny County Jail than he had under his preferred bridge. He was all of the least of these - hungry, thirsty, a stranger, practically naked, sick and a sometimes ex con.
I’d never met him before, but my coworkers had, and they’d warned me - when you meet him, get ready, he’s going to show you all his scars. And sure enough, he did. He pointed out the hole in the side of his head where he’d been shot. He lifted his shirt to show me the deep gash from his Vietnam War injury. He showed me the varicose veins in his swollen ankles. And when he started to undo his pants to show me the extent of his hernia, we stopped him right there, and said, “Whoa! Thanks, Dave, that’s enough for now.”
We held “office hours” at Wood Street Commons, the dilapidated high-rise homeless shelter in the heart of downtown Pittsburgh. Every Friday, we’d sit in a storage room / office / doctor’s waiting room, and folks in varying degrees of distress would visit us. Some to see if they could scam an extra gift card out of us, some to check in on their benefit checks, some to just grab a cup of burnt coffee and sit and tell us a couple of stories from their week. Dave came every Friday. And every Friday, he’d tell us he’s hungry, he’d be carrying his bottle of iced tea, and he’d tell us once again how it happened that he was shot in the head and survived. He’d knock on his head with his knuckles and say, “See? Hear that? That’s the plate they put in there.” We’d check in to see how he was keeping up with his Suboxone appointments. And every week we’d have to remind him that no, we did not need to see the extent of his inguinal hernia. Eventually, we were able to get him a room at Wood Street, so at least he wasn’t sleeping out in the cold. We helped him turn his medical assistance back on, and he even qualified for about eighty bucks a month in food stamps, despite our local legislators doing their darnedest to cut away at that particular benefit. We gave him bus tickets every week so that he could get to his daily Suboxone appointments. He was a heroin addict, and Suboxone was a prescription given by his doctor to help him wean off of the opiates. His eyes were starting to clear. He stopped slurring so much. He was getting some sleep and getting some food and he had us to sit and listen to his same stories every week. He even started remembering our names.
But one Friday, he didn’t show up. And then the next Friday came around, and he didn’t stop by then, either. We knocked on his door every week to check in, but he didn’t answer. So we started our detective work and we tracked him down. He was in the hospital, detoxing from his last bout of alcohol poisoning. And before that, he’d been in jail, once again, maybe for public drunkenness or indecent exposure or trespassing or some other kind of misdemeanor. When they’d admitted him into the hospital, they threw out his clothes, so when he was discharged, all he had was a papery disposable scrub suit, a teal v-neck with matching teal drawstring pants, with a tear right down his backside that grew with every move he made. He didn’t seem to really notice, or care, if he did notice. He was a mess. His pupils were so small. He’d be looking at us, telling us about his hospital stay, and then, simply nod off, only to lift his head a few seconds later and finish his thought. But he was alive. We’d been able to save his room at Wood Street, and we were working to plug him back in to all the services that he’d lost once he was incarcerated, all those services we’d already connected him to previously. His words were slurred. He told me the story of how his buddy shot him in the head in the seventies. He lifted his shirt to show us his scar. We gave him more bus tickets. We bought him Bob’s subs. Somehow he’d lost his iced tea. I shared my Skittles with him. We bought him some clothes.
I never saw him again. A few weeks later, they found Dave in his bed at Wood Street. He’d overdosed. Alone. Injected so much heroin into his system that he just went to sleep, and never woke up.
We had done all the things.
We checked all the boxes.
We fed the hungry.
We gave him something to drink.
We welcomed him and listened to his stories.
We gave him clothes to wear and made doctors appointments and we checked on him in jail.
And then, he died.
We had crossed it all off the list.
But one night he simply couldn’t take it anymore.
One night, he just gave up.
Or maybe he thought he just needed a break. But his body wasn’t prepared for it.
I used to think that we were a little bit of both. I used to think that we were all a little bit goaty. And a little bit sheepy. We were “shoats” and “geeps.” And I still think that some times. Sometimes we see the face of Christ in the Hungry and the Thirsty and the Stranger and the Naked and the Imprisoned. Sometimes we even do it without us even realizing that we’re doing it. Sometimes we get it right. Sometimes we’re sheep. And sometimes we miss it. Sometimes we don’t hit the mark. We don’t cross anything off our lists and we lose the opportunity to see Jesus right there, right in front of us. Sometimes we’re goats. Somehow we are on both God’s right and left hands.
But now, I often wonder, could we be the “least of these,” too? Could we all be a little bit broken? A little bit hungry? A little thirsty? A little lost and a little too vulnerable? Could we all be stuck in our own kinds of prisons?
What is it, really, that separates me from Dave?
I mean, I have some social capital. My brain isn’t wired towards that particular form of addiction. I haven’t had to suffer from domestic violence or The Draft or poverty. But all that comes from luck, not anything that I’ve earned and Dave didn’t earn.
Jesus is telling us, right there in the text, that he is the least of these. Whatever we do to the least of these, we do to him, to Jesus. Dave was clearly a least of these. And Jesus says so is he.
And maybe that means we are, too.
What if we’re all the least of these?
I’m definitely not saying that we should take advantage of social systems meant to help the most vulnerable. And I’m absolutely not saying that we should be stingy with our gifts because we’re in need too. And this isn’t an excuse for us to wallow in our miseries and hardships. But what if I saw a little bit of myself in Dave? Or a little bit of Dave in myself? What if I saw a thread of commonality that united us both, that connected us to each other? I have brokenness. He has brokenness. I’ve made mistakes. He’s made mistakes. I’ve had some really good joyful belly laughs in my time, and maybe, maybe even just once, maybe while he was smoking weed around the campfire with his buddies in the sixties, he did too. If I'd ever had Bob's Subs, I would probably prefer that to Subway, too. He can be the face of Christ for me. And maybe, just maybe, I can be some reflection of a hologram of a shadow of a mirror image of Christ for him.
Christ would love him. Christ would walk with him. Christ would see himself in Dave.
I should absolutely keep feeding and finding and befriending and clothing and healing and visiting. But not because it’s what gets me in to heaven. Not because it’s on some sort of Christian piety to-do list. Not because it's going to fix Dave. But because Jesus is hungry and lonely and naked and sick and imprisoned. And mostly, I need to do it because I’m hungry, and lonely and naked and sick and imprisoned.
And when the end of times comes and Jesus is up there on his throne with Dave at his side and it’s time to send me to the right or to the left, I hope that Dave elbows him in Jesus’s still bleeding side and says, “Hey, that’s the girl who listened to my stories. She told me some of hers. She tried to help me. But, meh, it didn’t work. I liked her though. She shared her Skittles with me.”
Because the truth is, Dave was not a to-do list. There’s no “fixing” him. There’s only loving him.
Just as there’s no fixing Christ as he is broken and naked on the cross. There’s only loving him.
Christ is king, but unlike any king we have ever imagined. Christ has dominion over all of us simply because he became one of us.
Jesus became the least of these, so that we could, too.
Let’s set aside the to-do lists. Let’s let go of the measuring stick. Let’s stop trying to fix and improve and better and self-help our way into righteousness. Let’s all realize how very “least of these” we are.
Because Jesus became the least of these, so that we could, too.
Thanks be to God.
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