God in the Goats?

 

Matthew 25:31-46

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. There’ve been some really beautiful moments. 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 paper teal v-neck with matching paper 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. 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.

Not many would miss Dave. Some were actually relieved. It wasn’t like he was an asset to society, or helpful, or in any way anything other than a burden. If he could steal to get another hit, he would. If his neighbor left his drink unattended, he’d snag it. If he could frame his buddy so he wouldn’t see the bars of a prison cell, he would. He’d cough all over us and never cover his mouth. If he could gain something from our sympathy, he’d take advantage. If he could scam us, he would. 

Sometimes there’s no saving people, no matter how many cups of water, how many bagged lunches, how many boxes we fill at the food pantry. Sometimes people don’t make great choices. Sometimes people experience such need themselves that they walk right past the needs of others. So was Dave a “least of these?” Or was Dave a “goat”?

Yup. Probably both. Sometimes “the least of these” are the ones who would never provide a cup of cold water, or clothe the naked. If Dave ever visited someone in prison it was because he was his neighbor in the cell next door. When he visited the sick, he just got them more sick. 

Sometimes the least of these are also the goats. What if the goats are the least of these? What happens then? 

So often we look at the sheep and the goats passage as a kind of to-do list. It’s a laundry list of things to check off so that we can get in to heaven. Did we feed the hungry? Check. Did we clothe the naked? Check? Did we give water to the thirsty or tend to the sick or visit the imprisoned? Check Check Check. 

We’re so busy checking boxes to make sure that we’re in that we totally miss it. We completely miss that Jesus is telling us exactly how to connect with God, right here, right now, right on this earth. We don’t have to wait for some far off culling of the sheep and the goats to encounter the Holy. Jesus is telling us that the Holy is right in front of us. When we tend to the least of these, we tend to him, we tend to the Holy, there God is, right in our midst. 

I don’t know about you, but the “least of these” that I have had the privilege to tend to have been far from perfect. They aren’t complete victims. Many of them are even partially responsible for their own predicaments. Lots and lots of them are sheep, willing to give the coat off their backs to help their neighbor in need, but more than a few of them are just plain goats. They look out for themselves, when they’re able. When they’re lucky. 

What if the goats and the “least of these” are the same people? What if we could find God in the goats?

What if God is standing there, right in front of us, asking us for our spare change? What if God is standing there, right in front of us, overdosing on heroin, or taking out a payday loan, or hoarding his money, or ignoring the needs of his neighbor? What if God is right here, among us, but is hidden behind soiled clothes and alcohol breath? What if God is right here, among us, but hidden behind the bad decision, or the reckless behavior, or the imperfect record? What if God is in the goats?

Would that change how we treat the goats? Would that change how we see the goats? Would it change whether they’re “goats” at all?  Maybe we’re all just sheep in goats’ clothing? Maybe we need someone to look us in the eye, to learn our names, to listen to our stories long enough for us to see the identity hidden beneath our selfishness and our hoarding and our laziness. Maybe God is in the goats.

Dave was kind of a jerk. And he was in so much pain. Dave thought only about himself. And he was burdened with trauma. Dave was a goat. And he was one of the least of these. Dave was an image of God, right in front of us. He is buried in some unmarked grave somewhere. No one felt his loss. 

Except a few of us, a few of us who realize that there isn’t much difference between the sheep and the goats, between us and the people we’re called to serve. We’ll miss him. One less face of Christ among us. 

What we do to the least of these goats, we do to Jesus. 

If we can see Christ in the goats, then maybe we can see Christ in ourselves, too. 

God is in the goats.

Thanks be to God.