Ezekiel 34.11-16, 20-24, Matthew 25.31-46
There’s a story told about St Elizabeth of Hungary, who lived
in the early 13th century which always comes into my mind when I
hear today’s Gospel reading. Elizabeth had wanted, from an early age, to enter
a convent and devote herself to God. She had been very much influenced by the
Franciscan movement – she was a contemporary of St Francis- and she wanted to live the life of radical
simplicity, helping the poor, that Francis did. But Elizabeth was a princess,
the daughter of King Andrew II of Hungary, and princesses didn’t get to choose
what they did with their lives. They were valuable bargaining chips in making
alliances and building up power bases. Elizabeth had been promised in marriage
from early childhood to Louis, the Landgrave, or Lord, of Thuringia. She was
married at 14 and bore him three children in quick succession, but still held
onto her Franciscan ideals. Her marriage was happy – she and Louis grew to love
each other - but the same can’t be said of her mother-in-law. She was very
sceptical of Elizabeth’s care for the poor and sick. Elizabeth would be more
likely to be found helping a filthy beggar than mixing with the high and mighty
as her mother-in-law thought she should.
What infuriated her most, was Elizabeth’s habit of taking in
waifs and strays, the sick and destitute. On one occasion, says the story, while
Louis was away, Elizabeth and her mother in law were left behind to manage the
castle. Before long Elizabeth began to fill it with the needy. The castle was overflowing
with people. But just when it seemed that even she would have to call a halt, a
leper turned up at the castle gates, filthy and covered in sores. What was
Elizabeth to do? There was no more room, no more beds. Except, she realised,
one. With Louis away, his bed was empty. Elizabeth promptly installed the leper
there, washed and fed him, and left him to sleep. Her mother in law was
incandescent. How dare she! She sent a message to Louis telling him that his
wife had put another man in his bed, leaving him to imagine what that might
mean.
Louis took the bait and stormed into the castle and up to his
room. He flung open the door, but whatever he expected to see, it wasn’t this.
There on his bed, lay Christ himself, fast asleep. Louis shut the door quietly
and went away. In the morning, when he looked again, there was the leper,
healed and well, and able to go on his way rejoicing.
It’s a lovely story, whether you believe it or not, and it
clearly draws on the imagery of the Gospel reading today. In Jesus’ parable,
those who help others eventually discover that they have, completely unawares,
helped Jesus himself.
But that’s the important thing to note. They are
completely unaware of what they’ve done. The “sheep” in Jesus’ parable, the ones who
are singled out for praise, have no idea what he means when he says that they
saw him hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, in prison and looked after him, any more
than Elizabeth thought she was helping Jesus when she took in that leper. She
and the people in the parable cared for those in need simply because they were
in need. It was their humanity, not their divinity which mattered to those who
helped.
To be honest, when I am in need, I don’t want people to help
me because they see Jesus in me. I want them to help me because they see me, as
I am. I want to know that I am of value in myself. Being seen and known as ourselves,
as someone unique and precious, is often the thing that helps us most when we
are in trouble. Being acknowledged and noticed, knowing you aren’t just a
number, a set of case notes, a bed in a hospital ward, a nameless bundle of
needs; that’s what empowers us and gives us dignity in times of trouble. When
we read the parable of the sheep and goats as an invitation to look on everyone
as if they were Jesus, we risk denying people their own individuality,
implying that they aren’t worth our help as themselves, and that turns the
parable on its head. It’s even worse, of course, if we see helping people as a
way of getting our own ticket to heaven, and those we try to help will soon
pick up the fact that they are being used for our own selfish ends.
Today is the feast of Christ the king, It’s the last day of
the Church’s Year, the end point of the great cycle of stories that takes us
through the birth, ministry, death and resurrection of Christ, the coming of the Spirit at Pentecost to
inspire his followers. It all leads to this, to the recognition of Christ as
king, whose kingdom we pray will come, and his will be done “on earth as in
heaven” as we pray so often.
But what kind of king is he? The image that Jesus’ first
followers would have had of kingship, would have been based on the rulers they
saw around them – the Roman Emperors, or local kings like Herod. Like so many
leaders throughout history, their main aim was to get and keep power, whatever
the cost, like the leaders the prophet Ezekiel denounced in our Old Testament
reading. Power was what counted in the ancient world. The belief that the Roman
emperor was divine was first established during Jesus’ lifetime. The Emperor
was, quite literally, to be put on a pedestal and worshipped. Rulers behaved as if they should get whatever
they wanted and be obeyed unquestioningly. It was all about them, as it still
so often is with leaders today. All too often, they climb the greasy pole to
get themselves into positions of power because they need to be needed,
recognised, adored. It’s a dangerous thing, because that sort of need can never
fully be met. It’s like a permanently hungry monster, always needing more.
Jesus upends that image of leadership completely, in this
parable though, as he did throughout his life. It’s not all about him. He
doesn’t look for glory. He doesn’t need adulation. He’s perfectly secure in the
love of his Father. He can serve others without ever feeling diminished himself.
And he teaches his followers that it is in loving those around us, just as they
are, that we do his will and delight his heart, without us even knowing it.
To serve, and to lead, like that is difficult and demanding,
though. No one can affirm the worth and dignity of another unless they have a
good sense of their own worth and dignity. “We love,” as the first letter of
John puts it, “because God first loved us.” (1 John 4.19) We can only treat
others as beloved children of God, if we know that we are too. We can only listen
to others with full attention, and give them space, if we know that we’ve been
heard and have our own secure space in the heart of God.
In Christ, God comes among us, becomes one of us, but not as
some kind of superhero, who covers our feeble humanity with his glorious
divinity. Christ comes to show us that this flesh and blood which God made and
gave to us, is already blessed. He came to show us that always and everywhere we’re
standing on holy ground, because of our humanity, not despite it, that
we and everyone, are his gift, his good idea, to be cherished and celebrated.
Amen
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