The Surprise - Homily for Christ the King (2020)

Jesus comes to us this morning as our Great King and the Good Shepherd who, at the Last Judgment, separates the sheep from the goats. Typically, when I hear the Word of God proclaimed, I feel a certain levity, a lightness—since it is Jesus, the Eternal Springtime, who I meet in these words. But when I began to reflect on these readings, I felt a certain heaviness, a weight on me. 

I brought this to Jesus and we talked about it. At first, I thought it was just the shorter, darker days; or perhaps it was the pandemic or current events. But that wasn’t it. (Although, those are certainly reasons to feel a kind of heaviness). 

I turned to the Gospel and re-read where Jesus says to “feed the hungry” and “give drink to the thirsty.” And I felt the heaviness again there—because, well, all of what Jesus says there seems to be a honey-do list. And sometimes I feel like I don’t need another thing to be told to do. 

But that wasn’t it either. 

And then I thought some more and I realize: all of these things—feeding the hungry, visiting the sick, and so on—all of these things Jesus did and often to miraculous results. Five loaves and two fish to feed thousands, restoring sight to the blind, visiting Peter’s mother-in-law who was sick with a fever. So, when Jesus tells me to do these things, He is clearly not being hypocritical. He does them, too. 

So what was the heaviness about? 

It was this: I saw Jesus feeding others, helping others, caring for others, even asking me to do the same. But deep down I was feeling and saying: “But, Lord, when do you do those things for me?” I mean, I was happy that Jesus helped others. But when did you do these things for me? 

I didn’t realize it, but deep down I was throwing a pity party. And that’s kind of embarrassing to tell you, because generally I think life is good—but we all have those moments and we all have that temptation. And Jesus allowed me to feel this heaviness so that He and I could talk about it in prayer. And so that’s what we did. 

And this is what He said in that time of prayer. It was meant for me, but perhaps some of you may benefit from it. 

When you were hungry, Anthony, He began in his reply to me, I the Bread of Angels and the Bread of Life fed you. From the time you were infant nursing, you have had many breakfasts and snacks and dinners—and even my body in the Eucharist. I have fed you. 

And when you were thirsty, I the Life-Giving Waters gave you drink: that cool water after a hike, the celebratory wine at a wedding reception—every day you have had had something to drink (have you noticed that?)—even so much as my blood in the Eucharist. 

And when you were naked, I who am clothed in the Splendor and Glory of the Most High have always given you clothes. You’ve always had an abundance of clothes. Even when you were naked at your baptism, I clothed you in a white garment, a sign of all of those graces poured out for you from the sacrifice of the Cross. 

And when you were ill—I, the Divine Physician, have always cared for you. You have had a few miraculous healings and don’t even know it. And all those sniffles and fevers—and even this pandemic—and more, even those spiritual illness that you have had in your life, I have been caring for you and healing you. 

And when you were grounded and alone or isolated, for those have been your prisons—that, and your fear and anxiety and sin—I who am always imprisoned in the tabernacle and the confessional have always visited you. Have you not noticed that there has always been a little light no matter the darkness? 

I had to sit with that for a while. 

Realizing that Jesus loves me—and not simply generally, but in these personal, intimate ways—realizing this is (how do I express this in words?)… Realizing this is everything. 

I feel I should explain that a little. 

When the good sheep, the heaven-bound souls, meet the Lord and He tells them that, when they fed the hungry, they were feeding Him—When Jesus tells them that, the heaven-bound are surprised. They are surprised that they were serving Him. 

But here’s the thing: the surprise is more than just being surprised about Jesus’ hidden identity (for even the goats, the hell-bound souls, are surprised by Jesus’ hidden identity). 

The “deeper” surprise is that the heaven-bound are surprised that they had fed Him who had fed them. “Hold on, wait,” they say in surprised and elated joy, “You mean to tell me that the One who had fed me all of my life came to me looking for food?” 

The good sheep know that Jesus has loved them personally, intimately in the small details of life and they are surprised that they, in loving another person in need—personally, intimately, and in the small details of life—had loved Him that way, too. 

The best way I can describe the surprise here is the experience of a husband and wife who, in their love for each other, happen to get each other the same thing for Christmas. There is joy, there is laughter, and there is this great, contented sigh of love and discovering—and re-discovering—how much love there has always been. Yes, we have both loved each other, they can say. 

All of this can be summarized in one simple sentence: the good souls realize that, at their Judgment, the One who is judging them is the One who has always loved them. I will be judged by my best friend: Jesus. 

Isn’t that lovely? 

And it’s true. And there would be little fear in that, wouldn’t there—being judged by your friend? 

Here, then, we can say one thing about the bad goats, the hell-bound souls. They are surprised by Jesus’ hidden identity, too. And in that surprise, they do something peculiar: They gloss over the words of Jesus. 

That doesn’t seem like much, so I should probably explain. 

The good sheep, they say: “When did we see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you drink? When did we see you naked and clothe you?” They go through the entire list with Jesus. But the bad goats—they gloss over all of that and simply say: When did we see you these things “and not minister to you?” 

There is an important point here. 

In glossing over the very acts of love, they reveal that they never knew the friendship of Jesus. They may have said, “Yeah, Jesus loves us but never really admitted that He loves me personally, intimately, in the small details of life. He may love me … generally… in an ambiguous way… But He doesn’t actually feed me and clothe me. He doesn’t really care like that.” 

And precisely because they glossed over Jesus’ love for them, they glossed over the call to love others. Their love was general, ambiguous, tinged with apathy, never messy, always sterile, and typically with anger or resentment at having been asked or obliged to ever do so. Their so-called love was not personal, nor intimate enough to love in the small details. 

And because there was this glossing over, the surprise did not have the permeating joy like that of lovers. Rather, the surprise came with a defensiveness revealed by the words: “We didn’t know.” 

And that’s the point. They didn’t know the friendship of Jesus. 

Which brings us full circle: I was experiencing that pity party and that heaviness because I was questioning Jesus’ friendship. 

And maybe that’s our challenge for today. To let it soak in that Jesus has fed you and given you drink and clothed you and healed you and cared for you and visited you all your life and in all of its small, personal details. You were once poor and have been made rich.

As you soak in that, you will want others to know that love. You’ll help others. 

And, in the end, when you come to your judgment, you will be surprised, too. That the One who has always loved you and whom you loved in the poor and the needy was your friend and a royal King, God Himself: Jesus Christ.