Sisters & brothers, grace to you and peace from God our most merciful Judge, Christ our Gentle Shepherd, and the Spirit our strength and comfort. Amen.

“I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you took me in, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.”

A group of a dozen or so Lutheran pastors gathered together this past week and, for our opening devotion, the gospel text for this Sunday was read and reflected upon. Without fail, each pastor who commented on the text remarked how haunted by the words we were at this particular time: at this particular time in our own lives and ministries, at this particular time in the unfolding events of the world economic catastrophe and countless global and domestic crises, and at this particular time when our congregations are … well, planning and setting budgets for next year, thinking about the most essential ministry we do as communities of faith. Each one of us wondered aloud how we as individuals, as pastors, and our faith communities were doing on this most basic litmus test as far as Jesus is concerned.

For, you see, this is no parable. Jesus is not telling a story comparing the final day of reckoning using words such as “like” or “as” to make this in any sense a simile, or a scary story. This text is a “pulling back the curtain” (or, apocalyptic) vision of the final judgment when the reign/dominion/sovereignty/lordship of Christ will be cosmic — indeed over all earth and heaven, and — for St. Matthew — these become Jesus’ final words before the events that lead to his arrest and crucifixion.

And while biblical scholars continue to debate over just who exactly “the nations” are which gather before the throne of the Son of Man, and just who exactly “the least of these who are members of my family”are who are hungry, thirsty, strangers, naked, sick, and in prison, and whether Jesus is judging nations or individuals in this vision of that final day in the heavenly courtroom, perhaps the old adage serves us well, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” In other words, even if it’s the nations being judged for their treatment of “the neighbor in need” — that is, those who are hungry, thirsty, strangers, naked, sick, and imprisoned — then we who individually comprise such nations ought also to be paying very close attention — as individuals — as to how our lives reflect such treatment of our neighbor in need as well.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said (quote): “Any religion which professes to be concerned with the souls of people, but is not concerned about the slums that damn them & the economic conditions that cripple them — such a religion is a dry-as-dust religion.” (endquote)

In today’s gospel, Jesus is making hospitality central to his view of ultimate salvation. But just who is Jesus? It may come to a surprise to our ears this morning that Jesus is not only the babe of Bethlehem whose birth we prepare to celebrate; Jesus is not only the one who healed and taught and forgave and performed miracles, and kept company with all kinds of questionable people such as prostitutes, tax collectors, and yes, even religious bigots; Jesus is not only the one who suffered and died on a cross, and on the third day rose again from the dead. Jesus is not only the one who will return to reign for all eternity in a place and time where and when all things have become new.

This morning’s Gospel text, like the cover of the bulletin portrays (with a Christ figure holding what appears to be a bowl of something resembling lentil soup), Jesus is ALSO whomever is hungry or thirsty. Jesus is ALSO the stranger among us, the lowliest outsider or the most odd-newcomer in our midst. Jesus is ALSO the one in prison — the cast-offs and the tossed-asides in our society — locked up behind bars or within walls of addiction or mental illness. Jesus is ALSO the one waiting for a free handout whether she or he deserves it or not because, like us, we got a free handout called God’s grace/aka eternal salvation, which we most certainly did not (and do not!) deserve. Jesus is ALSO the bare-footed, clothing-tattered, hair-matted, lung-coughing expletive-sputtering pedestrian crossing in front of your car idling at the intersection long after your light has turned green.

And, besides all this, what this morning’s gospel vision of the reign of Christ seems to be getting at is: no one really has any idea who Jesus is; at the very least no one seems to recognize him. The ones who fed the hungry, quenched the thirsty, welcomed the stranger, clothed the naked, took care of the sick, and visited the imprisoned had no idea they were “doing it” for Jesus.

Likewise, the ones who DIDN’T feed the hungry nor quench the thirsty, the ones who DIDN’T welcome the stranger nor clothe the naked, the ones who DIDN’T take care of the sick nor visit the imprisoned had no idea they were neglecting Jesus himself.

Indeed, both those who DID and those who DIDN’T asked the question, “Lord, when was it that we saw you…?” (in the aforementioned conditions.)

And likewise, to those who DID and to those who DIDN’T, Jesus says, “Truly, I tell you, just as you DID (or, just as you DIDN’T) do it for the least of these who are members of my family, you DID (or, DID NOT do) it to me.”

Both sides are curiously and completely unaware of the Christ in their midst. But Jesus himself makes it very clear that he has been as close to them as the most needy, the most vulnerable, the most overlooked, and the most helpless, and the most forgotten among them.

It’s a haunting way to bring another church year to its conclusion. This is a far cry — in fact the furthest thing — from kingship and power and dominion as the world knows it. For wherever and whenever Christ reigns among us, the last are first, the least are the greatest, the cursed are the blessed, the hungry get food to eat, the thirsty are given drink, the stranger is embraced as if they are an old friend, the naked and threadbare are dressed for success, the sick are cared for, and the imprisoned are not left alone in their cells.

One of the saints whom the church has given a special place for her unique witness to the faith is the 16th century Spanish mystic and monastic Teresa of Avila. St. Teresa captures the sense of the presence of Christ being within each of us in her writings, which are described as prose marked by “an unaffected grace,” an “ornate neatness”, and a “charming power of expression.”

Let these mystical words of St. Teresa take deep root in you this day as you permit the reign of Christ in the world to begin and continue with you.

Christ has no body but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are his body.
Christ has no body now but yours,
No hands, no feet on earth but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which he looks
compassion on this world.
Christ has no body now on earth but yours.

It’s the practice in some Hindu countries, like Nepal, to greet one another with the word “Namaste,” which means “the holy within me greets the holy within you.”

May the Christ within you recognize the Christ in all others in the living of these stress-filled days as together we pray “Thy kingdom come” — here in this place, and in all places and to all people.

And may the Christ we meet once again at this table today strengthen us — in a bite of bread and with a sip of wine — to be the Christ for all, and to see and recognize the Christ in all.

Amen.