It is a terrifying thing to speak on behalf of
the Lord, to speak in his name, particularly
on such a Sunday, the Sunday of the last judgment.
Father Thomas Hopko of blessed memory used to
say that the most frightening text in scripture,
especially for those in the priesthood, are the
Lord's words in the Sermon on the Mount. Also
in Matthew's gospel, not everyone who says to
me, Lord, Lord, will enter into the kingdom of
heaven. On that day, many will say to me, Lord,
Lord, did we not prophesy in your name and cast
out demons in your name and do many wonderful
works in your name? And then I will declare to
them, I never knew you. Depart from me, you who
work iniquity. you workers of lawlessness. Next
to these words, I would set our gospel text that
we just heard before us. In many ways, it's a
straightforward text. It doesn't need much explanation.
The Lord doesn't mince words. The Lord also reminds
us that despite what we often say in the Orthodox
Church, that salvation is primarily about healing,
which remains true, that salvific healing nevertheless
requires a judgment, that we be judged for what
we do in this life. We all have to stand before
the Lord as he sits on the throne of his glory
upon the cherubim, surrounded by all the angelic
hosts and powers. and give an account for our
life. To use the words of St. Paul to the Romans,
on that day when, according to my gospel, God
judges the secrets of men by Christ Jesus. And
that gospel this morning forces us to ask ourselves
afresh, where will we find ourselves? On the
side of the sheep, or on the side of the goats,
on the side of those who remember the hungry,
the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick,
the prisoner, and help them, or not. In various
ways, the hymnography we hear pertaining to this
Sunday assures us that all excuses or personal
zeal or how others prevented us from following
the Lord's commandment. Any excuse, any help,
anything, will not help us then, when it's just
us and the Lord on that day. Of course, until
that day, in this life, there's a tendency in
us to push back on the Lord's words, to justify
ourselves against what we don't do. That has
been the theme of these previous Sundays. Think
of the religious people flabbergasted that Jesus
goes into the house, the home of Zacchaeus, a
sinner. Think of the Pharisee and the temple
looking at that same sinner and tax collector.
Thank God, at least I'm not like him. Think of
the elder brother, unable to rejoice at the return
of his sinful brother. I have slaved for you
here, and you've never given me such a party.
Why should he get one? We give in to our thoughts,
what arises from our hearts. We might be afraid
to say it out loud, but it's latent. Didn't they
do it to themselves? The poor. the hungry, the
thirsty, the naked, the so -called marginalized
on the fringes of society, the sick and now languishing
and tired, those who have gotten themselves into
prison. That's the idea here in ancient Near
Eastern and Greco -Roman society, which has never
left but remains alive well in our day and age
and in our own thinking. If they've already squandered
their lives, will they responsibly use the help
that we give them, the time that we offer them?
But the Lord corrects us here. Notice what he
calls these kinds of people. He refers to them
as his brothers. Brethren is what we hear in
our translation, which slightly obscures how
this Sunday flows out of last Sunday. Brothers
here. Because it puts us right back into the
Sunday of the prodigal son, the two brothers.
Today, Christ puts himself in the position of
the elder brother, asking us if we can put ourselves
in the position of the prodigal's father. How
does God receive the prodigal son, the one who
squanders and ruins his life? When we look at
our own problems rightly, our own sin, our own
predicament, how we respond to such things, who
are we to judge anyone besides ourselves? What
justification can I bring into the presence of
Christ when he sits among his angels? Even here,
even now, where the divine liturgy is indeed
a judgment service, as it were, what can I say?
and offer, except God, be merciful to me, the
sinner. In my misery, I am first, as the hymnography
puts it. I have sinned. I have failed. You know
all my secrets. Have mercy on me. Who am I that
anyone would ask me for any help, any food, any
visitation, any solace? or consolation. And now,
but now, despite myself, because of the mercy
you have opened up to me, O Christ, how can I
not take my life, what I have in my life, my
gifts, my resources, my talent, whatever, and
give it away like Zacchaeus for my own healing
freedom from these things and salvation? Today
salvation has come even to this house, for he
too is a child of Abraham. Saint Maria Skopceva
of Paris, who herself lived a prodigal life,
embracing the atheism of the Bolshevik revolution
and ran among its intelligentsia before she became
a nun, who would provide a haven for the destitute.
the poor, and the refugee. In particular, she
would shelter and hide Jews during the Second
World War until she was finally caught and taken
herself, and as multiple survivors testified
about her, gave her own life for a Jewish woman
in the Ravensbrück concentration camp. St. Maria
interpreted this Sunday's gospel text as a revelation
from Christ. That he is truly and mystically
present in every suffering person. That these
brothers, he speaks of, are the very place of
divine encounter with Christ himself. Not unlike
how St. John Chrysostom, whose liturgy we are
currently celebrating, puts it, if you cannot
find Christ in the beggar at the church door,
you will not find him in the chalice. St. Maria
reflects on this Sunday, at the last judgment,
I will not be asked whether I was successful
in my ascetic exercises, nor how many bows and
prostrations I made. You can add all sorts of
things here, things that we are particularly
proud of, perhaps. Instead, I will be asked,
did I feed the hungry? Clothe the naked. Visit
the sick and the prisoners. That's all I will
be asked. Something to think about as we're about
to enter Lent. The Lord asks us to feed, to give
drink, to clothe, to welcome, to visit. Notice
that he doesn't actually ask us for that much.
St. Augustine points this out. Quote, the Lord
doesn't say, I was sick or I was in prison and
you delivered me. No, but you visited me. He
isn't asking for great things, but for kindness.
End quote. He asks for decency, for us to notice
the needs of others, which can only spring forth
from our love for him. Which is just another
form of the question he will ask us on the day
of judgment. Do you love me? Do you love me?
Do you love me? The Sunday of the last judgment
is intense. It's Old Testamental in a way that
we might not always be ready for. It makes me
recall the words of Habakkuk, the prophet, who
has a vision of the day of judgment, a vision
of the Lord in his holy temple, shining bright
with light and power, looking upon all the nations
as he shakes mountains and turns over hills,
as he makes rivers to rise, seas to part, the
depths to open, as he splits the earth. and turns
the entire world upside down. As the Lord calls
the nations to account, and all flesh keeps silent,
as the priests will utter at the cherubic hymn
on Holy Saturday as Christ is trampling death,
Habakkuk utters these simple words as if he is
the tax collector who walks into the temple.
In wrath, remember mercy. Or, in judgment, Lord,
remember mercy. In judgment, remember mercy.
As we prayed yesterday on Memorial Saturday to
prepare the departed and us too for the last
judgment, the prayers put these things together.
For thou art a good God and lovest mankind. For
there is no man who lives and yet does not sin.
For thou only art without sin. That is, we are
sinners, but you, Lord, please be merciful in
overlooking our failures. In judgment of ourselves,
we should pray, Lord, you are holy. and I am
not worthy of you. I have no righteousness, no
excuses, nothing to bring to the table. I myself
am poor, hungry, and thirsty. I myself am a stranger
and feel out of place. I myself am sick and in
prison to sin and death. And myself, I myself
am naked and exposed and have no secrets to hide
before you. But you, you are compassionate. and
you love mankind. How can I not have mercy and
help others? Have mercy on me, a sinner. In judgment,
remember mercy. And Lord, let me remember mercy
too. Truly, we have to feel the weight of this
Sunday. But this Sunday is also a grace. It's
an announcement. a foghorn that cuts through
and pierces through all other noise. That judgment
has already started. The day of salvation is
at hand. Today, we come to the end of the world.
Today, we all stand before Christ as he judges
us. Today, we have no excuse not to listen. Today,
we judge ourselves. How can we hear the Lord's
words today and not change? In what ways can
we repent? In what ways have we not seen Christ
standing right in front of us in the very people
he sets before us? As we prepare for Lent, brothers
and sisters, think on these things. Pray about
them. Bring them to confession. And with Christ's
help, use Lent to discern him more clearly and
to become more Christ -like, more God -like,
and even more human. Amen?