That powerful scene described for us by Saint Matthew is the one famously painted by Michelangelo behind the altar in the Sistine Chapel. It’s a painting that all the Cardinals have before their eyes when they’re electing a new Pope. I do remember once, almost twenty years ago, being on the front row looking straight at it during a Mass celebrated by the late Cardinal Angelo Sodano on the feast of the Guardian Angels, his name day. It was hard to concentrate sometimes on what he was saying with that Michelangelo fresco right in front of me.
Art historians tell us that this scene was frequently painted in churches in the Middle Ages, usually on the west wall, so that the people saw it on their way out of church. It reminded them of their responsibilities in the world. It reminded them of their duty to care for the poor, the hungry, the sick, the homeless, all those in need. There’s a famous story about Saint Martin, in the days when he was a soldier, and he met a poor man who had no warm clothing and was facing a bitterly cold night, such that he might not actually have survived. Martin was wearing a warm cloak, and with his sword he cut it in two, and gave half to the poor man. It’s a very moving story, and I’ve often thought that it probably wouldn’t have captured the imagination in quite the same way if St Martin had given the whole of his cloak away. The point was, he too needed to be shielded from the cold. He shared what he had with the poor man, so that both of them had the protection they needed. Later, in a vision, Martin saw that Christ had appeared to him in that poor man – the words recorded by St Matthew were true, when Martin clothed the poor man, he was clothing Christ.
Mother Teresa, Saint Teresa of Calcutta, also took this Gospel very much to heart. Her life’s work, and the work of the Missionaries of Charity that she founded, was to take care of abandoned children, and there were plenty of them on the streets of India. “You did it to me” was a phrase she would often repeat, when speaking of her work. Central to her mission was the conviction that all these abandoned children were to be treated like Christ, whose image lay concealed within them. She restored their dignity by recognising the presence of Christ in them and responding accordingly.
Christ is our Judge, Christ is our Lord, Christ is our King. On this last Sunday in the Church’s year, we celebrate the universal kingship of Christ, a feast instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925, 98 years ago. I can feel a centenary coming on in a couple of years. Amid the great social and political upheavals that followed the First World War, Pius XI saw the need to reassert the kingship of Christ. All kingship has its origin in God. Remember that when the people of Israel pleaded with Samuel to give them a king, at first he was reluctant to do so. God was the true King of Israel, and no human leader could take his place. God saw that the people’s desire for a king was a mark of their lack of faith in him – the people felt more secure with a king they could see, they felt safer, better protected. They were to learn the hard way that earthly kings don’t always deliver on the high expectations of the people. There have been plenty of Christian kings who’ve seen themselves as successors of Saul, David and Solomon. The best of them recognise that they are vicars of Christ, that it is really his kingship they are exercising, not their own. And Christ, during his time on earth, exercised his kingship in a remarkably humble way. The glorious judge depicted by Michelangelo shows us how Christ will be at his second coming, in contrast to his first coming in great humility and lowliness.
I must confess to being slightly amused when I read in the book of Esther how she found king Ahasuerus when she rustled up the courage to visit him without having been summoned. We read that she found him “sitting upon his royal throne, clothed with all his robes of majesty, all glittering with gold and precious stones.” It comes across as if this was what he normally did: – sit on his throne, dressed magnificently, waiting for something to happen. I suspect that very few kings in history or in the present day have the leisure to do that. We tend to project onto our monarchs the kind of leadership we want, just as the people of Israel did in the Old Testament when they first asked Samuel to give them a king, like those of the surrounding nations. Sometimes we project onto our monarchs this kind of magnificence and splendour, which we recognise as attributes of God and we want to have some kind of visible manifestation of the majesty of God. And yet the kind of leader we really want is a leader who will serve us – not necessarily by carrying out our orders, but by spending himself for our sake, devoting himself 100% to securing our good and protecting us from harm. That was the kind of King (that) Jesus was during his earthly life, when he stooped down to wash the feet of his disciples and then when he accepted death on a cross. St John speaks of the crucifixion as the glorification of Jesus, when he was raised up so as to draw all people towards him. The paradox is at its most extreme here, with Christ nailed to the Cross, undergoing the greatest humiliation one could imagine, but at the same time reigning from the Cross as King, because in this way he is serving all his people. And the people he serves as King extend far beyond the borders of Israel. Christ is King, not just of the people of that Holy Land where he was born and where he died, he is King of all the nations, that is to say, of all the people who have ever lived or who ever will live. You can’t get more inclusive than that.
So today’s feast is a joyful celebration, a celebration of the universal lordship of Christ, our King. Now that he has risen from the dead and ascended to his Father’s right hand, his glory is no longer concealed, as it was during most of his earthly life. He reigns in glory, and as today’s Gospel tells us, he reigns as Judge. Happily we have a judge who loves us and who earnestly desires to draw us to himself. There is no reason to fear him – after all, he himself admonishes us countless times not to be afraid – but we should heed his words and see to it that we recognise him in those in need, and that we follow the example of St Martin and St Teresa of Calcutta by coming to their aid.