So I have something I want to show you this morning. This is Butterfly. You may have noticed we’re a little bit ahead in the lectionary the past couple weeks, and Butterfly is the reason. We’re doing the special service next Sunday but I so wanted to show you this picture that I moved the lessons around so I would still get a chance to preach on this text. That’s because Butterfly here is a Geep. She was born in a petting zoo in Arizona. The zookeepers were surprised when the female sheep, aptly named Momma, became pregnant, as they didn’t have any male sheep. They soon determined the father was a particularly amorous pygmy goat named Michael. Butterfly has the face and hooves of a goat, but the wool and tail of a sheep, and is all cute. And what better way to talk about the parable of the sheep and the goats than an adorable baby sheep-goat.
Our reading for this morning comes at the end of Matthew’s Gospel, a section known as the “Sermon at the End of the World” or the “Judgment Discourse.” And this really is the end of Jesus’ ministry on earth. This sermon happens on a Tuesday and Jesus is crucified that Friday. In three days time, Jesus will be on a cross and the disciples’ world as they knew it will be over.
And so, at the end of his ministry, at the end of a teaching about the end of the world, Jesus closes with this parable about how when the Son of Man comes in his glory, he will come to separate humanity as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. To the sheep he will say, enter into the kingdom, “for I was hungry and you gave me food, thirsty and you gave me water, naked and you clothed me, sick or in prison and you visited me.” And the sheep are like, “what?” When did we do all that? And the Son of Man replied, “what you did to the least of these, you did to me.” And to the goats, “Enter into punishment, “for I was hungry and you gave me no food, thirsty and you gave me no water, sick or in prison and you did not visit me.” And the goats, similarly, are like, “what?” When Lord, when did we ever see you hungry or thirsty or sick or in prison and not respond? When did we ever see you at all?
The result of this seems pretty cut and dry. What we do matters. Our actions matter. The sheep got in for caring for the poor, the goats did not, so they did not. And I think there is truth in this. What we do, how we treat one another does matter to God. Faith is not about stringing together some correct list of beliefs. There is not a confirmation test in order to get into heaven. Faith is about how those beliefs change how we interact in the world, and those changes are most evident through our actions.
But remember what we’ve talked about before, how humanity loves to make rules for ourselves and for each other about who is and is not included in the kingdom of God. So I think if we make this passage one more list of things we have to do in order to be made acceptable to God, I think we sell this passage short. So here’s two things I find absolutely amazing about this story from Jesus, two things that I think blow wide open any simple read on the text. First, neither the sheep nor the goats had any idea that they were sheep or goats. The sheep didn’t know that they were caring for the Lord; they were just being sheep. They were just doing what needed doing. And the goats, similarly, were not turning up their noses at the sight of God. In fact, it sounds like they were actively looking for the Lord, and just never saw him anywhere. Neither the sheep nor the goats were intentionally doing, or not doing, anything for the sake of the Lord. Second, this parable comes at the very end of Jesus ministry on earth. The very next thing Jesus said was “You know that after two days the Passover is coming, and the Son of Man will be handed over to be crucified.” Glory, in Matthew’s Gospel, is the crucifixion. Christ’s death on a cross is the moment where his status as the King of Kings and the Son of Man is most clearly displayed.
So for us, brothers and sisters, post-resurrection people who dwell in the days between Christ has died and Christ will come again, what that means is the Son of Man has already come in his glory. The judgment foretold in this parable is already taking place, the Son of Man is already separating the sheep from the goats. And we, like Butterfly, are geep. We are part sheep, part goat. Part people who live well, who care for each other, who feed the hungry, give water to the thirsty, cloth the naked, visit the sick or in prison, not for any thought of repayment, but just because it’s the right thing to do. But we’re also goats sometimes. We have selfish motives, we fail to care for the least of these around us, we don’t measure up to the standards the Son of Man set before us. And so the Son of Man is at work in each of us, carefully separating the sheep from the goat, cutting away the selfless from the selfish, and drawing us each closer into the coming kingdom of God. This parable is not just a foretelling of future events, it is also an allegory of the way in which God is at work in each of our lives, changing us, molding us, making us more and more sheep-like every day.
As I was working on this sermon, I came across a story about what living into this kingdom of God can look like, and how God’s gentle shaping hand can change a community. I want to close by sharing this story. This is from a book by M. Scott Peck. And it’s a story about a little monastery. Once a great order, over time the monastery had dwindled down to the point were there were only five monks left: the abbot and four others, all over seventy.
Outside the monastery there was a hermitage. As the abbot agonized over the imminent death of his order, it occurred to him to visit the hermitage and ask if by some possible chance the hermit could offer any advice that might save the monastery.
The hermit welcomed the abbot at his hut. But when the abbot explained the purpose of his visit, the hermit could only commiserate with him: “I know how it is,” he exclaimed. “The spirit has gone out of the people. It is the same in all the nearby towns. So the old abbot and the hermit commiserated together. The time came when the abbot had to leave. They embraced each other. “It has been a wonderful thing that we should meet after all these years,” the abbot said, “but I have still failed in my purpose for coming here. Is there nothing you can tell me, no piece of advice you can give me that would help me save my dying order?” “No, I am sorry,” the hermit responded. “I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you.”
When the abbot returned to the monastery his fellow monks gathered around him to ask, “Well what did the hermit say?” “He couldn’t help,” the abbot answered. “We just commiserated and read the scriptures together. The only thing he did say, just as I was leaving — it was something cryptic — was that the Messiah is one of us. I don’t know what he meant.”
In the days and weeks and months that followed, the old monks pondered these words and wondered whether there was any possible significance. The Messiah is one of us? Could he possibly have meant one of us monks here at the monastery? If that’s the case, which one? Do you suppose he meant the abbot? Yes, if he meant anyone, he probably meant the Abbot. He has been our leader for more than a generation.
On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas. Certainly Brother Thomas is a holy man. Everyone knows that Thomas is a man of light.
Certainly he could not have meant Brother Elred! Elred gets crotchety at times. But come to think of it, even though he is a thorn in people’s sides, when you look back on it, Elred is virtually always right. Often very right. Maybe the hermit did mean Brother Elred.
But surely not Brother Phillip. Phillip is so passive, a real nobody. But then, almost mysteriously, he has a gift for somehow always being there when you need him. He just magically appears by your side. Maybe Phillip is the Messiah.
Of course the hermit didn’t mean me. He couldn’t possibly have meant me. I’m just an ordinary person. Yet supposing he did? Suppose I am the Messiah? O God, not me. I couldn’t be that much for You, could I?
As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect on the off chance that one among them might be the Messiah. And on the off, off chance that each monk himself might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.
Because the forest in which it was situated was beautiful, it so happened that people still occasionally came to visit the monastery to picnic on its tiny lawn, to wander along some of its paths, even now and then to go into the dilapidated chapel to meditate. As they did so, without even being conscious of it, they sensed the aura of extraordinary respect that now began to surround the five old monks and seemed to radiate out from them and permeate the atmosphere of the place. There was something strangely attractive, even compelling, about it. Hardly knowing why, they began to come back to the monastery more frequently to picnic, to play, to pray. They began to bring their friends to show them this special place. And their friends brought their friends.
Then it happened that some of the younger men who came to visit the monastery started to talk more and more with the old monks. After a while one asked if he could join them. Then another. And another. So within a few years the monastery had once again become a thriving order and, thanks to the hermit’s gift, a vibrant center of light and spirituality in the realm.
In these last days of the church year we remember that Christ the King has come in judgment. But a king who’s throne is a cross speaks judgment in ways we do not expect. The Son of Man looks down from his throne at all the nations gathered before him, nations of geeps with wooly coats and goaty faces and says come, enter into the joy of my kingdom. Amen.
Image from Today.com "Oh. My. Geep. Meet the Half Goat, Half Sheep who is All Cuteness." http://www.today.com/pets/baby-geep-cross-between-goat-sheep-stealing-hearts-everywhere-1D80007977
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