St. Francis of Assisi, it is said, found the sight and smell of lepers repulsive. Normally, he could spot them from afar and give them a wide berth. Yet on one occasion, Francis came upon a roadside leper and something entirely different occurred.
Compassion rose from within and Francis felt compelled to get off his horse, offer the leper alms, and embrace the wretched soul—sores, smells, and all—even giving him a holy kiss!
Climbing back into his saddle, Francis turned to bid the leper adieu, only to discover he was alone in an empty field. In that moment, he awoke to the conviction that he had encountered Christ himself in leprous disguise. His heart and ministry were altered forever. Francis became a channel of God’s love to the poor and the diseased, for in and among them, he had seen the kingdom and the face of God.
Fast-forward to the present. I’m not so interested in asking, “Who are the lepers of today?” This is already well-traveled territory.
My interest is more challenging. I’d suggest that those we often regard as insignificant are not to be regarded as mere target groups of Christian charity, but rather, our as mentors in the kingdom. They are guides to understanding God.
The Bible suggests that the marginalized—those the world regards as “the least of these” (in Jesus’ words)—hold the keys to spiritual doors of God’s kingdom that are inaccessible apart from their unlikely aid. To use Isaiah’s imagery (57:14–15), the “lowly” remove boulders and obstacles that would otherwise block our way to Mount Zion.
We often imagine that by attending to “the least” (literally, “little ones”), we were doing them a favor. But when we discern the presence of Christ in them, an undercover visitation of God, we realize the least are real mentors with spiritual keys.
The biblical foundation for this begins with God’s promise to reveal himself uniquely to and among the least and lowly. It climaxes in the revelation that whatever we do or neglect to do to Jesus’ little ones (namely, the poor, naked, hungry, thirsty, sick, the stranger [literally, “the immigrant”], and the inmate, and so on), we are doing or neglecting to do to Jesus (Mt. 25:31ff). In this text, Jesus creates two theological quandaries:
First, Jesus seems to make acts of service the deciding criteria for judgment day, seemingly disregarding the gospel of salvation by grace through faith alone. Was Jesus really identifying good works as the true test of who enters the kingdom and who does not? We ought to wrestle with this question rather than simply using Ephesians 2:8–9 to trump the very words of Christ.
I would suggest that in Matthew 25, Christ transcends later faith-versus-works doctrinal debates with his own perspective of a “love-righteousness” that is the inevitable fruit of following him (thus pre-integrating the writings of Paul and James).
Second, in what kind of the “least of these” do we encounter Jesus? Are they specifically the Christian poor, the innocent prisoner, or the believing stranger? Might we see Jesus even in the “unbeliever”? Are we talking about recognizing the residual imago dei in everyone, regardless of their faith in Christ? Or does Christ mean more than that when he says, “Whenever you did these things to them, you did it to me”?
As I’ve pursued this second question, my understanding is that Jesus is saying: “You do not see me in others because they become Christians, but because I became human. When I came in the flesh, I identified with every man, woman, and child on the planet, but especially with those who know nakedness, homelessness, poverty, imprisonment, and torture. You see me in them when you remember that I literally became a peasant, a refugee, a prisoner. I live with the least, the lost, and the lowly; through them, you will meet me and come to know me, my heart, and my ways.”
After More Than Pocket Change
A friend of mine, Ray Loewen, learned this firsthand. A successful car salesman in rural Manitoba, he was asking the Lord, “Is this all there is? Is this really my destiny? Please show me my mission in life.”
One night Ray visited a worship service in inner-city Winnipeg, an hour from his home. To get in, he had to cross over a sidewalk where glue-sniffers, pushers, prostitutes, and the homeless were loitering in the extreme cold of mid-winter. Once inside, Ray enjoyed a warm and wonderful evening of worship.
As Ray exited the building, he came face-to-face with a couple rushing down the sidewalk. The woman ran on, but the man halted abruptly in front of him. He was a horrendous sight: matted hair, deeply carved lines in his pocked face, eyes red and glazed, icicles of drool hanging from his mangled beard. He reeked of alcohol and glue. With slurred speech he demanded, “Hey buddy … got any change?”
Ray started fumbled through his pockets. The fellow repeated his request more aggressively, obviously agitated by the delay. Ray, increasingly nervous, continued to rifle through his coat.
Quite suddenly, the man’s eyes cleared and in fully lucid tones, he said, “Raymond, you know who I am. Hurry up and give me some change.”
Immediately, Ray was swept into a vivid vision of Matthew 25. Jesus spoke from his throne, “Raymond. I even used your name. Did you recognize me?”
Pulling out of the vision, I can tell you this: Ray found some change! But the issue wasn’t just an image of Jesus asking for pocket change; this was God’s way of getting Ray’s attention and directing him to an ongoing relationship. After that, Ray found his mission: to serve Jesus through a lifestyle of ministry to “the least of these.”
In addition to selling cars, Ray was so motivated by this experience that he began his own missions and relief organization called “Build a Village.” He leads teams to Central America and the Middle East where they rebuild villages that were destroyed through natural disasters or through acts of war. Ray indeed met Jesus and now continues to meet him as he “rebuilds cities and restores homes that were devastated” (Is. 58:12).
Where God’s Glory Rests
My own convictions about meeting Jesus in “the least” were not so much an individual encounter as they were discovered in the context of my faith-community, Fresh Wind Christian Fellowship. When we initially planted the church nearly ten years ago, a visiting prophet of solid integrity declared that God had laid a foundation of compassion in us (based in Is. 58:6–12) “upon which he would erect four pillars.” Once these pillars were established, “they would become a resting place for his glory.”
Brian West (as team-leader) and I (his trusty sidekick) surmised quickly that this prophetic word must be referring to us and two others—a theory that God quickly showed us was an erroneous interpretation. Over the next year, as the leadership team listened together in prayer, God progressively revealed our four pillars to be (1) people with disabilities, (2) little children, (3) “prodigals coming home” (e.g. people in recovery from addictions) and (4) the poor. All of these qualify as the “least of these” in terms of physical, social, or economic stature/status.
The Lord stressed that these folks were not our target groups … HE is. Our goal is to reach out to and welcome the Trinity and that when we do, God will bring his friends. Conversely, to welcome them is to welcome Him; we would never need to beg Him to come.
God also clarified that we might not like some of His friends; they might even scare us. But He brings them in order to disciple us in God’s kingdom values:
- The disabled model for us the essence of God’s heart. They are unconcerned with trivialities such as one’s schooling, accomplishments, or giftedness. They restore us to what is central, loving God and each other. Whether they struggle with autism, Downs Syndrome, or epilepsy, they communicate repeatedly God’s core questions, “Do you love me? Can I love you?” That is their bottom line. That is Jesus’ bottom line.
- The children are those to whom Jesus points when he says, “Unless you become like them, you will never even enter the kingdom.” We try to become like them in their implicit trust, their assumption of bold access to the Father, and their openhearted prayers. They remind us that laughter and joy and play are the sounds of heaven.
- The prodigals remind us that we need fresh mercy every morning and that it is available. They set us free from the pseudo- and self-righteousness of perfectionism, calling us again and again to take part in Christ’s open banquet because we need it, not because we’ve arrived. They protect us from the futile heresy of making ourselves worthy of something that only the grace of God can open to us.
- The poor have been chosen by God to be rich in faith. With Jesus, they teach us to pray, “Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.” Their dependence on God for this month’s rent or tomorrow’s groceries teaches us to be a sharing family and to rely on the Father’s provision as they do. Their unabashed testimony is that God is good.
As these pillars began to gather and become family, I confess that it has been both messy and glorious. But God has shown us that what might seem like disruptions during the service (sounds of the disabled vocalizing; toddlers meandering onto the stage; the smells of someone coming off a binge or filling adult diapers) might be opportunities for his kingdom to break in.
On many occasions while preaching, I have found myself competing with some commotion or another, and I’m tempted to be frustrated by the distraction and then I’ve felt God asking me, “What if YOU are the distraction? What if what I’m doing is NOT your words in the microphone right now?”
You see, when we stop mid-sermon to pray for a little brother who is having an epileptic seizure or a broken sister who is weeping at our communion table, or a child who wants to sing “Jesus loves me” through the microphone, what do you suppose touches people’s hearts and remains in their memories years later? Is it my eloquent words and lofty ideas? Very rarely. More important still, if God is our target group, according to Matthew 25, what will most touch his heart and get his attention?
But to speak selfishly for a moment, what’s in it for me is that miracle when I know, in the moment, that I am having an encounter with the living Christ through one of our pillars. I watch and wait for it. I posture myself for it. But, like Francis, usually God’s appearances are a surprise.
I met Jesus in Mexico through the orphans who gathered to lay hands on me for a healing in my neck. I felt him in the 11-year-old Haitian boy with the pure white shirt and bright smile who rubbed my back while I watched in terror as corrupt soldiers bound and beat a relief-worker with clubs. I experienced his power overwhelm me when Kathy, a woman with one eye, no hips, and a childlike mind took my hand and prayed, “Come, Jesus.”
He’s served me communion through a man crippled by arthritis and an addict just coming off his latest crack crash. Jesus has anointed me with oil and power through a three-year-old native girl who had just been adopted. And he has stroked my head and held me close with the hands of many a disabled man or woman.
I’ve heard him preach and sing and testify through seven-year-old Nadine who has joined our regular teaching rotation.
When we make space for the least, we make space for Jesus. It’s as simple and as difficult as that. This includes advocating and acting to create space for least to belong and be safe, but more so, to be Jesus to us and among us.
Excerpted from our sister publication, Leadership journal, © 2007 Christianity Today International. For more articles like this, visit www.Leadershipjournal.net
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