Last All Saints’ Day, I was at a parish where the priest focused heavily on the parable of the sheep and the goats:

When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. Then the king will say to those at his right hand, “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 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.” Then the righteous will answer him, “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?” And the king will answer them, “Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.” (Mt 25:31–40 NRSV)

The priest emphasized that we will be judged by what we have done to others as if they were Jesus. After all, it’s what Jesus says will happen.

I can’t help but wonder: In a way, isn’t it limiting to focus only on how we will be judged and what we do? Isn’t there a contemplative side to this, too? I wonder this, not because I am against action. Action and contemplation must go together. They must, especially during the purgations of sin from our lives but also when we are most united to God in constant prayer.

Action and contemplation are both good.  However, it’s hard to believe that action is ever greater than contemplation in itself.  (Mary, not Martha, chose the better part.) So if we are judged by what we do to Jesus in others, doesn’t that mean there’s also some way we have to contemplate or see Jesus in others?

Blessed Charles de Foucauld, who ended his life among the Tuaregs in the Hoggar (Sahara), living as one of them and bringing the Gospel to them in friendship, said,

I believe there isn’t a statement in the Gospels that has had as profound an impact on me and has transformed my life as the words, “What you did to one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did it to me.”

He wanted to see Jesus in – or behind – everyone he met. And that was the measure of his apostolate. The only measure.

But it was not the measure solely in what he did. It was the measure also in what he continually saw: what he was called to see and constantly respond to God’s graces to see. When someone spoke, he was to hear, in the measure that it was good, Jesus speaking or prompting her to speak. That’s what God asked of him. When he responded, he was to respond as if he’d really heard glimmers of God’s promptings in the other person. That’s what God asked of him. What a magical way to live! Except it is not magic. It’s just contemplation in the mud.

The Catholic philosopher Jacques Maritain, commenting on the journal of his late wife Raïssa, wrote,

One can say, it seems to me, that under the predominant regime of friendship with God it is in trying to love our neighbour as Jesus loved him that we love our sisters and brothers; and that under the predominant regime of mad, boundless love for God it is ALSO (and first) in seeing Jesus in our neighbour that we love the latter (“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink,” Mt 25:35).

Does it, perhaps, make sense that it is precisely this continual openness to the presence of God in – or, perhaps more accurately, behind – others which is the mark of passing from general friendship with God into a concentrated contemplation of God on the roads and in the mud?