I recently saw a meme in which two images were juxtaposed. The image on the left was of oppressed and violated people, and it bore the text, “If you can’t see Jesus in the oppressed and violated, you won’t find him in the chalice.” The image on the right, meanwhile, was similar. It showed the people doing the oppressing and violating, and it bore the text, “If you can’t see Jesus in the oppressors and violators, you won’t find him in the chalice.” Over Lent, I have been thinking quite a lot about the finer points of New Testament spirituality. Given where I have ended up, it seems to me that, despite its maker’s admirable intentions, this two-panel meme has strayed rather too far from the Gospel for my liking.

It’s not that I disagree with the need to pray and do good to those who harm us and others. “Love your enemies,” says Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount, “and pray for those who persecute you” (Mt 5:44). Moreover, I do not dispute the radical claim that those who are harmed must forgive (Mt 18:21–35)—but more on that, and my Gospel criticism of its misappropriation, in a second. Still, these are not texts that tell us where to “find Jesus.” There are Gospel texts that establish that spiritual outlook. And they are quite different.

Would John Chrysostom approve?

Before moving into the Gospel, though, it is useful to note something about the Church Fathers. The two-panel meme that I saw is closely patterned on a quote attributed to John Chrysostom: “If you can’t find Christ in the beggar at the church door, you won’t find him in the chalice.” These words don’t seem to appear word for word in the saint’s extant works. But they do resemble a particular homily:

Let not this therefore be our aim, to offer golden vessels only, but to do so from honest earnings likewise. For these are of the sort that is more precious even than gold, these that are without injuriousness. For the church is not a gold foundry nor a workshop for silver, but an assembly of angels. Wherefore it is souls which we require, since in fact God accepts these for the souls’ sake…

Wouldest thou do honor to Christ’s body? Neglect Him not when naked; do not while here thou honorest Him with silken garments, neglect Him perishing without of cold and nakedness. For He that said, “This is my body,” and by His word confirmed the fact, “This same said, “Ye saw me an hungered, and fed me not;” and, “Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.” (Homily 50.4)

In other words, in the original patristic context, the point is about a contrast between attention to riches for ecclesiastical works and attention to the poor who are part of the Body of Christ. The archbishop of Constantinople does not suggest, however, that the really significant point is that the poor are human or that they are members of Christ’s Body, the Church. Rather, he refers us back to the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats, alternatively called the Judgment of the Nations. We should, then, direct our attention first of all there.

The Christological ethics of the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats

The Parable of the Sheep and the Goats is, according to Matthew, Jesus’ last public teaching before the conspirators decide his fate. And that ultimate teaching goes like this:

“[The Son of Man] 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 who 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 brothers and sisters of mine, you did it to me.’ Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘You who are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels, for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison and did not take care of you?’ Then he will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’” (Mt 25:33–45 NRSV)

There is no lack of debate about who the “nations” are in this parable, which are identified with sheep, quite literally on the one hand, and goats, on the other. However, Pope Francis has asked that we don’t bog ourselves down with these questions. Instead, he suggests that we read the parable “without a gloss”:

Given these uncompromising demands of Jesus, it is my duty to ask Christians to acknowledge and accept them in a spirit of genuine openness, sine glossa. In other words, without any ‘ifs or buts’ that could lessen their force. (Gaudete et Exsultate 97)

As I have previously remarked, the Holy Father seems to derive his “without a gloss” approach from Charles de Foucauld, who says of this passage, “It is not there for us to make up commentaries about but to believe.”[1] No commentaries, no glosses—it amounts to the same thing.

In this judgment discourse which precipitates Jesus’ own judgment, Jesus identifies himself with certain people. They are not, however, everyone on the planet. Nor are they Christian believers. They are quite simply those made poor and those in need—the hungry, the thirsty, the foreigner, the naked, the sick, the prisoner.

There are implications here. Let’s suppose that we want to base a spirituality around “seeing Jesus” or “finding Jesus” in others, like Charles de Foucauld and Pope Francis. Clearly, our most important source material will be the Gospels. And among Gospel passages, the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats needs to hold a high place. But it would be a poor reading of this text that found Jesus in everyone equally, still less in Christians as such. That’s not what the text says. If we go back to the specific ethics of the Judgment of the Nations, there needs to be emphasis laid on Jesus, not in the other person in general and not in believers in particular, but in the poor and the needy, the oppressed and the excluded, the marginalized and the victimized.

That, incidentally, is exactly what we see with Charles de Foucauld and Pope Francis. The Holy Father’s stress on the preferential option for the poor and the margins hardly needs noting. But it is present, too, in the saint. Brother Charles went to French-colonized Algeria. There he found Christ in the soldiers and the local Arabic Muslims. But this didn’t satisfy him. Eventually, he travelled deeper into the Sahara. There, beneath a millennium of Arabic conquest, he found and lived as one among the Tuareg. This is no flattened spirituality of finding Jesus in everyone. It may in some sense be a spirituality of seeing Jesus in everyone we encounter, but if so, it is one that, by preference and intensity, finds Jesus in the last to be respected, the last to be heard, the needy, the poor, the excluded, and the marginalized.

The Christological ethics of the welcomed little child

There is another time in the Gospel that Jesus identifies himself with particular people. He puts himself in the place of a little child:

At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” He called a child, whom he put among them, and said, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever becomes humble like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.” (Mt 18:1–5 NRSV)

Again, this isn’t just a story about anybody whomsoever. Jesus doesn’t say he can be found in anybody and everybody. The referent of a spirituality of “finding Jesus” or “seeing Jesus” in others is a child—who is, in the historical and social context, an excluded and marginalized person, someone without status, someone counted as less-than. The Christian spiritual tradition has dutifully preserved the language of “little ones.”

This text is important for another reason, too. The identification of Jesus with the little child shows us a requisite setup for reconciliation in the community. According to Matthew’s Gospel, in the community gathered around Jesus, those who are harmed must forgive (Mt 18:21–35) and those who harm the little and vulnerable ones are the lost sheep to be specially sought out (Mt 18:12–20), but according to the unfolding logic of the passage, this works only if the foundational constitution of the community is centred around the little ones and the vulnerable (Mt 18:1–11). If this centrepiece is denied its place and the margins are marginalized, not centred, then every attempt at reaching the lost and reconciling with them, along the lines set out by Jesus, will fail. Forgiveness may be given, but reconciliation will fail. Its Gospel-specified social preamble will be lacking. The community’s Christological, little-one-identified constitution is indispensable for the unfolding logic to work.

This only emphasizes the necessity of the Christological ethics of the welcomed little child. Just as the Parable of the Sheep and Goats immediately precedes the plot to kill Jesus, so does the Welcomed Little One immediately precede the Gospel’s radical discourse on forgiveness and reconciliation. Both these Christological ethics are foundations that we neglect to our great peril.

And now for something equally important, but different.

The vicinal ethics of the Good Samaritan

So far, we have seen that a careful reading of the Gospel shows that the primary referents for a spirituality of “finding Jesus” and “seeing Jesus” in others are not positionality- and value-neutral. The needy at the Judgment of the Nations and the welcomed little child have particular—and low—positions in the social structure. Every legitimate spirituality of “finding Jesus” or “seeing Jesus” must acknowledge this positionality and directionality.

In reading the following text, I encourage you to try to find a salient difference (if my Latinate subheading has not already given the game away):

But wanting to vindicate himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbour?” Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and took off, leaving him half dead. Now by chance a priest was going down that road, and when he saw him he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan while traveling came upon him, and when he saw him he was moved with compassion. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, treating them with oil and wine. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him, and when I come back I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.” (Lk 10:29–37 NRSV)

First, let’s pull out the main point. Then, after figuring out what the text says, we can highlight what it doesn’t say.

It seems that the focus in this story is a challenge to our ideas about neighbours and brothers. In a Gospel-focused spirituality, the primary referent for neighbour/brother boundary-crossing is the Good Samaritan. As Pope Francis says in his letter to the United States Bishops (no. 6), “The true ordo amoris that must be promoted is that which we discover by meditating constantly on the parable of the ‘Good Samaritan’, that is, by meditating on the love that builds a fraternity open to all, without exception.”

Indeed, the lack of exception here is really important. Samaritans and Jews might be regarded as enemies. Certainly, many Samaritans would have felt that they were excluded, if not oppressed, by their Judean cousins (cf. Jn 4:9, 20). It is also ambiguous whether Samaritans and Judeans are of the same religion and same nationality. So, the message is clear. Love and fraternity are universal. We must, with grace, dislodge whatever within ourselves makes us fail to measure up to the Good Samaritan, including in our relationship with those who harm us.

This is going well. But we also need to note something else about the stories. There is an important difference between the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats and the Parable of the Good Samaritan. In the latter, Jesus doesn’t actually identify himself with anyone. He radically challenges ideas about love. Yet he doesn’t make claims of self-identification. This is a difference that we have no right to ignore.

So, I’ll tell you where I make my stand. I think it would be abusive to twist Chrysostom and the Judgment of the Nations to identify Jesus equally with everyone, such that we sin horribly against the Eucharist if we fail to find Christ in an oppressor; I don’t think we get to play fast and loose with tying burdens on the backs of victims and the oppressed (cf. Mt 23:4). At the same time, though, it could nonetheless be reasonable to say, “If you can’t see a neighbour and brother/sister in the oppressor, then you won’t find a neighbour and brother in the chalice.” Jesus does specifically challenge boundaries about neighbours and fraternal love. And Jesus is our brother, much like he impels us to find a brother and neighbour in all. But in saying this, I stress that this is distinct from when the Lord identifies himself with the particularity of the despised, the needy, and the oppressed (and only, in the Gospel, them). These are two different narrative threads. They are two different loci of evangelical reflection.

To note this distinction is not to split hairs. It’s to truly, deeply love the Gospel and the Word. It is not our derived ideas, still less our ideologies, which guide us. The Way is the Word himself, and his ways are shown in the very words of Christ revealed to us.

The voice of the Magisterium

I admit, this is quite a lot to think about. I’ve been having some minor headaches over it all Lent long. Fortunately, though, we don’t have to work it all out for ourselves.

There is considerable counsel here in the teaching authority of the Church, especially the writings of the Bishops of Rome. Pope Francis has already been our witness to both the sine glossa tradition of Charles de Foucauld and the distinct but complementary universal-love tradition of the Good Samaritan. He is not, however, the only pontiff to draw on.

At the turn of the millennium, Pope John Paul II insisted on the distinction between fraternal charity and Christology that is in play:

If we have truly started out anew from the contemplation of Christ, we must learn to see him especially in the faces of those with whom he himself wished to be identified: “I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me” (Mt 25:35-37). This Gospel text is not a simple invitation to charity: it is a page of Christology which sheds a ray of light on the mystery of Christ. (Novo Millennio Ineunte 49)

And he wrote this to the churches in the Americas in particular:

The Gospel text concerning the final judgment (cf. Mt 25:31-46), which states that we will be judged on our love towards the needy in whom the Lord Jesus is mysteriously present, indicates that we must not neglect a third place of encounter with Christ: “the persons, especially the poor, with whom Christ identifies himself”. At the closing of the Second Vatican Council, Pope Paul VI recalled that “on the face of every human being, especially when marked by tears and sufferings, we can and must see the face of Christ (cf. Mt 25:40), the Son of Man”. (Ecclesia in America 12)

Here, through the witness of two saintly popes, the Church resists every appearance of flattening the spirituality of “finding Jesus” into one where those “with whom Christ identifies himself” evaporate into a nebulous “everyone.” This papal text does acknowledge as profitable the modern practice of stretching the Christ-finding to all; we legitimately say that we “see Jesus” as an auxiliary act of every act of love. But the Magisterium nonetheless prefers to go back to the Gospel source. As a result, it is deeply uncomfortable with identifying Jesus with everyone, full stop. Magisterial texts testify to an urgent need to at least erase the full stop and pencil back in the preferential option for the needy, the poor, the marginalized, and the excluded.

This textured approach rears its head over and over again. For instance, in dialogue, it is not the case that everyone has an equal voice, but rather that there is such a thing as “principal dialogue partners”:

If we wish to dialogue, we should do this in the first place with the poor [Spanish: los últimos, lit. those in last place]. They are not just another party to be won over, or merely another individual seated at a table of equals. They are our principal dialogue partners, those from whom we have the most to learn, to whom we need to listen out of a duty of justice, and from whom we must ask permission before presenting our proposals. (Querida Amazonia 26)

Dialogue with everyone is best achieved when we acknowledge different levels of success in hearing each other and in integrating insights, then prioritize those in last place (who are, the Magisterium at present determines, Indigenous peoples). This is a deliberate Bergoglian echo of Charles de Foucauld, who “only in identifying with the least […] bec[a]me the brother of all” (Fratelli Tutti 287). There is no universal fraternity—no fratelli tutti—without priority given to the least. Similarly, there is no dialogue worthy of the name without priority given to the last heard. There is texture. There is always texture. That is the fundamental takeaway of the Welcomed Little Child and the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats. Jesus identifies himself first of all in a particular direction, not willy-nilly in social space.

So, even when the Magisterium speaks in a more general sense of finding Jesus in everyone, as some sort of diffuse extension of the demand of universal love, things never rest there. There is a consistent move from this generalized reading, generated by interpretive glosses, to the radical and uncompromising particularity of the Gospel texts themselves.

Close readings of the New Testament are worth more than all the ink spilled over them. The Gospel has things to say about enemies and forgiveness, and the Parable of the Good Samaritan dislodges social particularisms by constant meditation on the all-relationships-in-one character of charity. Love that is worthy of its Christian name requires at least a fraternal foundation and a boundless hope. But evangelical love and the self-identification that Jesus makes in the Gospel are not a single circle on a Venn diagram. The Gospel contains another locus of texture, positionality, and directionality. The Lord identifies himself explicitly with the needy, the poor, the little, the marginalized, and the excluded. Any extension we make in a spirit of all-present love is truly welcomed by Jesus, who forms in us his Body here on earth, but this diffusion is never to be accorded at the expense of the Gospel particularity itself. At the end of the day, Christianity does not direct us to our ideas, but to the Word made flesh, sine glossa.

[1] Charles de Foucauld, Aux plus petits de mes frères. Méditations de 1897-98 sur les passages des Évangiles relatifs à 15 vertus axées sur la Charité (Paris; Nouvelle Cité, 1974), 92, trans. Little Sister Annie of Jesus, Charles de Foucauld: In the Footsteps of Jesus Nazareth (London: New City, 2004), 85.