A few years ago, a bus driver in Seattle named Marcus made headlines—not for any heroics, but for noticing people. Every day, he would watch passengers board his bus, many were his regular passengers, and most of them eyes glued to phones, avoided an older woman who was also his regular passenger in a frayed coat muttering to herself. One icy morning, Marcus saw this elderly woman shivering and he handed her his own thermos of coffee. She stared at him, then whispered, “You’re the first person who has looked at me in weeks.” Turns out, she wasn’t “crazy”—just a widow grieving her son, quietly unraveling. Marcus didn’t fix her life. He just saw her. And in that moment, he glimpsed eternity.
That’s the scandal of today’s Gospel. Jesus says the final exam of faith isn’t theology or piety—it’s whether we recognize Him hiding in plain sight, disguised as the people we have trained ourselves not to see.
Why would a shepherd separate sheep and goats as we heard in the gospel? The two species are similar but behave differently. Sheep have a strong flocking instinct, they stick together, grazing close to the ground. Goats, independent and curious, they like to forage and climb to find shrubs and leaves, they stray and wander off. If kept together, goats lead some sheep astray.
Jesus’ parable is jarringly simple. The “sheep” aren’t saints or scholars. They’re ordinary folks who stuck together, who gave a sandwich quietly to a coworker who was laid off, who drove a sick neighbor to chemo, or listened to a teen who felt invisible. We are experts at avoidance. Like the goats, curious and independent, we speed-walk past the homeless veteran, silence the coworker venting about their marriage, or dismiss the kid labeled “troubled.” But Jesus says, “That’s Me. That’s Me."
Jesus’ criteria for heaven are shocking: Food. Water. A visit. No grand gestures. Why? Because love isn’t a spectacle—it’s a habit. We have heard examples of a teacher who cared about a student who slept in class daily. Instead of scolding, she asked, “Rough nights?” He confessed he cared for his siblings while his mom worked nights. She started packing two lunches. No fanfare. Just ordinary sandwiches. That’s the Gospel—small acts that whisper, “I see you.”
We think we need “more”—time, money, expertise. But Jesus says the Kingdom is built on “whatever you did.” A text to a lonely friend. A pause to thank the janitor. Letting the exhausted mom cut you in line. These aren’t just footnotes to faith—they’re the textbook.
A priest friend once turned his church’s food pantry into a “Thanksgiving table”—same meals, but served restaurant-style, with cloth napkins and flowers. Why? He said, “If Jesus came to dinner, we wouldn’t hand Him a Styrofoam box.” That’s the heart of the Gospel today. The “least of these” aren’t a project. They are Jesus in a wig and sunglasses, testing our sight. The addict? That’s Him. The refugee? Yes, Him again. The annoying relative? Still Him.
So here’s your holy homework today, Notice one person the world ignores. Not with pity, but with curiosity. Ask their name. Buy their coffee. Sit with their silence. You may not change their day or life but you’ll train your eyes to spot the Divine in Disguise. Because heaven’s not a VIP lounge. It’s a crowded restaurant where the only password is “I saw you.”