Meatfare/The Last Judgment
Matthew 25:31-46
On the Sunday of the Last Judgment, the Gospel reveals that judgment takes place not in a courtroom, but in the throne room of God—a reality the Church enters every Sunday in the Divine Liturgy. This homily explores how worship forms repentance, trains us in mercy, and sends us into the world with lives shaped by the pattern of Christ’s self-giving love.
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The Throne Room Now: Judgment, Mercy, and the Work of the Liturgy
A Homily on the Sunday of the Last Judgment
Matthew 25:31–46
When we hear the Gospel of the Last Judgment, our attention is usually drawn—rightly—to the command to do good: to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick and the imprisoned. And the danger every year is that we hear this Gospel as if Christ were saying something like this: “Be good people during the week—and then come to church on Sunday.”
But that is not what the Lord is saying.
In fact, the Gospel appointed for today does something far more unsettling—and far more hopeful. It places the Judgment not in a courtroom, but in the throne room of God.
Christ says, “When the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the holy angels with Him, then He will sit on the throne of His glory.”
That is not legal language. It is liturgical language.
The people who first heard this would have known exactly what that meant. They would have filled in the details instinctively from the Scriptures and from worship: the throne surrounded by cherubim and seraphim; the unceasing hymn of praise; even the River of Fire—not as punishment, but as the light and heat of God’s own glory.
And here is the first thing we must understand:
We are not only told about that throne room. We are brought into it.
Every Sunday, the Church does not merely remember something that will happen someday. We are brought into that reality now—as much as we can bear it. The Kingdom is revealed to us here and now, sacramentally, liturgically, truthfully.
And that changes how we hear today’s Gospel.
First: There is a connection between doing good and coming to church
Sunday is not an interruption of the Christian life. It is its measure.
In a real sense, every Sunday is a little judgment—not a condemnation, but a revelation. We come into the light, and the truth about us is allowed to appear.
And notice how this begins in the Divine Liturgy.
It begins not with confidence, not with self-congratulation, but with repentance. The priest, standing before God as the leader and voice of the people, pleads at the very beginning:
“O Lord, Lord, open unto me the door of Thy mercy.”
That is not theatrical humility. That is the truth. We are asking to be let in—not because we deserve it, but because without mercy we cannot even stand.
And then, before the Trisagion, the priest names what God already knows about all of us: that He “despisest not the sinner but hast appointed repentance unto salvation.” And so he begs Him directly:
“Pardon us every transgression both voluntary and involuntary.”
This is what Sunday is. It is the people of God standing before the glory of His altar and asking to be healed. Asking to see clearly. Asking to be made capable of love.
But repentance in the Liturgy does not remain on the lips of the clergy alone.
Before Communion, the entire Church takes up the same posture and says together words that are almost shocking in their honesty:
“I stand before the doors of Thy temple, and yet I refrain not from my terrible thoughts.”
We do not pretend that standing in church has magically fixed us. We confess that we are still conflicted, still distracted, still broken.
And then, with no room left for comparison or self-justification, we each say:
“Who didst come into the world to save sinners, of whom I am first.”
And finally, we make the plea that fits today’s Gospel with frightening precision:
“Not unto judgment nor unto condemnation be my partaking of Thy holy mysteries, O Lord, but unto the healing of soul and body.”
The Church is honest with us here. The same fire that heals can also burn, depending on whether we approach it with repentance or with presumption. This is not a threat meant to drive us away, but truth meant to help us approach rightly.
That is why Sunday is a little judgment—not because God is eager to condemn, but because His throne room is opened to us now in mercy, so that we may be healed, corrected, and trained to recognize Christ when He comes to us in the least of His brethren.
Second: Sunday worship is where we actually do the work Christ commands
And once we see that, we can begin to understand what the Church is actually doing here – and why worship cannot be separated from judgment.
Before we ever offer bread and wine, the Church first intercedes for the world. We pray for peace from above and the salvation of our souls; for the peace of the whole world and the good estate of the holy Churches; for this city and every city and countryside; for travelers by sea, by land, and by air; for the sick, the suffering, and the captive; for deliverance from tribulation, wrath, danger, and necessity. We even pray for civil authorities—not to bless power for its own sake, but that peace and order might make room for mercy and justice.
In other words, before we do anything else, we place the needs of others before God.
And in addition to interceding for all of this, here—at the heart of the Divine Liturgy—the Church actually performs the works of mercy Christ names in today’s Gospel. Not in theory. Not symbolically. But truly.
Here:
· Strangers are welcomed and given a home.
· Prisoners are freed from the shackles of sin and the sentence of death.
· The naked are clothed with baptismal garments.
· The thirsty are given living water.
· The hungry are given the Bread of Life.
This is not allegory. This is reality at its deepest level.
God Himself tells us to care even more for the soul than for the body. During the week, we sacrifice ourselves to meet bodily needs—and we must grow in that work. But on Sunday, we are commanded to do the most important work of mercy: to restore people to life in Christ.
That is why worship is not optional. It is not private devotion. It is the Church doing what the Church exists to do. And because that work is real, it carries with it genuine hope.
Third: Sunday gives us a foretaste of the reward
The Gospel of the Last Judgment is not only a warning. It is also a promise.
Those who learn to serve Christ in the least of His brethren are not merely rewarded—they are invited to rest in God, to share in His life, to participate in His rule.
Saint Paul says something astonishing:
“Do you not know that the saints will judge the world? … Do you not know that we shall judge angels?” (1 Corinthians 6:2–3)
This does not mean we become harsh or self-righteous. It means we are being trained—here and now—for a future of responsibility, faithfulness, and love.
What we do here is forming who we are becoming.
Conclusion
What happens in this Divine Liturgy is the automatic response of the Church—that is, of a people devoted to sacrificial love—to God’s command to care for others as we care for ourselves.
This is not a dead ritual.
It is a powerful tool for doing essential work.
It is the throne room of God revealed to us now.
But it is not meant to remain here.
The expectation of the Church is that the pattern of the Liturgy becomes the pattern of our life. That the repentance we practice here becomes the repentance that shapes our weeks. That the mercy we receive here becomes the mercy we extend beyond these walls. That the intercessions we make here train us to notice, remember, and bear the burdens of others when we leave.
That is why the Liturgy does not end with applause or reflection, but with a command:
“Let us go forth in peace.”
We are sent out not having finished our work, but having been formed for it.
And when the Son of Man comes in His glory, He will recognize those whose lives have taken on the shape of His worship—those who learned, here, how to repent, how to intercede, and how to love.
