Christ the King Sunday

November 25, 2007
The Rev. David R. Hackett

As Christians we proclaim Jesus Christ as alpha and omega, the beginning and the ending. The church year reflects that belief; it begins and ends with Christ. Next Sunday is the First Sunday of Advent, the beginning of the year when we look forward to the coming of the Christ into the world. Today, we come to the end of the Christian year, and we look to the Christ at the ending of time, the ending of this age. Jesus Christ is the beginning and the ending. He came the first time as a baby, as one of us, a human being, so that we might begin to glimpse and comprehend his divine love for all. He comes the second time, at the end of time, as a king and judge, so that we might bend the knee of our hearts before his love.

On Fifth Avenue in Manhattan two figures stand opposite each other, both of them concerned about this world. One figure almost leaps out at you; huge, gilded with gold, it gets your attention immediately. The other is more subdued, no gold, simple white marble, not as gargantuan. In front of Rockefeller Center is Atlas, the mythical giant. He is attempting to balance the world on his back, his huge muscles bulging; his whole expression one of strain and tension. Across the street, in the façade of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, is the figure of Christ. And the world is in his hands, not on his back; he is holding it securely, serenely, with an exquisite blend of grace and power.

This is Christ the King Sunday. Today we acknowledge that at the end of history stands Jesus the Christ, and toward that end everything moves, not only our individual lives, but the lives of all nations, all of humanity. The truth we assert today is that which is depicted in the statue on Fifth Avenue: he has the whole world in his hands.

The prophet Jeremiah foresaw a time when the Lord God, like a shepherd, will seek out his people and lead them to safety, and they will dwell in his kingdom. St. Paul, writing to the Church in Colossae, writes of God rescuing us from the power of darkness and transferring us to the kingdom of his beloved son. And then in today’s Gospel, the penitent thief pleads with our Lord, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

What kind of king do we claim this day? The whole concept of kingship is, at best, problematical for us.

Something you probably don’t know about your Interim Rector is that I am a cemetery buff. I enjoy walking through old cemeteries, reading dates, imagining lives lived out, chuckling at epitaphs. There is a most interesting cemetery at St. James’ Episcopal Church in Bolivar, TN which is near Memphis. There you will find the grave of Col. Ezekiel Polk, the brother of President James K. Polk. Col. Polk wrote his own epitaph and it’s quite a piece of poetry. I won’t quote the whole thing, but it begins,

Here lies the dust of old E. P.
one instance of mortality;
Pennsylvania born, Carolina bred,
in Tennessee died on his bed.

The epitaph concludes,

First fruits and tithes are odious things
and so are bishops, priests, and kings.

Isn’t that delightful? “Bishops, priests, and kings are odious things.” Bishops and priests may well be so considered, but I’m hardly in a position to give objective comment to that! However, that crusty old man caustically expressed what many Americans felt then and feel now. After all, we fought a revolution to rid ourselves of a king and his power.

Most of today’s kings and queens are but shadows of past glory, figureheads designed to provide a link with history and tradition. Absolute monarchs are things of the past. All of this is to say that the idea of kingship doesn’t mean a whole lot to us today, and yet we call Jesus “king”, even “King of kings” and “Lord of lords.” Our ideas of a king, surrounded by his court of nobles are rather jumbled and confused. Maybe the image we have here at St. John’s is that presented by our upcoming Madrigal. It gives me pause that the king in the Madrigal sounds suspiciously like President Bush! Our idea of a king is probably a conglomerate from historical data, fairy tales, and old Disney movies.

But the people of Jesus’ day had a very clear idea of what a king was. And when they compared Jesus to the kings of this earth he didn’t match up. And this brings us to the scene in today’s Gospel. Pilate has already asked about Jesus’ kingship. He has asked the crowd if they want to crucify their “king.” And now, wit h an inscription nailed above his head, “This is Jesus of Nazareth, the king of the Jews”, Jesus is hanging on his cross between two thieves.

Isn’t that where Jesus is always to be found, between sinners? Between those who have been broken by the systems of the world and have broken the rules of the system? Both criminals face death. And these are not “good deaths”, a good death after a full and fulfilling life. In all likelihood these men are leaving behind their dreams, their families, the world they have known and maybe have even loved. How do they handle their pain? How do they deal with their seeming meaningless lives? In two quite different ways.

One builds a wall of derision. What ever Jesus could have meant to the man is kept out by a wall of bitterness, disappointment and alienation. Over the years this man’s heart has been turned to stone. Don’t you know people like that? I do. Stone doesn’t feel, doesn’t get hurt. It is impervious to pain, the pain of feeling abandoned by those you love, by your family, by your God, by those you thought loved you. A heart of stone is safe from pain, but at the same time it is inaccessible to grace, to love. The same wall that keeps that thief “safe” is the very wall that keeps him from Jesus. He is as fastened to his cynicism and stoniness as he is to that cross. And just as that cross will kill his body, so also will his hardened heart kill his soul.

The other thief does something quite different. He reads the inscription over the head of Jesus, and instead of laughing and jeering about it as the others do, he believes it! In his “death bed confession”, his “death cross” confession, he opens his guilt and pain to Jesus. He does not taunt. He surrenders. He enters into the release that is the essence of repentance. And out of his lostness, he is found. He takes the scoffing words of his fellow criminal, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” and finds in them the truth: “This is Messiah. This is the King!” And he makes his plea, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

As the Church, you and I, say we believe that he has come into his kingdom. The king of all creation, who has stooped to live and die as one of us and has shown us the way of love now lives and reigns in heaven and in the hearts of all those who would receive him as king.

The question for each of us is simply, “Who is your King?” To whom are you loyal? Who is your Lord?

Either Jesus is Christ the King, the ultimate immovable ground of our being, the one who saves, or he is not. And, as far as I know, there is only one true way to find out.

And that is to give this Jesus enough of your life so that his transforming life may heal you, eventually remake you – from the inside out.

When we say, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”, when this conversion happens, even if it happens in bits and pieces (as it usually does); then we receive a foretaste of the saving truth that the penitent thief found that afternoon on the cross, “Truly, I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Amen.