November 24, 2019: Christ the King

When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. (Luke 23:33)

On this Feast of Christ the King, when we proclaim Jesus as King of kings and Lord of lords, we ought to wonder: why do we hear the story of his crucifixion? We could have heard the story of the triumphal entry, when Jesus rode into Jerusalem like a king, and people spread their garments and palm branches along his way. We could have heard the narrative of his resurrection, of his victorious rising from the grave on Easter. We could have heard plenty of other stories—why this one?

If nothing else, the story of Christ the King reminds us of the utter strangeness of the Christian faith: that there was an ancient near-eastern Jew who was tortured and executed by the state, in the company of criminals, entirely dehumanized—and that this person is the ruler of the universe and above all other earthly rulers, past present and future. Both of those things are true at the same time, according to the Christian faith. We have to admit that this is totally bizarre. Crucifixion and royalty do not go together. You cannot imagine a place that is more wretched, inhuman, and powerless than a Roman cross, and kings as we know them would never die on one. If Christ is King, he is not like any other king we know. He reigns not from a throne, but from a cross.

Sacred imagery can sometimes do what words cannot. The central image of our church, for example, is the Great Rood—rood is an Old-English word for cross—depicting the crucified Jesus, alongside the Virgin Mary and John (the “beloved disciple”). It doesn’t show Christ in the midst of the two criminals mentioned in today’s Gospel, but nevertheless it points us toward the agony of the crucifixion. Jesus’ face is lowered, and turned away from us. As in Luke’s Gospel scene, the Latin inscription at the top proclaims his identity: Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum—Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. This is the principal crucifix of our church, but it’s not the only one: the other is on the reredos, just above the high altar. It’s rather hard to see it from the Nave, and if you’ve never given it a close look then I would invite you to come and do so at some point after mass. Because this crucifix shows a very different Christ on the cross: a Christ who is victorious, who wears a royal crown and the robe of a king, and his piercing eyes are looking straight into yours. Christ the Victor, Christ the King. These are two very different images of Jesus in our church. And yet, they are the same. The agony of Christ’s crucifixion—as we see on the Great Rood—is a window through which we perceive a deeper dimension of the Christ who is King—as we find on the high altar. The King of the Jews is also the King of kings, and Lord of lords.

Christ the King is the Church’s friendly reminder that: “if Jesus is Lord, then Caesar is not.” If we really believe that Christ is King and Lord of heaven and earth, then that should affect how we think about earthly rulers. It should mean, first and foremost, that we should not imagine them to be our saviors. Precisely the opposite. And this is why the Feast of Christ the King is so very important, because in pretty much all times and places, Christians have fallen into the trap of placing their ultimate hope and their trust in rulers—monarchs, sure, but even in the elected officials of modern democracies. This feast is less than 100 years old, instituted by Pope Pius the 11th in response to the wave of nationalism and fascism sweeping over Europe after the First World War. All throughout the continent, and particularly in Germany, Christians were retreating into nativist camps, and hatred of minorities was being fueled by democratically-elected demagogues (sound familiar?). Theirs was a failure of belief—the belief that Jesus is Lord. Because if Jesus is Lord, then the Führer is not. If the German Christians had believed that, then history would have turned out differently. The Feast of Christ the King is the response to authoritarian rulers who imagine themselves to be sovereign in a way that only Jesus can be. It reminds us where to place our hope and our trust—and the consequences of throwing in our lot with Caesar.

This is as timely a message for us now as it was 100 years ago. In the United States of America we do not have a monarch, but based on the ever-expanding power of the Executive branch of government over the last several decades, I am starting to think that we want one. We seem to want our presidents to act like kings—just so long as they are the president we happen to want. The sheer level at which presidential politics devours this country’s attention is appalling. If Jesus is Lord, then the President is not—but from the way that Christians in America speak and act, you’d never know it. The fact is that American Christianity has no idea what it would mean to imagine Christ as King. We are too caught up in the nightmare of partisanship and the cruelty and brutality of the politics of our day. There is much talk about the so-called “partisan divide,” but what we have to realize is that Christians on both sides are in lock-step with each other in the most basic way: the belief that our elected officials can save us. They have very strong differences about who those people should be, but nevertheless both act as though someone other than Jesus is Lord.

Recall the language of today’s opening Collect, which states that the people of the earth are “divided and enslaved by sin.” That’s what American Christianity feels like—divided and enslaved by sin. What we need is to be “freed and brought together under [Christ’s] most gracious rule.” Such freedom will not come by party control, nor through the occupant of the White House, whomever they may be. Freedom comes by submitting to the authority of Christ, who commands us to love our neighbors as ourselves, and to love our enemies and pray for our persecutors.

Jesus gives a peace which the world cannot give. He didn’t come to change the world; he came to save it. The world can only enforce peace through violence; but the peace of Christ is not like the peace-keeping of this world. The peace of Christ makes wars to cease, breaks the bow, shatters the spear, and burns the shields with fire. On the cross, Christ undoes the power of violence and death, taking them into himself and destroying them once and for all. No earthly king could do that, only the Son of God. Only the King of kings, and Lord of lords.

If Jesus is Lord, then Caesar is not. May God grant us the grace to receive his peace and accept his reign. For in the words of St. Paul to the Philippians, as recently paraphrased by Kanye West:

Every knee shall bow, every tongue confess, Jesus is Lord, Jesus is Lord.

May God bring us together under his most gracious rule. Amen.