Old-timers may recall the ecstasy that washed over some of us upon hearing Norman Greenbaum’s rock’n’roll anthem: Spirit in the Sky. (When I die and they lay me to rest, gonna go to the place that’s the best; when they lay me down to die, gonna go UP to the Spirit in the sky…) Same for the first time I sang, “Father, We Adore You,” with two or three rounds of a capella alleluias chanted during an ecumenical meeting in Saginaw, MI. Like St. Paul in II Corinthians 12: I felt I’d been lifted-up into the mystical third heaven as we sang together in faith and fervor. (Sing the alleluias … I eventually stole the melody last summer for a new song using a Quebecois pandemic affirmation: ca va bien aller – all shall be well with God – a prayer to be sung at any occasion.)
For years I maintained my associate membership in the Community of Celebration – a coed monas-tic community of the Anglican church – that creatively blended the passion and convictions of the charismatic renewal with beautiful liturgy and prayer. It was smells and bells and ritual mixed with tenderness, trust, and rhapsodic musical choruses carefully constructed to be sung by everyone. You see, Celebration did NOT do schlock – thanks be to God – they were poets, artists, scholars, and writers: women, men, and children reinventing the monastic tradition for the late 20th century with playful liturgies and Celtic folk songs linking tradition with incarnational compassion – and there was always room at Eucharist for everyone. For decades, Christ the King Sunday was in-complete for me if I didn’t sing this Celebration hymn: Alleluia, alleluia opening our hearts…
This feast day, Christ the King Sunday, is one of the rare times in the year when Christianity’s two major feasts — Easter and Christmas, the Cross and Incarnation — come into close connection. The one condemned before the crowds in Jerusalem is the same one born in a forgotten, back-water town. The one hailed by angels, shepherds, and philosophers from afar is the same one eventually betrayed, abandoned, and left to die in shame. “Silent Night” and “What Wondrous Love is This?” overlap and interweave, together creating another kind of song entirely. And this juxtaposition of creative tension is precisely the point. To paraphrase the great womanist theo-logian Delores Williams, the “kingship” of Christ can only be understood through this dissonance and harmony: “King of Kings!” on the one hand, as if sung by a resplendent choir; and “poor little Mary’s boy” on the other, as if whispered by an elderly woman standing alone. The “Reign of Christ” on one hand, and God’s child, exquisitely vulnerable, on the other. These two songs, Williams contends, sung back and forth in call and response, is “how the Black church does theology.” Each song needs the other for the complete truth to shine through our uncertainties.
THIS feast day, this time set aside to embrace the subversive upside-down kingdom of God that empowers society’s winners to humbly join those consigned to the back of the bus by joyfully ex-changing our privilege for solidarity in pursuit of equality is Christ the King Sunday for me. This feast day, where sisters and brothers who have been systematically locked out of life’s abundance are respectfully ushered to the head banquet table as honored guests at the feast of Christ’s love: this is Christ the King Sunday to me as well. And this feast day, where what has long been forgotten is remembered, where the lost find they’ve been found, and mourners rejoice, the broken dance, the blind see, and the deaf sing new songs: this, too is Christ the King Sunday. It’s where the cradle sits not far from the Cross, conventional notions of power are redefined by compassion, and selfish delight is relinquish-ed by carrying one another’s burdens in community: all of this and more is Christ the King Sunday. The Welsh poet, R.S. Thomas, says it well:
So, as you’ve clearly gathered by now, this liturgical feast day, while still defying any attempt to re-name it with a politically and theologically correct alternative, is hallowed ground for me. And while I wish there was a better metaphor than King to describe the spirituality of this feast…I keep returning to that masculocentric moniker, Christ the King, because even with all its bag-gage, it evokes the mystical paradox of Jesus as Christ better than all the rest. I’ve tried some of the suggested alternatives; inclusivity is important. And while most Americans don’t know much about Kings – or Queens for that matter – and we’re fuzzier still about what the realm of Christ means, the traditional words… what?
Well, they give shape and form to how I mystically experience God’s presence
within and among us: the kingdom seems obscure at first – but if I slow down and wait for eyes to see, I often find God’s blessing hidden in plain sight. The image of Jesus as Universal Christ points to the holy being incarnated in our humanity, the cosmic Alpha and Omega being revealed in a down-to-earth manner, and the marriage of all that is noble and lofty with all that is humble and vulnerable as well. Tricia Gates Brown, a theologian of the ordinary, writes:
For the past four months our Small is Holy gatherings have tried to identify some of the ways we might become living and incarnational prayers: allies of God’s upside-down kingdom. Today, our odyssey into embodied rather than abstract or intellectual prayer comes to a close as we complete the cycle of stories shaped by St. Luke’s gospel and anticipate another pilgrimage through the in-sights of St. Matthew’s text with Advent’s arrival next week.
Now we should be clear that the proximity of Christ the King Sunday to Advent is NOT an accident, ok? It’s an intentionally brilliant work of theological juxtaposition connecting the Alpha and the Omega, the struggle and celebration of faith, the mystical marriage of the human with the holy to both the Cross on Golgotha today and the cradle of Bethlehem next week.
Christ the King Sunday, you see, is NOT an ancient feast but a relatively contemporary con-struct. It came about after the world had endured the horrors of the First World War. What was supposed to be the war to end ALL wars, however, only emboldened violent fascists all over Europe. In 1925, Pope Pius 11th was afraid that the destructive influences of totalitarian-ism as seen in the brutality of the Russian Revolution, the ascent of dictators in Spain and Italy, and the threat of Nazi dominance being advance by Hitler in Germany, might unlock the hounds of hell unless held in check by an global spiritual revival. The Pope’s deepest hope – perhaps too naïve, in retrospect, but still heartfelt – was that by reclaiming and reemphasiz-ing God’s love made flesh in Christ, the madness of human hatred and idolatry might be thwarted. Simultaneously, we should note that Pope Pius also wanted to reign-in the influence of the Protest-ant movement in Europe. That’s why the first Christ the King feast was set for October 31st – it was to be a Roman Catholic Counter Reformation Day.
Now, I don’t know what it’s like where you live, but it’s already getting dark here at this time of day; so, like our earliest ancestors, I find a bit of existential comfort in a liturgy that re-minds me that there is a light shining in the darkness that the darkness has not overcome. When our liturgies move within the flow of the seasons, it’s easier for me to rest into the un-forced rhythms of grace. With this background then, take a listen to the gospel appointed for Christ the King Sunday from St. Luke’s gospel:
When the Roman legions and the tortured Jesus 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. From the Cross, Jesus said, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” The Roman soldiers cast lots to divide his clothing. (Which, let me add, is where some tradition find a hatred of gambling.) A crowd of people stood by watching; while their religious leaders scoffed at Jesus, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked Jesus, coming up and offering him sour wine, saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” They also hung an inscription over him: “This is the King of the Jews.” One of the criminals crucified there kept deriding Jesus saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” And Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
Having now lived into this feast day for almost 45 years, I see at least three discrete albeit linked layers in this text that join the subversive wisdom of the Cross with the subdued promise of grace in the cradle at Bethlehem.
· First there’s the contrast between Caesar as king, and more broadly ALL secular leaders, and the way Jesus embodies his calling as spiritual king.
· Second there’s the difference between a culture that deals with its fears and wounds by scape-goating and the counter-cultural trust that Jesus incarnated during his lifetime.
· And third this passage invites us to trust that even in the worst possible suffering Jesus finds a way to bring mercy and love to us personally.
This seemingly grim passage offers a macro, micro, and mini personal picture of
“For a Jew in Jerusalem, there could be no more terrifying, disgraceful death than to be “hung on a tree...under God’s curse” as Deut 21:23 articulates clearly.” At this point in his ministry, Jesus had been forsaken by his male friends and mocked and degraded by his enemies including the of-ficials of the occupying army like Pilate and Herod, the grunt soldiers on the ground, and finally by a common criminal condemned to death on the cross next to him. His torturers hung a sign above him on which they’d scrawled in Hebrew, Greek, and Latin stating: This is the King of the Jews. "Those in power wanted their subjects to know that the agony of the Cross is what happens to all who challenge the authority Caesar. It was a a crude and cruel public service announcement doc-umenting the “domination, terror, and contempt” of the Roman emperor."
· That’s the macro context – violence, shame, suffering, fear, and loathing – and it stands in stark contrast to everything St. Luke has consistently shown us about Jesus throughout his gospel; namely, that the mission of Jesus is to “declare the dawn of Jubilee: a new era, rooted in ancient Israelite history and myth where ALL the captives are released from bondage.” Release of the captives is the macro version of the personal proclamation: I have come so that your joy may be full: complete and satisfied.
· You see, Jesus knows that the heart of Jubilee is mercy not strict justice: God’s kingdom is not constructed upon wars, retribution, or acts of intimidation, but servanthood. So, with a staggering consistency, St. Luke shows us that Jesus has come among us as one who serves – as one who incarnates mercy just as God is merciful – as one who kneels to wash our feet and trusts that loving God and neighbor as ourselves is the foundation of Jubilee. Yes, some of the first shall become last, and the good news will always feel like bad news for some others, too; but fundamentally the Jubilee of Christ’s tradition is NOT about punishment. It’s about mercy. Grace. And there’s no more profound contrast between Christ and Caesar than this.
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Same, too on the mini, personal level: “in Caesar’s kingdom the gates of imperial privilege swing shut — while in Christ’s, the gates of salvation swing open.” (SALT Project) The exchange that takes place between Jesus and the thieves beside him on the Cross condenses the totality of Christ’s life’s work into seven simple sentences. Remember these thieves were being executed by the state after being captured breaking into a Roman armory and stealing weapons for an emerging Jewish insur-rection, ok? So, with one Jewish revolutionary screaming at Jesus in fear and rage and the other asking to be remembered when Jesus crosses over into eternal life, the Universal revolutionary of love promises both men – and countless others, too – that today they shall be with him in Paradise. Jesus never says: “Today you will be with me in Paradise” only to the good or penitent thief while hanging the “bad” one out to dry, ok? Yet again Jesus incarnates the ironic, upside-down mercy of God’s kingdom for both criminals, subverting and debunking for good the idea that grace is a re-ward for good behavior. “The story’s point should be clear: when it comes to salvation, now and for-ever, God’s mercy falls on the just and unjust alike.” The tender-hearted and clear-thinking scholars at the SALT Project celebrate this truth by sharing a story from the Swiss Reformed theologian Karl Barth who wrote that:
The church was born in this story, out there in the shadows on that desolate executioner’s hill. There, a meager congregation, not of the righteous, but of criminals, gathered around Jesus, listening for — and receiving — words of forgiveness and radiant good news. Accordingly, the church always finds itself surround-ed and pervaded by Caesar’s reign, and is nevertheless called to be a sacrament, an experience, and above all a proclamation of Christ’s dawning reign of love. It is a “kingdom” not of domina-tion, but servanthood; not of mockery, but kindness; not of cruelty, but mercy. For the fullness of that Great Jubilee in all its beauty, we wait, and pray, and prepare — especially as the season of Advent begins.
Today’s text gives us a clear contrast: the kingdom of Caesar or the kingdom of Christ Jesus. A scene of suffering that looks godforsaken, “that very place is likely to also be the ironic, revolu-tionary presence of the holy where God is not only present but active. God’s reign can be mocked, and Caesar’s reign often looks triumphant — yet there, and precisely there, in our hopelessness, God reigns. And that imperial inscription above Jesus’ head, the one meant to taunt, intimidate, and demean — there, and precisely there, God’s kingship is declared and incarnated.”
Today’s text gives us a clear contrast: the kingdom of Caesar or the kingdom of Christ Jesus. A scene of suffering that looks godforsaken, “that very place is likely to also be the ironic, revolu-tionary presence of the holy where God is not only present but active. God’s reign can be mocked, and Caesar’s reign often looks triumphant — yet there, and precisely there, in our hopelessness, God reigns. And that imperial inscription above Jesus’ head, the one meant to taunt, intimidate, and demean — there, and precisely there, God’s kingship is declared and incarnated.”
The elders of our mystical, contemplative, mercy-driven faith remind us that as we
take-in the wis-dom of the Cross on Christ the King Sunday today, we would do well to recall that this happens smack up against the eve of Advent where God arrives for us in the most humble, hidden, and vul-nerable way: as an infant in a manger with Mary’s milk still on his breath. THIS is the one we trust to become Christ the King: a king who incarnates greatness through humble service. “A king who refuses to use his power to fend off his opponents, much less take vengeance on them – who actually does the opposite calling upon the All-Loving One to forgive and then welcome them for eternity. (SALT Project)When I look around me these days, so much yearns to be made whole – not only the confusion and chaos of a world literally on fire – but also our politics, economics, culture, and religion. So much anger, so much anxiety, so much suffering. At the same time, given the ironic, revolutionary, and transformational blessings carried by the God who comes as an upside-down, compassionate and tender king, I know that there’s more going on than I can fathom and see. A poem by Carrie Newcomer puts it like this:
So much of what we know lives just below the surface.
Half of a tree spreads out beneath our feet. Living simultaneously in two worlds,
Each half informing and nurturing the whole. A tree is either and neither but mostly both. I am drawn to liminal spaces, the half-tamed and unruly patch where the forest gives way and my little garden begins. Where water, air, and light overlap becoming mist on the morning pond. I like to sit on my porch steps, barn jacket and boots In the last long exhale of the day, when bats and birds loop in and then out, one rising to work, one readying for sleep. And although the full moon calls the currents, and the dark moon reminds methat my best language has always emerged out of the silence, it’s in the waxing and waning where I most often live. Neither here nor there, but simply on the way. There are endings and beginnings, one emerging out of the other. But most days I travel in an ever present and curious now. A betwixt and between, that is almost, but not quite, the beautiful, but not yet. I’ve been learning to live with what is, more patient with the process, to love what is becoming, and the questions that keep returning. I am learning to trust the horizon I walk toward is an orientation, not a destination. And that I will keep catching glimpses of something great and luminous from the corner of my eye. I am learning to live where loss holds fast and where grief lets loose and unravels. Where a new kind of knowing can pick up the thread. Where I can slide palms with a paradox and nod at the dawn, as the shadows pull back and spirit meets bone.
So I KEEP singing to myself: Seek ye first the kingdom of God as a prayer. A mantra. An anticipation of the mercy I need – and WE need – to share and spread God’s love in times like these. To ready our hearts for Eucharist, perhaps you’ll join with me to sing:
Seek ye first the kingdom of God – and all its righteousness.
And all these things shall be added unto you: allelu, alleluia.
Ask and it shall be given unto you, seek and ye shall find;
Knock and the door will be opened unto you: allelu, alleluia.
check it out here: https://fb.watch/gWuUO8QUyh/
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