Sermons

Sermons

    Christ the King, Year C

    Things are getting darker.

    The daylight is less, the night is more, and we are only weeks away from the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year.

    Things are sort of grim liturgically as well.  The gospel readings have had a persistent focus on last things and end times.  We celebrated All Saints, and remembered those we love but see no longer.  Then we read how Jesus debated the Sadducees concerning the resurrection of the dead.  Finally, we heard Jesus’ own discourse on last things, in which he foretold the destruction of the Temple itself, the cataclysmic end of all that was normal and foundational to the world his disciples knew.

    Now, today, we have a liturgy with a split personality.  The mood is festal, the hangings are white, and we sing “Crown him with many crowns.”  In many places this day is known as The Feast of Christ the King.  But our celebrations come to a screeching halt when the gospel is read, and with no warning whatsoever, we are at the foot of the cross, apparently having leaped over Christmas and all the rest to land squarely on Good Friday.

    And if this is a festival for a king, this is no ordinary picture of kingship.

    Of course, we 21st century Americans probably aren’t really looking for a king anyhow.  In our world, the thought of a king is more disturbing than it is comforting.

    Consider what we associate with kingship in its most benign form:  a male ruler, not elected by the people, removed from the day-to-day world by living in a palace, with a host of servants, great luxury, and splendid clothing.  The king makes the rules and enforces them.  He is all-powerful, yet distant and unknown.  His people are subjects, who, if loyal, receive his favor.  If disloyal, they are punished.

    Such an image for God leads to what scholar Marcus Borg calls the “performance model” of Christianity.  If Christ is the ever-vigilant monarch, then Christian living boils down to “meeting the requirements” or “measuring up.”  Everything depends on how well we perform, and the end is either favor or punishment.

    So perhaps we are given this extraordinary picture of a king in the midst of this festival as a clue that God actually intends something completely different.

    The one person in our gospel reading who seems to understand the truth is the criminal who says to Jesus, “…remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  He knows something the rest of them have missed entirely.  The people only stand helplessly, watching.  The leaders are scoffing, the soldiers mocking.  An inscription has been hung above his twisting helpless body – “This is the King of the Jews.”  What a joke.  What a sick, sick joke.

    But Jesus turns to man beside him, the one who gets it, and says, “Today, you will be with me in Paradise.”

    “…remember me when you come into your kingdom.  Today, you will be with me in Paradise.”

    Jesus’ kingdom is Paradise.

    Paradise is a Persian word which means “walled garden.”  The word is used only a few times in all of scripture and its most common use is to refer to that Garden which God created and placed in Eden. 

    So in a very real sense, Jesus is telling the man dying beside him that on that day, together, they will go back to the beginning; that instead of everything ending, things are going to begin again, in a very particular and wonderful way.

    Our understanding of the meaning of the Garden of Eden has been truncated by our over-emphasis on the end of the story.  The most important thing about the Garden of Eden is not the eating of the fruit.  The most important thing about the Garden of Eden is the relationships that were formed there.  In Eden, God created a man, and they walked and talked together as friends.  In Eden, God created a woman, and the three of them were companions, learning to love one another and be together.

    This is Paradise, not a geographic destination but a state of being.  Paradise is not up above, or somewhere out there; it is in here – in our hearts.  Paradise is the state of being in love with God and one another in such a way that one knows oneself to be more whole, more alive, more real than one can ever be alone.  Paradise is the place of safety, where there is neither pain nor grief, neither sighing, but life everlasting.  Paradise is in fact, the kingdom of God, and as Jesus told his followers over and over again – that kingdom is here – in our midst.  From the moment Jesus died and rose again, the kingdom has been possible on the face of this earth.  Jesus tells his disciples that the kingdom of God is something they, by their own actions can make manifest.  It is there, where someone is healed, or over there, where someone is set free.  God’s kingdom is real, but it is not tangible.  We cannot touch it, but we can feel it.  We cannot see it, but we can see the effects of its presence.  Jesus demonstrated his kingship and brought the kingdom to life by serving, healing, and doing justice.  He called his disciples to do likewise.  That life of service, not performance, is the model for Christian living.

    This Sunday is the hinge of our Christian year.  Next Sunday we will begin again.  Our lectionary will go back to Year A.  We will spend four weeks in darkness, waiting, pondering what it will mean for Christ to be in this world.  We enter that four week season from this point, this place where we stand at the foot of the cross.  We go into Advent with our memories refreshed, knowing before we begin where we are going to end.  Despite all appearances to the contrary, we are not heading for death and destruction.  We are moving inexorably toward peace, joy, and the excitement of new life. 

    The journey is long and filled with opportunities for mishap and mischief.  We will have to live through the long weeks of pregnancy, the long time of expecting, but not knowing for sure.  We will experience the amazing birth of possibilities, and we will remember all the ways God’s light can shine in our world.  We will go through the interminable passage of Lent, uncovering all our broken places.  We will walk the way of the cross, and we will stand again, watching with horror as the principalities and powers of this world wield death like a blunt instrument, knocking down all that is good and pure and true.

    But they will overcome and we will greet with joy the Easter news of resurrection.  We will try to live new life with all its unknown ways.  We will receive anew the gift of God’s Holy Spirit at Pentecost and all the while we will practice living in the kingdom.  All the while, we will remember that in our hearts there is Paradise.

    This is how God forms us, molds us, and makes us daily more and more in his image. We live the cycle: birth, baptism, life in the Spirit. Our daily lives are strung like beads on the ceaseless round of God’s story.  God’s story does not change the realities of life.  We are subject to all the trials and tribulations that humanity can imagine.  But God’s story provides us with a different perspective and a hope, indeed a belief, that this day is not all there is.  God’s story tells us that in every death there will always be new life- that in every ending there is a new beginning.

    “Remember me, when you come into your kingdom.”  This was not a request about forgetting, this was about “re-membering” as opposed to “dis-membering.”  The criminal yearned to be made whole, to be drawn into Christ’s Body, to be one, as Christ was One with his Father.  Surely he spoke for each of us.  Each one of us is broken, each one of us lives daily with the possibility of being dis-membered, of being fragmented, scattered by all the demands and accidents of our lives.  On this day, our gospel reminds us that our destiny is God, that whatever is NOW is truly only passing through, and that what matters is forever, if only we will ask:

    Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom.

    Things are getting darker.  But today is the feast of Christ the King, and darkness and weeping will only spend the night.  Joy will come in the morning.