A Sermon for ‘Christ the King’ Sunday

Also known as “The Feast of Christ the King”

Hear the word of the Lord from Psalm 93:

The Lord is King;
he has put on splendid apparel;
the Lord has put on his apparel
and girded himself with strength.

He has made the whole world so sure
that it cannot be moved;

Ever since the world began, your throne has been established;
you are from everlasting.

The waters have lifted up, O Lord,
the waters have lifted up their voice;
the waters have lifted up their pounding waves.

Mightier than the sound of many waters,
mightier than the breakers of the sea,
mightier is the Lord who dwells on high.

Your testimonies are very sure,
and holiness adorns your house, O Lord,
for ever and for evermore.

The Scripture everywhere — and Psalm 93 eloquently with it — bears witness to the universal reign of God. The Lord of the covenant — redolent with holiness, garbed with strength — is King of the universe. Let the heavens rejoice and the earth be glad.

Not only that, but — according to the Psalmist — his kingdom is doing just fine, thank you. The world is “so sure that it cannot be moved.” Indeed, since before the dawn of time, God’s “throne has been established,” for he — he and no other, as also the prophet Isaiah was so fond of reminding — is from everlasting. Even when the waters and their pounding waves crash and clamor and threaten to unmake God’s good world, the Psalmist knows — we know — that the threats are empty, for the Lord who dwells on high is mightier than all of that. The testimony is “very sure” on this point.

The faithful take heart in these things. They are comfort and consolation — and intended as such.

This is true in our personal lives. As a pastor, I have a front row seat to so much of it. I sat with a dear brother in our congregation recently whose wife of many decades is suffering from several serious degenerative conditions. He loves his wife. He knows that God is good and very much in charge. But he is losing her. And it hurts.

“Where is God for you in this?” I asked him — the kind of “spiritual direction” type question I like to ask folks who come to me for pastoral counsel. He searched and searched and, try as he might, could not summon much of an answer. For him, the reign is very much hidden.

As it so often is for all of us when we walk through difficulty. The loss of a spouse or child. The collapse of finances or relationships or health. The deep struggle with mental or spiritual darkness. With the Psalmist we want to say, and say confidently, “The Lord is King!” But when we are in pain, the confession sticks in our throats before it ever makes it to our lips. When the reign is hidden, our faith can feel so feeble, fragile.

It is true also of public life, isn’t it? Like you, I survey the global landscape and see much that discourages me. “Earthquake, fire, and flood…plague, pestilence, and famine…oppression, conspiracy, and rebellion…violence, battle, and murder” as Great Litany from the Book of Common Prayer puts it — it’s everywhere.

This year — as so many in years past — we’ve seen it in our nation. Many of you have been gravely affected by it all. The fires and floods. The unexpected weather patterns earlier this year that decimated crops and left those who depend on them struggling to make ends meet. The economic conditions that put incredible pressure on regular folks to provide for their families. To say nothing of the “oppression, conspiracy, and rebellion” that constantly foment just beneath the surface of our national life, ever-ready to boil over.

We believe, with the prophet Daniel, that the Ancient of Days is seated on the throne, lifted high, with myriads around him, and very much in charge — but sometimes what is more obvious to us are the devouring beasts wreaking havoc on our world (Daniel 7). Our hearts quail. What are we to do? How do we respond?

The temptations are, it seems to me, two — and many succumb to them:

1. To throw up our hands in despair, giving up on ourselves or on the world around us, on the one hand;
2. Or, on the other hand, to try, some way, somehow, to get back in the driver’s seat, to take back control of an out-of-control world.

But these are not of God, beloved. We know this. For if the first despairs of God altogether, the second fears he may not live up to his Name, and thus attempts to usurp his place. Both, in effect, annihilate God. Both deny the reign. Neither comes from faith. And whatever does not come from faith is sin (Rom. 14:23).

What then? What is the way of faith?

Ah! who is like the Lord, friends? Who can be compared with him? Who is equal to the glory and majesty of King Jesus?

I know not one.

The Gospel reading for Christ the King Sunday gives us some indication of the “twofoldness” of his Person, his reign:

Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” Pilate asked him, “So you are a king?” Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” (John 18:33-37)

How telling: Jesus before Pilate, a mere hours before he breathes his last, pinned to the hard wood of the cross — the great crisis and vindication of the biblical story. It is not for nothing that this is the Gospel reading for “Christ the King” Sunday. The Church knows that we cannot make sense of the reign of God apart from the cross.

And Jesus reveals that reign — perfectly. Which is why we say that he, too, is King. He reigns along with his Father, seated at his right hand in the heavenly realms, far above all rule and authority, power and dominion.

Before Pilate he testifies — with the Psalmist, with Daniel, with the rest of the biblical witness, with also the four living creatures and the twenty-four elders and the thousands upon thousands of angels and faithful ones gathered in joyful assembly — that the reign of God is very secure, not dependent or contingent in any way upon the ebb and flow of human history, unfazed by Pilate and Herod and Caesar’s machinations. It stands above it all — absolute and eternal. “My kingdom is not from this world.”

But just so: “If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews.” No, he says, this they will not do, and reiterates: “My kingdom is not from here.”

Because Jesus knows that the kingdom is secure, that it is not from this world, he can face the coming crisis with faith — neither seizing the reins of power (how tempting it must have been), nor giving way to doubtful fear. He can not only face it, but enter into the depths of it — the depths of the Mystery by which suffering and death is somehow transformed into blessing and life; the Mystery by which the crisis of the cross is made the way of salvation — because he knows his Father. Jesus knows what Julian of Norwich knew — that in the final analysis “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.” He knows and trusts this. Trusts and obeys. Goes where on the human level he would rather not go. Because his Father reigns, the Mortal Man who is the Christ who is also the Immortal King of the universe can plunge himself fully into the glorious dark of the outworking of the divine plan.

And by his going he makes possible our own — a lesson we must learn over and over again.

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When I was a young pastor I sat at breakfast with a man who was twenty years my senior — another pastor, further down the path than me. We spent our time comparing notes on ministry and telling stories and towards the end I asked what I thought was a smart question — one sure to show my maturity as a young minister. “If you had the chance to go back and talk to yourself twenty years ago,” I said, “what would you say?”

He thought for a moment. And then answered, “I would say, ‘You’re going to be okay.’”

I smiled and leaned back in my seat. “That’s good,” I said. “Everything’s going to be alright…”

He instantly corrected me. “No. I did not say that everything is going to be alright. It is not going to be alright. Many things will be terrible. But God loves you and is holding you and will carry you right through to the end. You are going to be okay.”

God reigns.

I have thought about his words often over the years. They have been a light and a consolation to me — a strange one, to be sure. But a consolation no less.

On my side table in my study next to the big leather chair where I pray early in the morning sits a cross carved out of olive wood. A friend gave it to me when he returned from a trip to the Holy Land many years ago. It is precious to me. I gaze at it while I pray and worship, often picking it up and holding it as in the darkness of the early morning I seek the light of the Face.

It is especially precious to me when the burden is heavy. For it reminds me of (at least) two things:

1. Firstly, it reminds me that the way of the Incarnate God in the world is the way of the cross, and that if I want to be where he is — where God only ever always is, since the fullness of the Deity rests in him — then I must be willing to go where he goes. There is no God for me — for any of us — outside of the Via Crucis.
2. But secondly, it reminds me —  how often I need to be reminded of this – that the cross is not the end of the story. The Crucified King is raised to life. Our future is sure because he has gone there — for us, with us, as us. We are, as the New Testament everywhere claims, “in Christ” — more profoundly than we’ll ever fathom.

Which means that when the beasts are devouring and the clamor of the breakers of the sea is nearly deafening, we can sing the old hymn in faith:

This is my Father’s world:
O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong,
God is the Ruler yet.

This is my Father’s world:
Why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is King: let the heavens ring!
God reigns; let earth be glad!

Yes. Yes. Jesus and his Father. Very much in charge. 

We’re going to be okay, friends.

May the peace of the Lord be yours, ever and always.

Amen.

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For 2,000 years the Gospel has been crossing borders. Unlike every other major faith tradition, Christianity has never had a permanent geographic center. It is by nature, polycentric. (1/2) Share on X

We have forgotten this because European colonialism over the past 500 years made the strange and unprecedented claim that Christianity was to be equated with its own culture. (2/2) Share on X