Readings, John 18: 33-37 and Revelation 1: 4b-8
Image, Station I: Pilate condemns Jesus to death, Bruce Onobrakpeya (1969)
 
In Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, the Duke of Vienna walks through the city disguised as a Friar, witnessing the many abuses of power being visited upon the city by his second-in-command Angelo. He remarks:
My business in this state
Made me a looker-on here in Vienna,
Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble
Till it o’errun the stew.
In the play’s final act, the Duke drops his disguise and confronts and condemns Angelo.
 
In his vision, John declared that when Christ returns on the clouds, every eye will see him,
even those who pierced him. Christ, in heavenly glory, rule of the kings of earth, will be recognisable to those who punished him as a criminal, who knew him only as the ironic king adorned with a crown of thorns… what are we to make of that?
 
Much of our scriptures and liturgy stress the continuity and consistency of God. The recognisability and trustworthiness of God’s character, the unchanged and unchanging quality of divine nature. As that reading from Revelation ended, ‘I am the Alpha and the Omega’, says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty. Who is God? Well, whoever God is, it is always the same, yesterday, today, tomorrow. As we say in the communion liturgy, Christ has died, Christ has risen, Christ has come again. Who is Christ? Well, whoever Christ is, is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
 
Whatever we say about Christ in glory, cannot be inconsistent with Christ in humility. Whatever we say about Christ in eternity, cannot be in contradiction to Christ incarnate. This is particularly important when we come to Christ the King Sunday when it is so easy to start speaking of Jesus in a ways anathema to the Galilean peasant we know from the Gospels. Without careful attention to how we speak, the Christ coming in glory starts to sound like a cold and rigid medieval monarch leading a crusade, imposing his power and authority with undeniable force. And this, we quickly realise, feels at odds with the one who said true greatness is found in service, true love in laying down one’s life. At odds with he who stood before Pilate – facing impending torture and execution – and invited those around to listen to his voice as it testified to the truth, stood before Pilate and said that his followers had no need to take up the sword, because his kingdom is not like those of the world.
 
This is all to say, that yes, we await the day when Christ comes again in glory, but that what we will see is not a categorical break from what those who walked with Jesus two thousand years ago saw. To speak of Christ’s rule and reign, of Christ as king, is a kind of speech that must pass a quality test of sorts… does it still sound like Jesus of Nazareth?
 
Does it sound like the one who stopped in his tracks when the bleeding woman touched the hem of his cloak? Does it sound like the one who looked on the crowds with compassion and ensured they were fed? Does it sound like the one who wept at Lazarus’ tomb? Does it sound like the one who told his disciple to sheave his sword and healed the wounded soldier? Does it sound like the one who called his followers friends? Does it sound like the one who proclaimed the kingdom of God where last are first, debts forgiven, and the forgotten found? Does it sound like the one who from the cross asked God to forgive his tormentors, his friend to tend to his mother, and promised paradise to the thief by his side?
 
Even when resurrected, it is clear that as much as some things have changed (Jesus is more or less unbound from the rule of physics, able to move through walls or disappear entirely), more has remained the same: Jesus still bears the wounds of the world, still attends to the grief of his friends, still gathers those scattered and forlorn, still offers food to the hungry.
 
So it is with the ascension. Jesus, no longer bound bodily on earth, sits at the right hand of God. Yet, he remains consistent in his nature: Jesus sends the Spirit to be our counsellor and to secure our adoption into the household of God. He gives himself in bread and wine, and when we pray in his name he advocates as our High Priest (familiar with our struggles).
 
He is who was, is, and is to come; He who died, is risen, and will come again. The manner of his presence may change, but his nature does not. This is what it means to confess that those who pierced him on the cross shall recognise him on the clouds. As the one who testified to and was identified as the truth, there is no falsity within him, no duplicity, no late in the play surprises that reveal he was not who he seemed to be. The one born of Mary and suffered under Pontius Pilate is recognisable as the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth.
 
And yet, in one of those delightfully mystical paradoxes so common to our faith, there is also an unrecognisable quality to Christ the King. For when Jesus teaches of that final day when he shall come in glory, placing sheep and goats on his right and left, Christ (like the Duke) will be revealed to have been walking among us still, walking among us unrecognised as the least of these. And to deepen the mystery of it all, Christ has gone unrecognised by both the wicked who did not feed the hungry and visit the prisoner, and by the righteous who welcomed the stranger and clothed the naked. This is the paradox of this age, the time between Christ’s resurrection and return. For when Christ comes on the clouds in glory he shall be recognised by all, but until then Christ comes to us here and is recognised by no one.
 
This parable of Jesus’ cannot teach us to recognise Christ, but it can teach us what it means to recognise that Christ is King. For we recognise the reign of Christ when we give the hungry something to eat, the thirsty something to drink, when we welcome the stranger and cloth the naked, when we visit the sick and imprisoned.
 
We do not wish to be found, like those in Vienna, suddenly surprised that the Duke walked among us in these days. Exposed for our lack of care and compassion, surprised that the modest apparel disguised his glory. Instead, let us encourage one another that to live within the reign of Christ is to recognise our king in the least of these. To recognise Christ in those who call on us to provide the kind of care we recognise and trust as Christ’s.
 
The world seeks to teach us how to recognise prisoners, strangers, and the needy. So many kingdoms of the world have sought to establish their identity and bounds by teaching their subjects to recognise the least in ways marked by denigration, dismissal, and derision. So many earthly kings have sought to establish their virtue by conditioning subjects to recognise the supposed threat of the least of these. Angelo sought to establish his rule through a strict set of sexual mores and the punishment of those deemed deviant. The tragic aim of so many worldly kingdoms is to seek to cast the marginalised and oppressed, not only as so much lower than a God, but lower still than a man. However, to follow Christ as king is to learn a new kind of recognition. To be a subject of this kingdom is to bestow proper value and worth, proper welcome and care on those too often “misrecognised.” To confess Christ as King is to treat the least as bearing his visage and moving to stand in solidarity in the work for justice and dignity. It is the treatment of the least that proves true recognition of the King and the true authority of his kingdom over and against the kingdoms of the world which would have us recognise the least as anything other than a child of God.
 
Christ is our king, and we can recognise him through his humble service and magnificent love. And Christ is our king, who goes among us as the unrecognised, awaiting us to serve and love in his very example. Let us go forth then, to serve and stand with those who bear the presence of Christ, in the way of Christ, for the glory of Christ. 

Readings, Psalm 146 and James 2:1-7
 Image, Ethiopian Double Tryptic, artist unknown (C19th)
 
Brutus (well, at least William Shakespeare’s Brutus) stands before a Roman crowd, seeking to assuage their concerns and make his case for why it was necessary to slay Caesar.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my
cause, and be silent that you may hear. Believe me
for mine honour, and have respect to mine honour
that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom,
and awake your senses that you may the better
judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear
friend of Caesar’s, to him I say that Brutus’ love
to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend
demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my
answer: not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved
Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living, and
die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all
freemen? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him. As he
was fortunate, I rejoice at it. As he was valiant, I
honour him. But, as he was ambitious, I slew him.
There is tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honour
for his valour, and death for his ambition.
 
Brutus had placed all his trust in Caesar, but Caesar could no longer be trusted, his ambition could no longer go unchecked. The great tragedy is that for all of Brutus’ nobility and reason, he too loses the trust of Rome, and his plans for the republic thwarted. Despite his rival Antony declaring him the noblest Roman of them all, Brutus (along with those who followed him) see the towering sprout of their vision shrivel into dust with his death.
 
The psalmist sings, Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help. When their breath departs, they return to the earth; on that very day their plans perish. Scepticism and caution toward human authority is a theme which runs like a river through the Bible. It is not that there aren’t noble human leaders, or voices in scripture heralding the importance of obedience to human authority, but a strong voice remains which warns that any allegiance to a mortal ruler is bound to end in ruin. Whether that ruin comes through corruption, failure or betrayal, or whether, simply, with the natural end of life, no one is immune: Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help.   
 
We’re coming toward the end of the liturgical year, which culminates with Christ the King Sunday. And as we approach, we’ll explore some psalms which draw us into the mystery, paradox, and hope of Christ’s sovereignty. Today’s psalm establishes perhaps the cornerstone of the confession of Christ’s kingship, that while earthly princes and power structures might be expedient and necessary, none can be trusted in the way Christ can. None warrant our allegiance in the way God does. All are relative and contingent, compared to the eternal and universal sovereignty of our God.
 
Now this distinction is important for a few reasons. First, as already hinted at, it recognises that human leaders have all-too-human limitations. To uncritically and unreservedly pitch our tent in their camp will not only lead to disappointment but can all too easily lead to ruin.
 
James warns his congregation against the favouritism they are showing to the prosperous and the powerful, the kind of blind allegiance they give over to the ruling classes (who James reminds them are their oppressors!). To go all in on the princes of this earth (whether they are adorned with crowns and followed by soldiers, or adorned with honour and followed by sycophants) and give to them the best of this and the first of that, not only places them on the thrones belonging only to God, but leads us to dismiss and denigrate those whom God is known to be for.
 
[The Lord] executes justice for the oppressed;
   [The Lord] gives food to the hungry.
The Lord sets the prisoners free;
   the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
   the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the strangers;
   God upholds the orphan and the widow…
 
As a direct counter to human princes, the psalmist details this as the character of our God. This is who we are commended to trust and praise. For unlike mortal princes and power structures (which the long sweep of human history alerts us are quick to kowtow to the preferences of those with money), God is not swayed by human riches, but takes the side of the downtrodden and forgotten.
 
Christ is our king, God is our sovereign, because – in having no need of human offerings or help – God cannot be swayed by the corrupting influences of power and prestige. Instead, God is free to take up the causes of the lowly without having to watch poll numbers and election cycles. But our allegiance to this God is earnt by more than a kind of affection for the poor; as if it were enough that God paid heed to the kingdom’s margins from an insulated throne room. No, we praise and trust our God because Christ gave up divine glory to take the form of a servant; lowly born among the oppressed and bowed down. We praise and trust because Christ demonstrated true greatness comes through service and true love is shown in laying down one’s life for one’s friends. It is not only God’s preference for but presence with the poor and oppressed that frees us to trust fully in Christ the King.
 
But this freedom to trust comes from something else as well. For unlike Brutus, we do not need to worry over what Christ would do with too much power. We know already that he has already been given all authority over heaven and earth and this he uses to intercede for us in mercy until the day he comes to turn the swords into ploughshares and wipe all tears from our eyes. Because we can trust Christ to be uncorruptible, trust God to always be the One who watches over the stranger, orphan, and widow, we do not have to spend our days with one suspicious eye trained upon our king. Unlike Brutus we do not have to fret and sweat through the night wondering whether we must take up the sword for the sake of the republic. Nor do we need to spend our days fundraising for the next election or worrying over whether this whole “feed the hungry and free the prisoners” thing will win votes. Instead, we are freed to be simple, grateful, and passionate subjects of God, devoting our days to seeking God’s kingdom.
 
Now such a pursuit may (indeed likely should) lead us into the all-too-human political arena. The confession of Divine sovereignty does not equate to quietism in human politics. For following Christ and seeking God’s Kingdom will lead us into relationships, alliances, and coalitions. Our work in domestic violence, or recent forays into addressing gambling harm, is motivated and spurred on by God's love of justice, by the gospel proclamation of the inherent dignity and of all God's creation, by the confession that Christ has come that we might have life in abundance, and from that place we forger partnerships and work alongside any number of community orgs and council initiatives.  It is in the act of seeking first the Kingdom of God that we  take up pen and write our elected reps, campaign for causes of justice, support movements for dignity, and critique war-mongering and global hypocrisy. The work may look the same as many others in our community,  but  when we do so as a response to our gleeful and grateful trust in God’s sovereignty, we do this work in a different posture. We do so, that is, viewing these mortal princes and power structures as expedient tools, and temporary, imperfect resources. None demand or deserve our ultimate trust or allegiance, none require our uncritical defence or deference, none hold our ultimate hope or promise. Instead, we find our happiness and trust in God and provisional usefulness in whatever the world might offer us as we seek to live in a way that reflects God’s political vision.  
[The Lord] executes justice for the oppressed;
   [The Lord] gives food to the hungry.
The Lord sets the prisoners free;
   the Lord opens the eyes of the blind.
The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down;
   the Lord loves the righteous.
The Lord watches over the strangers;
   he upholds the orphan and the widow…

May we, who are subject's of this Living Lord, seek to do likewise.

Readings, 2 Cor 5: 6-17 and Mark 4:26-34
Image, The Last Moments of John Brown (1883) Thomas Hovenden

So if anyone is in Christ, new creation! Everything old has passed away; see everything has become new!
 
For the Christian, the story of God and the world pivots on Christ. The event of Christ marks a staggering and irreversible shift in all things. Because, we are convinced that one has died for all; therefore all have died. Christ’s death is the monumental rupture in the story of humanity. His death is all of our deaths; the moment that we, each and all, are lowered into his death, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh.
 
As the parable suggests, we are sown upon the ground, buried in the soil that is Christ.
 
Christ has died for all (and therefore all have died), Christ also rises for all (and therefore all shall rise). And in rising we are raised to new life; which we live for the one who died us. So radical is this shared death and resurrection, that it is nothing short of new creation.
 
As the parable suggests, we are sown upon the ground, buried in the soil that is Christ, so that in Christ we may grow up as the greatest of all shrubs.
 
Here the world begins anew and in the face of such forcefulness of life everything old simply must pass away. Those in Christ become the site of the new creation, our life together signifying the urgent welling up of the new. From this moment of death and resurrection, this ever-present moment of new creation, we begin our work.
 
For as the parable suggests, we are sown upon the ground, buried in the soil that is Christ, so that in Christ we may grow up as the greatest of all shrubs and put forth large branches so that the birds of the air can make nests in the shade.
 
 
I was reading a discussion asking what is the greatest line in a Christian hymn. And before I reveal the emphatic favourite of those involved, does anyone want to shout out their vote? Any all-time favourite lyrics? My vote might have been for I trace the rainbow through the rain, and trust the promise is not vain (which we sung yesterday at Dorothy’s funeral), or Pleased as man with man to dwell (from Hark the Herald). But in this discussion, the overwhelming favourite was Julia Ward Howe’s line from “Battle Hymn of the Republic”: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.[1]
 
I bring up this lyric, because it captures so well the movement of this section of 2 Corinthians and the theme of the sermon so far. That Christ died to make humanity holy (a new creation reconciled to God), we ought now die - or at least live - to make others free (by taking up the ministry of reconciliation and become the righteousness/justice of God). The lyric captures how, on becoming aware of what Christ has achieved for us, we are commissioned to seek the material benefit of our neighbour. Having died with Christ we live no longer for ourselves but for him who died and was raised for us (now found in the least of these struggling for freedom, connection, dignity, and survival).     
 
Christ’s reconciling act ushers in the new creation, and everything old passes away, and see everything becomes new. Now, it takes little to realise this passing away and becoming, while having occurred at a cosmic/spiritual level, has clearly not been completed in the flesh. We are thus called to live as new creations within the passing away and becoming; as if the old is truly vanquished and the new vibrantly present. This is not easy, for we live in a society that still regularly teaches us to regard one another from a human point of view. A point of view held captive by worldly judgments, prejudices, stereotypes, and fears.
 
Therefore, to live as a new creation often involves standing against the grain, pursuing God’s righteousness and human dignity in the face of worldly norms and expectations. It means pointing bravely to the new, which heralds justice and freedom. This may bring scorn and derision, and thus we have Christ with us and the Church beside us. For the church ought to be that communion of saints who have likewise discerned that as Christ has died to make us holy we live to make others free, who have likewise discerned that he who knew no sin, became sin so that we might become the righteousness of God, who have likewise discerned that the kingdom of God is such that even the small seeds of justice may sprout like the mightiest of shrubs and offer shelter for many.
 
 
Before Julia Ward Howe composed lyrics for the Battle Hymn of the Republic, the tune was known as John Brown’s Song. The song was inspired by the radical abolitionist John Brown, a passionate Christian who believed ardently that God had called him to oppose and dismantle the system of slavery in the US. This, unsurprisingly, was a deeply unpopular opinion within white America, and one which required him to stand against church and government. But John Brown took the call of the gospel seriously, and fought for other’s freedom even to his death (Brown was hanged for treason for inciting a slave insurrection in Virginia). Julia Ward Howe hemmed close to the mythos of the John Brown Song in her own lyrics and one can imagine few who took as seriously the cry, As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free as did John Brown.
 
John Brown and his rebellion were unsuccessful, but his efforts, along with other abolitionists, and enslaved and freed Black Americans were planted into soil. These small seeds of a movement, in a society stridently committed to regarding others by a human point of view, grew into a mighty shrub that procured the end of slavery.
 
The struggles in which we are engaged differ from times such as Brown’s. And yet, we are no less called to the work of freedom, no less commissioned into the ministry of reconciliation, no less equipped to point to the new thing God is doing, and no less made to become the righteousness of God. For the love of Christ urges us on, reminding us that we no longer live for ourselves but are called to make visible the life of Jesus on our mortal flesh, pursuing reconciliation and righteousness in such a way that our words and actions might grow in the soil of Christ and the church into the greatest of all shrubs.    
 
So if anyone is in Christ, new creation! Everything old has passed away; see everything has become new! Now, as he died to make us holy, let us live to make others free.

***

[1] This, like my choice from Hark, are lyrics of such compact intensity that despite their gendered quality are so difficult to find equally impactful gender expansive re-revisions (which is important and vital work). “Please with humankind to dwell” doesn’t have quite the same poeticism, at least in my opinion. We need a better one-syllable gender neutral term to take the place of men/man which captures the expansiveness and fluidity of human gender without disrupting the metre.

Readings, 1 Samuel 8:4-18 and Luke 19:28-40
Image, Justin O’Brien (Australian, 1917–1996), Palm Sunday, 1962. Oil on canvas.

Over the last four weeks, we have explored the way Jesus embodies various roles in the life of his people: prophet, priest, judge, and now king. Jesus the king, a fitting topic for Christ the King Sunday, but perhaps, a less fitting theme for the beginning of the UN’s 16 Days Against Gender Based Violence, which began yesterday.
 
I say less fitting for as we know gender-based violence is rooted in gender inequality, rooted – so often – in the desire of men to rule over their homes and those in them as a king. So much violence is rooted in a misdirected response to perceived powerlessness or loss of control. And if this is the case, then is the image of Christ as king tarnished? Does it lack sufficient pastoral compassion to assert that the greatest good, the greatest hope, the culminative crescendo of our year of worship is found in a King?
 
The problems of a king, of one man placed atop a system of government to rule absolutely is not a new phenomenon. The Bible contains accounts of the virtue and blessing of a good king, who can lead the people in holiness. However, there is also present across scripture a deep ambivalence and suspicion toward the monarchy. Today’s reading shows that the provision of a king for Israel is a concession. God deems it a testament to the people’s lack of trust and lack of understanding of their commission as a nation set apart. Indeed, so that the point not be missed, God tells Samuel to warn Israel of all the awful things a king will mean for them (he will take your sons to keep his fields and make his implements of war. He will take your daughters to be his perfumers and cooks. He will take the best of your vineyards for himself, and a tenth of your grain for his courtiers. He will take and take and take… such will be your lot with a king).
 
And yet, while the critique of monarchy present in the scriptures is based in part on the old adage that absolute power corrupts absolutely, the fundamental opposition to a worldly king is based in preserving the unique and unparalleled supremacy of God. When God speaks to Samuel, God likens the request of the people for a king to the earlier decisions of the people to run after other gods. The real heart of God’s opposition to a worldly king is idolatry. God should be the people’s only king. For only God has both the wisdom to judge in equity and righteousness, only God has the love and mercy to bear the people’s missteps with grace and patience. Only a holy and eternal God (who is entirely sufficient and infinitely perfect) is able to wear the crown of glory and thorns without it becoming heavy.
 
And yet we still might protest. Despite this distinction between corruptible earthly kings and a perfect heavenly king, isn’t there still a problem? Isn’t the very reason we proclaim Christ the King (and preserve God’s kingship) because there were earthly kings? Said differently, isn’t Christ the king an act of projection based in a bygone age where kings were normative? We all know what a king is and so we call Christ the king because Christ is just a more powerful version of that? Isn’t this just trying to place another triangle atop a pyramid, which admits that there is something above our earthly king, but does nothing to subvert the hierarchical system of God-King-People (which is not unlike some church’s teaching God-Husband-Wife). Can we hold onto kingship without this baggage, or should we who live in a democratic world, well-versed in institutional suspicion lay down this way of speaking of God, lay aside language of King and kingdom, and find a new way of speaking about the unique otherness of God and the authority and power of Christ?
 
In some ways, yes. It is vital to delve into Scripture and allow our language for God to be nourished and expanded. For God is described as king but also mountain, nursing mother, wellspring of life, fire of Sinai, womb of creation, and the rock who birthed us. And so too, we explore the way Christ – heralded as king – is also a prophet of God, our great High Priest, and judge hidden amongst the least. Christ likens himself to a mother hen and is likened by others to the figure of Woman Wisdom from the book of Proverbs. Christ may be king but he is also brother, elevating us to a radical equality through the spirit of adoption. There are many ways in which we understand Christ and there are many ways in which we speak of our allegiance to God. And it is good to seek those out to complement the limitations of kingly language.
 
And yet I wonder, is it all limitation? Could there still be potential for a full-throated proclamation of the unrivalled sovereign kingship of Christ that does not contribute to the inequality producing gender-based violence, but serves as a bulwark against it?
 
Because while we know longer live in the age of kings, those feelings of insecurity and entitlement that lead man to forge their personal kingdoms have not disappeared. There may be democracy in the nation, but monarchies abound in the suburbs. And while we do not lack for means to critique the way men enthrone themselves in the home through intimidation, control, and violence, Christ the King provides us a distinctly Christian grounding on which to confront such sin. For to make oneself a king in the home is an act of idolatry. To establish oneself as a king in any pocket of one’s life in order to be made great by the service of others, is not only abhorrent for worldly reasons, but is an affront on heaven. It is an attempt to claim the throne of the one to whom all authority on heaven and earth has been given. No king but Christ goes all the way down. No king but Christ exposes gender-based violence as not only a sin against humanity, but a sin against God. Christ the King is most properly claimed not as any endorsement of human kingdoms or hierarchies but as the judgment upon and upending of all human attempts to rule over another. For God shall suffer no rival, and Christ shall share no authority, and we are made radically equal beneath such a confession, driven to stridently oppose the all-too-common attempts to dominate others that occur in the large and small of human history.
 
For this is why we have Christ the King Sunday. The celebration began in 1925 (making it a recent addition to our church calendar), as a means of countering the nationalism and worldly political allegiances which had contributed so direly to the catastrophe of World War I. It was further established in the hopes of checking the ascendent rise of nationalism and fascism in the interwar period. The church staked its claim to say, no King but Christ, our own true sovereign, the Prince of Peace. It is Christ alone we ally ourselves as king, because no human bound by mortality and sin could ever hope to create a kingdom (much less reign over it) in the way that Love incarnate could. It is Christ and his kingdom in which we place our hope, for it is this kingdom alone in which all violence shall cease, all swords be beaten into ploughshares, all tears be wiped away, and all things made new. Hail the heaven-born Prince of Peace! Hail the Sun of righteousness!