Reign of Christ (Christ the King)

Above him there was an inscription: “This is the King of the Jews.” The other criminal said: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus replied to him: “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise. Luke 23, 35-43

Today, as a community of people who claim to give our allegiance to Jesus Christ, we celebrate the reign of Christ in our lives. Our life experience tells us that we were born to love and be loved. As followers of Jesus, we do our best to love in imitation of him whom we acknowledge as the ultimate revelation of God. Jesus is the sacrament of God, and we, in our turn, are meant to be the sacrament of Jesus - people who reflect to others something of his love.

On many of us, titles such as “King” and “Lord” sit less than comfortably. We even hesitate to attribute them to Jesus, the Christ, God’s anointed one. Yet, in today’s gospel reading, we see how Luke undermines the notion of kingship which his world knew. Jesus did not give himself the title of king. That came from Pilate, and then from the Romans, who ridiculed and taunted him. The irony, of course, is that he chose to be powerless, to be a king who served with basin and towel. As a king who refuses to resort to force and power, who commands no army, who does not play with the lives of others, who practices forgiveness and mercy to his final breath, Jesus Christ is unique. His way of leading is the very antithesis of worldly kingship.

At the same time, we know that there is something deep within us that desires power, that likes to be in charge, that wants to be in control. Yet, the one to whom we give our allegiance relinquishes dominance, position and control. The irony is that he is the one who becomes the victim of those whose desire for power, position and security leads them to execute him.

What is it about him, then, that attracts our allegiance and loyalty, and leads us to acknowledge him as “king”?

Perhaps we can best find the answer by looking at the lives of people who, in imitation of Jesus Christ, choose the way of non-violence and relinquishing the desire to be in control.

The Dalai Lama once said: “My true religion is kindness; my simple faith is in love and compassion.” Does that not echo the one whom today we celebrate as king?

In these weekly reflections, I have sometimes quoted an American writer, Anne Lamott. In her book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, she tells the story of an encounter with a doctor who was caring for Lamott’s dying friend, Pammy:

“I remind myself nearly every day of something that a doctor told me six months before my friend Pammy died. This was a doctor who always gave me straight answers. When I called on this one particular night, I was hoping she could put a positive slant on some distressing developments. She couldn’t, but she said something that changed my life. “Watch her carefully right now,” she said, “because she’s teaching you how to live” (Anchor Books, 1994, p. 179). From his words and actions on the Cross, Jesus taught us how to live and love.

One of the challenges of our lives is to grow into the fullness of our humanity. In his life Jesus taught us how to be fully human. One of distinguishing marks of growth into the fullness of humanity is our ability to claim our freedom and to live free. One of the responsibilities of kings and rulers is to show their people how to be free. History, however, demonstrates how so many of them were so insecure and fearful that they forced their people into bondage and servitude. The true function of personal freedom is to free others. Freedom belongs not just to kings and rulers. It is for all. From the Cross and in his life Jesus taught us to be free, especially free from the control of others and from fear, including the fear of death. We, in turn, as followers of Jesus must take the risk of freeing others from whatever keeps them bound or unfree, whether they are in bondage to another person, an addiction or a way of life. Sadly, there are some who are unable to accept the freedom they are offered. They feel safer with dependence and compliance. They cannot risk embracing the freedom that comes from giving their allegiance to Jesus and the freedom his Gospel offers.

Unwillingness to attribute to Christ the title of “king” is to ignore the counter-cultural significance of the kingdom over which he reigned. He willingly relinquished the three predominant human urges - the urge for power, possessions and sex - and replaced them with service, selflessness and compassionate love. He lived and died for others, for all of humanity. What attracts us to him is the magnetism of his selflessness, his insistence that we are all dear to God and, at the same time, a mystery we cannot fully understand. What leads us to want to give our allegiance to him is the desire to imitate him, tempered by our reluctance to pay the full price. Yet we admire those around us who ultimately come to pay that price. Let’s look at it briefly in the life of Anne Lamott.

She had a chequered kind of childhood in California where both her parents were hippies. She witnessed their wild parties at which everyone indulged in drugs and alcohol. Somehow, she managed to survive her parents’ separation and divorce and negotiate her way through primary and secondary schooling. She herself excelled at tennis and won a sporting scholarship to a university in Maryland. She spent just a little more than a year there, studying Philosophy. Religion and English. Her reading of the philosopher Kierkegaard’s interpretation of the biblical story of Abraham and Isaac led her to a belief in God. She had tried drugs, but became addicted to alcohol. She had also started to write, and some of her stories were accepted by publishers. At the age of thirty, she had some kind of religious experience as she lay in bed recovering from a drunken spree in which she had fallen and cut herself, and woke up sensing a presence in her room, a presence she could not explain. In her book, Travelling Mercies: Some thoughts on Faith, she describes it this way: “I became aware of someone with me, hunkered down in the corner…I knew beyond any doubt that it was Jesus…And I was appalled. I thought about my life and my brilliant, hilarious, progressive friends, I thought about what everyone would think of me if I became a Christian, and it seemed an utterly impossible thing that simply could not be allowed to happen. I turned to the wall and said out loud: ‘I would rather die.’

However, the presence was so insistent that she finally gave in, and with characteristic irreverence called out: “Fuck it…you can come in.”

I ask myself: “Am I prepared to let him in, and pay the full price?”