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Christ the King Sunday – November 21, 2010
Jeremiah 23:1-6
Psalm 46
Colossians 1:11-20
Luke 23:33-43
Our neighborhood vegetable stand went up in flames this weekend. It’s a much longer story than that, but, for now, that’s enough. It’s the vegetable stand that many of us living on the Mount of Olives use on a daily basis. And, even if a day passes by without going in to fetch some cucumbers and tomatoes or some mint, most of us at least walk past it. Normally, it is full to the bursting with fruits and vegetables, spices and herbs in colorful and bounteous piles, with waiting boxes of produce outside. But by the end of a long and eventful night this weekend, it was reduced to a smoldering mass of charred vegetables.
I walked by its still-smoking remains yesterday morning for the first time, and as I stood there looking at it, utterly broken, it reminded me of the so many things broken in our world. Of relationships strained. Of whole peoples split apart. Of war. Of our world crying for justice…
And it was almost too much, as there are moments in this place that just are too much. But then I remembered, too, a small child, born into the midst of a dark world in order that there might be light and life abundant. I remembered the one with the gall to eat with sinners, and the authority to forgive sin. And I remembered the one who, for our sake, would die, broken on a cross, in order to mend our broken world.
I remembered that it is into this very brokenness that God has entered, so that, through God, our brokenness might be mended and our lives, our relationships, and all of creation be made whole again
But, why then, does the world still feel broken. Why are their burnt down veggie stands on our streets, and broken relationships in our midst? If God has already reconciled to Godself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, then why does brokenness pervade still?
The tradition of Christ the King Sunday–today–hasn’t been around for very long. In fact, it has only been celebrated on the last Sunday of the Liturgical calendar since the late 1960s. It was officially instituted to proclaim the authority and power of Christ in the face of rising secularism and nationalism. More importantly, it proclaims a different kind of authority, and a different use of power, one rooted in love, for the sake of the other—for the sake of the whole of all creation.
And, although, growing up, I passed over Christ the King Sunday as merely the long-awaited end of the church year, so excited to go back to the beginning again with Advent—yes, I was a liturgical nerd, even then—thinking of the liturgical calendar as a cyclical turning seems to fit better for me. As the celebration of Christ the King flows into the beginning of Advent. As our waiting for the final renewal of all creation and our celebration of the coming of the Christ child merge into one at the turning of the year.
For the power and authority proclaimed in the celebration of Christ the King is the power and authority of one who was born a babe among us, in need of Mary and Joseph’s love and care; the power and authority of one who dwelt among us, reaching out to the poorest of the poor in spite of the ruling powers; the power and authority of one who, forsaking his power to save himself, died among us, broken on a cross, reaching out in love with forgiveness to the one who hanged beside him; the power and authority of one who has risen from the grave and is reconciling all creation to God.
And as we trust the good news, we proclaim the promised reconciliation, even in the face of sinfulness and brokenness, because it is rooted in the life, death, and resurrection of Christ Jesus. And we live in the paradox of what Lutherans often call the ‘already but not yet’.
Christ is arisen! Christ is arisen, indeed! we proclaim. Mary Magdalene, Simon Peter, and John have ‘already’ found the tomb empty, and the Lord arisen—as Pastor Fred preached about last Sunday. And we wait in the moments of ‘not yet’ signaled by burnt out veggie stands for the promised final reconciliation of God.
And when the flames threaten us, in the midst of the most difficult moments of our lives, we proclaim the texts like those of this morning: In the face of earthquakes we proclaim with Psalm 46, “though the earth make shake, though the mountains tremble, you God are here.” Confronted with conflict, we proclaim with the writer of the letter to the Colossians “for in Christ all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through Christ God was pleased to reconcile to Godself all things, whether on earth or in heaven.” And when we question God’s forgiveness and reconciliatory power in our lives, we trust the Word that speaks to us, saying “Truly, I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
And Christ enters into our places of deep brokenness, still. Christ dwells with us in those places. Christ abides with us here. For, as firstborn of the new creation, Jesus Christ invites us to live, here and now, in the new creation, reaching out in love of God and love of neighbor with God’s reconciling power.
And true reconciliation will come to this place, a reconciliation that will truly heal divisions of time, of land, of peoples. Perhaps it will come in sweeping change. Maybe it will come in small, almost imperceptible steps. But God’s reconciling powers are at work in this place, as surely as God is present in this place, in joy and in sorrow, in places of relative wholeness, and in places of deep brokenness, even in burnt out vegetable stands.
And until that day of full reconciliation comes, we will continue to work with God for justice, walking alongside one another as sisters and brothers in Christ—as sisters and brothers in God’s creation—as Christ walks with us.
