Sermon: It Starts Today

Luke 23:33-43

It Starts Today

James Sledge                                                   November 24, 2013, Reign of Christ

This is the King of the Jews. So says the inscription above Jesus as he hangs dying on a cross. His Roman executioners put it there for two reasons. First it is a horrific warning. This is what happens to those who would dare claim such a title. The emperor is king, and him alone. Any who would challenge that will meet a similar, horrible fate.

Along with this grotesque warning to those who might defy the power of Rome, the inscription on Jesus’ cross is also a mocking taunt directed at Jesus himself, as well as those who had so recently been enthralled by him. Here is your king. Doesn’t he look impressive now?

Crosses were not the standard mode of execution in the Roman empire. If you simply needed to kill a criminal, there were easier and much more efficient methods. A sword would do just fine. John the Baptist is dispatched in such a fashion. The order is given to kill him, and it is immediately carried out.

But Jesus’ death is a show, an event orchestrated to frighten would-be revolutionaries and insurrectionists. This is what happens to pretend kings. The real king squashes them like bugs. Look here on this cross. Take a long, hard look at your king.

I suspect that most all Jesus’ followers got the message. They had been sure that he was the Messiah. The power of God had seemed to flow out from him. Repeatedly they had seen that power displayed. But whatever power Jesus had, it clearly was no match for the power of Rome. Jesus had turned out to be one more in a long line of messianic pretenders. Maybe it was time to let go of such foolish hopes for an anointed one who would set things right.

We modern folks don’t have the same experience with royalty that people in the ancient world did. Our kings, queens, princes, and princesses are mostly symbols and celebrities. Stories about the British royal family are more likely to be in the Style section of The Washington Post than on the front page. They are a staple for entertainment shows, gossip columnists, and an occasional fluff piece on network news. And questions about which member of the royal family becomes the next monarch have all the real significance of questions about which actor will star in the next Batman movie.

But in Jesus’ day, kings were more than symbols. Along with the wealth and trappings we still associate with royalty, they had real power.  The US president is powerful, but not like a Roman emperor. A good counterpart in our day might be some dictators: Joseph Stalin or Adolf Hitler for instance. Both men were ruthless toward any who threatened their power. In Hitler’s case, only the combined military and industrial might of the US, Britain, Russia, and many others could remove him. Stalin died at 74 of natural causes, still ruler of the USSR.

This is the King of the Jews… This pitiful, suffering man, dying in agony on a cross? What at joke. Who would look on such a scene and think Jesus a king?

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I began thinking about a sermon from today’s gospel reading just as the horrible situation in the Philippines began making headlines, and for some reason I thought about kings and how kings are supposed to act. There’s no king of the Philippines, but if there were, he would have been whisked away to safety long before the typhoon arrived, just as our president would be if a hurricane threatened catastrophic damage to DC. Kings and presidents have power and resources that protect them from such things. No one looks for kings or presidents in tent shelters that pop up after the storm, not unless they’ve helicoptered in to survey the damage and have a photo-op. Kings and presidents do not scrounge or beg for food and water.

In Luke’s crucifixion scene, all manner of folks encourage Jesus to act like a real king. In words that echo the devil’s temptations, Jewish leaders, soldiers, and even one of those crucified with  him call on Jesus to save himself. “If you’re a king, act like one.” Not that they expect Jesus to do anything. They know he isn’t a king, and so they know he cannot save himself. And Jesus’ followers seem to agree. They watch silently, from a distance. They know that this is a terrible miscarriage of justice, that Jesus is innocent. But it seems he is no king after all.

This side of Easter we can again claim that Jesus is indeed a king, but the cross is still a problem. Unlike the Apostle Paul, we’re not real big on proclaiming Christ crucified. We prefer the resurrected Christ. And who among us, at some point in our lives, hasn’t seen a movie depiction of the crucifixion and wished, at least for a moment, that Jesus would come down from the cross and really show them who’s king?

In the scene Luke paints for us, only one person seems to see, or at least glimpse, who Jesus is. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”  What did he see that no one else could? Why did he even think that Jesus had a kingdom?

“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” Paradise may well not refer to what many of us think of as heaven. It may simply refer to the place of the righteous dead who await the age to come, the kingdom. The really startling word here may be “today.” Jesus’ companion in death hopes only that Jesus will remember him in some far off, yet to be time. But Jesus says, “Today.” Today things change. Today forgiveness triumphs over power and might. Today something new springs forth. Not on Sunday at the empty tomb, but now, today. Today God’s new day is visible. Today an entirely different mode of power can be seen, at least by some.

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When I look at the devastation in the Philippines and wonder where God is, I often gaze with eyes attuned to this world’s ways of power and might and kings. But the king we meet on the cross is different. In this king we meet a God who isn’t above the storm but who is in the midst of it, a God who suffers through the typhoon and in the squalid aftermath. When we are able to glimpse this king, we recognize God, not in the great halls of power, but in the homeless person under the bridge, in the guest at Welcome Table, in the broken and despised the world deems unimportant and insignificant.

Can we see the king on the cross, in the aftermath of the typhoon, in the face of the homeless. If so, perhaps we can join that one beside Jesus on the cross and pray together, Jesus, remember me. (Congregations sings the Taizé song, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom,” by Jacques Berthier.)

And when we see Jesus on the cross and glimpse God’s power, God’s new day, then perhaps we will hear, “Today.” Today something new is born. Today we are transformed. Today.  Today.

Thanks be to God!