The Face of God

In the Old Testament stories of the fathers of our faith – Abraham, Jacob, Moses – they speak of seeing the face of God. For these men of ancient days, there was the longing to see, the hope of seeing, and yet, for most, the impossibility of seeing God face to face.  Still they hoped. 

We, too, might know this yearning, this desire to see God and feel God’s presence more fully.  Because there is something in us that knows: in nearness to God we may know life in its fullness.

It is a great mystery, one that we find ourselves drawn to again and again.  

It is this mystery that showed itself to Mary and Joseph, each one of them visited by an angel.  In these visions, or dreams, they learned that they would become parents together of a very special son – one who would bring salvation to the world.  

It is this mystery that showed itself to the shepherds in the fields.  I don’t know if these men had ever been visited by divine messengers before, but they clearly were that night and they knew it.  The heavenly host appeared, the sky lit up with the glory of the Lord. Believing what the angel told them they made haste to Bethlehem, to see “this thing that has taken place.”  And all who heard were amazed at what the shepherds told them.  

It is this mystery that showed itself to the wise men in the east – far away from where this event took place.  When they saw the star, they knew that a new king had been born – one worth traveling many miles to foreign lands, so they might bow before him.

Herod could not see the mystery, of course, for he was a man filled with fear.  Fear is the great enemy of faith.

But for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, the mystery of incarnation – God in the flesh – was revealed.  On this night, it was possible to see the face of God.

With the birth of the Christ child, it became possible to see and hear and touch love.  It became possible to know what it is to be fully human, as God originally intended us to be, and still yearns for us to be.  In Christ, we may see the perfect connection of our humanity and our creator.  How strange it is that it took the form of a small, weak, vulnerable infant.

All the kings the world has ever known have ruled with the power of armies – the power to take away life.  All these kings have ruled by intimidation, by threat of violence of one form or another.  Yet this king rules not by taking away life but by giving life.  This king rules not by threat but by love.  Who could ever imagine such a thing?  It is, indeed, a mystery.

Forever, since that night when Mary gave birth to a baby boy and laid him in a manger, the world has struggled to comprehend this mystery.  How can we understand power in weakness?  How can we seek salvation in such vulnerability?  And how can we continue to see the face of God, the face of Christ, in some of the darkest and dreariest places?

Leo Tolstoy tells a story about an old man named Martin – a cobbler who lived alone in a little basement room where he worked, repairing shoes. He had long outlived his wife and all his children, and he was a lonely man.  He felt that there was nothing left for him in life, and he wished for only one thing:  to see the face of Christ.  One night a voice came to him and said, “Martin, look out on the street for me tomorrow, for I shall come to you.”

The next morning, Martin thought, “today is the day.”  He sat at his bench, positioned so he could see clearly out the window while he worked.  He watched the feet passing by.  He saw an old man sweeping the streets stop; looking tired, he huddled against the wall, trying to warm himself. Martin invited him in.  Soon the old man was warmed by three cups of tea and lively conversation. He went back out to finish his work, and Martin continued his watching, wondering when Christ would show himself.  

He saw a young mother, poorly-dressed for the weather, looking too thin and too tired, trying to sooth the baby in her arms.  He asked her to come in and he fed her soup and bread.  He found her some warm clothes among his wife’s things. After she left, he went back to his workbench and watched, waiting for Christ to show himself.  

Late in the day, he saw a tired old woman dragging a basket of apples.  She had sold most of them, but then a boy ran up and tried to take what was left from her basket. With all the frustration and fear in her body she took after that boy, beating him fiercely.  Martin quickly put down his work and rushed out in the street.  He stepped between them and offered words of forgiveness and repentance.  He helped make peace between the woman and the boy.  

Martin went back inside.  Darkness was falling.  The lamplighters began lighting the streetlamps.  This day was coming to an end, but Martin no longer wondered when Christ would show himself, for he knew that Christ had visited him three times that day.  

Christ comes to us in weakness so we may respond in kindness, generosity, and love.  He comes to us as one of us, so we may discover our true humanity through him.

And so, my friends, on this night we remember that we have been given the gift of seeing the face of God through a small child born into the humblest of circumstances.  On this quiet night, we are shown that in Jesus we may better see the likeness of God that we bear within us.  

On this darkest of nights, we remember the light that came into the world – the light that shines in the darkness, that will never be understood by those who reside in darkness, but neither will it be overcome by darkness.  On this night, the light was born and showed the glory of God, in grace and in truth.

Jesus said to his followers, “You are the light of the world.”

May his light be reflected in you and in me.

Photo by Drew Patrick Miller on Unsplash 

Sacred Knowing

 

Isaiah 7:10-16    

Matthew1:18-25        

I don’t think I have ever quoted rap lyrics before, but the words that I keep thinking of all week come from the Notorious B.I.G: If you don’t know, now you know.

If you don’t know, now you know: that something, maybe something you never wanted to know, something you never even guessed at…something your imagination could not encompass…well, now you know.

Now you know…and the question is, what are you going to do with it?

Like King Ahaz, whom we meet in Isaiah. Ahaz is in a tight spot. Caught between two choices, neither of which feels good to him.

Ahaz thinks he knows what is right. He knows the law, as he should.  But he also knows he is afraid, like everyone else around him is.

The Lord comes to Ahaz and asks him: wouldn’t you like to know what I know? But Ahaz doesn’t want to know. The Lord says: Ahaz, ask me for a sign, a really big, obvious sign. But Ahaz declines.  No thank you. Thou shalt not put the Lord your God to the test, Ahaz says, that’s the law. I know the law. I know what I need to know.

But does he, really?

Fine, then. The Lord will take things into his own hands. Here’s a BIG sign, Ahaz. Like a billboard: Look and see a young woman, pregnant, who will bear a son who will be called Immanuel – God with us. Before the child even knows right from wrong, these things you are worrying about will be gone.

Because God is with you, this is the message. In 8-foot high, all caps. God is with you.

And if you don’t know, now you know.

God is with you, this is sacred knowing – deep knowing.

Fast forward several hundred years and we find ourselves with Joseph, a man who is engaged to the young girl Mary. Joseph struck a deal with Mary’s parents. That, sometime in the future, Mary would wed this man Joseph, go to live with him, and begin a family with him.

But before that had come to pass, Joseph heard some unsavory news about his bride-to-be. She was with child, as they say, and it was not Joseph’s child. So, Joseph: if you don’t know, now you know.

How did he learn this? Were people talking already? Did he hear it from someone else, or did he hear it from Mary, herself? Maybe Mary told him, about her encounter with the angel, and that she would become pregnant by the work of the Holy Spirit, and the child would be called the Son of God. And maybe, most likely, it all sounded pathetically delusional to Joseph.

And now he knows. He is a man who has been betrayed. And that had to feel pretty sad.

Joseph, also, knows the law. Thou shalt not commit adultery, that’s the law. And it is plain as day that Mary did.

He considered his options. He could betray her, just as she has betrayed him. He could press charges in court and let her punishment be decided by others. The book of Leviticus says adultery is punishable by death. But there were alternative, lesser punishments possible. It seems that Joseph, in weighing his options, decided on the most lenient choice available to him: just break the contract, walk away.

That night he went to bed knowing what he would do. But then, in his sleep, he was visited by an angel – perhaps the very same one who had visited Mary. The angel began, as angels always do, saying, “Joseph, don’t be afraid”

Don’t be afraid to know what you really need to know.

He told Joseph all the things that would happen, he spoke about signs, just as Isaiah had done with King Ahaz: A young woman shall conceive and bear a son and he shall be called Immanuel – God is with us. And this time Joseph is to know that the young woman is Mary.

So, Joseph: If you don’t know, now you know.

This is sacred knowing – deep knowing. God is with us, have trust in this.

And because he does trust, and he does know, Joseph is empowered to do something new and different. He doesn’t say, No thanks, I’m gonna stick with my plan. He doesn’t say, Hey that sounds a bit too risky for my taste. Now that he knows what he knows, Joseph will take Mary and protect her and raise this child as his own. Because now he knows: he is a part of God’s plan too.

Every one of us might be a part of God’s plan, like Mary and Joseph, if you are willing to listen…to go deep…to trust and not be afraid to know what you don’t know.

We are entering the last week before Christmas, and you might be feeling a sense of pressure right now. I do, every year at this time. I have a lot of expectations of myself and people around me at this time of the year. It’s hard –

when we know what we have always known and always done, and we don’t have time to hear anything different.

when we hang on the traditions and the “rules” like a security blanket.

when we’ve already painted the picture in our heads and we don’t want any new intel to ruin it.

Because we don’t know –

that God will come and do a new thing, not just that new thing God did 2,000 years ago, but a new thing every day.

that God truly is with us – Immanuel – and that always gives us the power to do the loving thing, the merciful thing, the right thing.

that the fear that has always been beating right beneath the surface of our lives is no longer needed – if it ever was needed – because God-with-us means love has overcome fear.

The truth is, King Ahaz didn’t give up the fear. Ahaz didn’t want to know what he didn’t know. But Joseph, he was different.

Yes, he was.

My prayer for us this week is that, in the midst of our busy-ness, of our planning and our expectations, we will be like Joseph.

So, if you don’t know, now you know.

Photo by Agence Olloweb on Unsplash

Sacred Space

 

Isaiah 35:1-10    

Luke 1:46-55     

Frederick Buechner wrote, “Happiness turns up more or less where you’d expect it to – a good marriage, a rewarding job, a pleasant vacation. Joy, on the other hand, is as notoriously unpredictable as the one who bequeaths it.”

And joy is as surprising as usual today in our texts. The song from Isaiah is shockingly glorious! Imagine: the gladness of a dry land; a full blossoming in the desert! Weak hands mysteriously and suddenly made strong!

Burning sands become a pool of refreshing water; the haunt of the jackals becomes a reedy, mossy swamp. Life-giving water abounds!

A highway runs through it called the Holy Way, and not even a fool could get lost on it! The redeemed shall walk there, they will come singing, and everlasting joy shall be upon their heads.

Everlasting joy, in the place one would least expect it.

The Bible is full of songs in unexpected places, and that is because the story of faith is full of joy in unexpected places. The writer C. S. Lewis wrote a book called Surprised by Joy, where he recalled in his childhood being struck by “stabs of joy,” something so intense, so good, so high, it could not be explained with words.

Surprising joy was the experience Mary had during her pregnancy. Now think about it: there were many reasons for Mary to not be happy. Pregnancy is a beautiful and precious thing, but the world doesn’t always see it that way. Mary’s pregnancy put her in a frightful situation – unmarried, with a story that most people would find incredible – this was definitely going to hurt her standing in society, such as it was. Honestly, it was something that could have become an ugly situation; Mary might have been violently killed.

It seems as though Mary was given an option. Did she have to agree to become the vessel of the divine? The angel Gabriel made a proposal to her. Mary asked questions. He answered to her satisfaction, and she said, “Here I am. Let it be with me according to your word. And the angel left happily, having sealed the deal.

Which was, I would imagine, no small feat. Mightn’t there have been other young woman who fled in fear? Others who steadfastly refused something so risky and, at the least, inconvenient?

But Mary was the rarest of individuals. Mary was a young woman in the most vulnerable time of her life, and she said yes. With grace and courage, Mary said yes.

And when she did, she was flooded with unexpected joy.

Every year, in addition to the various other Advent devotionals we receive, Kim and I use a little book called I Am Mary. Each day during the season, it follows Mary’s journey from the moment she encounters the angel to the moment she gives birth. We love it so much because it throws us deep into the story, imagining her thoughts, her physical sensations and emotional experiences; her fear and also her joy.

In this song Mary sings today, we get the fullness of her joy. Mary, just like Isaiah, sees the unexpected things that God brings: the strength where before there was weakness, the fullness where there was hunger. The lowly are lifted up, the proud are brought low. Ancient promises are fulfilled.

Mary sings of how God delivers the oppressed and the enslaved, the ones who are being crushed by powerful forces.

I remember, during our months of quarantine early in the pandemic, when we livestreamed evening prayer each day; Mary’s song was a part of our prayer – each day.

Every Christmas morning in our house, after all the shiny wrapping paper has been torn away, after all the gifts have been admired, we sit down at the table and make Mary’s song our prayer. Because it is Mary’s song that shines forth the glory of God. It is powerful in its promise.

But maybe not for everyone.

I have heard that when they first began translating the Bible into the common languages, during the Reformation, they did not translate Mary’s song. It would be too offensive for kings to read “he has brought down the powerful from their thrones!” The prudent translators thought it better to leave it in Latin and hope the kings didn’t understand it.

In the 1970’s, I have heard, the government of Argentina banned the public recitation of Mary’s song, the Magnificat. This seemed necessary to them because of the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, those mothers who put their bodies on the line to protest a government that made their children disappear. The Mothers of the Plaza had made Mary’s song their manifesto.

In the 1980’s, the Guatemala government did the same thing – for the same reason.

I have heard that when the British ruled in the East Indies, they removed the Magnificat from its place in evening prayer. We don’t have to wonder why. Wherever powerful ones oppress the powerless, Mary sings for the oppressed.

When families flee war or persecution at home, seeking refuge at our borders, Mary sings for the refugees.

When schoolchildren in our city go to school hungry because their cupboards are bare, Mary sings for these children.

When children are left homeless in our nation because we cannot seem to prioritize affordable housing, Mary sings for the children and their parents.

Mary was never just a passive vessel. Mary said yes to the angel and stepped into a life of unimaginable dimensions. She made room in her body for love to be born. She sang a song of unspeakable joy, with her whole body because the Lord had looked with favor upon her, and through her body, has blessed the whole creation.

Perhaps we, too, can be like Mary. Can this courageous young woman be an inspiration for us? Might we, like Mary, say yes to God’s always-present invitation to be filled with Christ’s holiness, to make a space for the sacred?

If we listen to Isaiah, if we listen to Mary, we hear that God will do amazing and surprising things on earth, turning something that some might see as ugly into something of beauty, something sacred.

May you, in this week, experience the sacred – in taste and smell and touch – knowing the very real presence of God.

May you make some space in yourself for the sacred.

May you, like Mary, be a vessel for the Christ.

Photo by Ilzy Sousa: https://www.pexels.com/photo/silhoette-of-woman-2316856/

Sacred People

 

Romans 15:4-13

Matthew 3:1-12

Years ago, Kim and I went out to the store to buy a door mat. We looked around at all the options. I argued that it was essential for us to have a mat that says “Welcome.” You know, just in case someone might think we are not welcoming people, our mat would assure them of our good intentions.

But that’s not enough, is it? Having a mat at my door that says “welcome” is like having a sign in my kitchen that says “clean.” It’s a nice thought, but will words actually get it done?

Are words enough?

Every Sunday I stand in the pulpit and say the word “Welcome” to everyone in the room and everyone watching our livestream. Every Sunday we have someone posted at the parking lot door to welcome each person that comes in. Friendly individuals in our congregation will always make the effort to find the folks who may be here for the first time, or who haven’t been here for a while and offer them a warm welcome. All these things are essential. But are they enough? If we have told people they are welcome here, is our job done?

Paul’s letter to the Romans speaks of the importance of welcome. He is encouraging the Jewish Christians, the first Christian’s, to welcome others – those who are not Jewish. As we have spoken of before many times, this was a major conflict in the early church. The believers needed to argue and pray and discuss the matter extensively to come to a new understanding about what Jesus was doing in the world; about who could claim his promise.

Paul makes a strenuous argument that Christ’s promise is for all the nations of the world, that all may sing praises to his name, that the whole world might glorify God. Paul urges the members of the church to welcome others, just as Christ has welcomed them. To offer this welcome – not for the sake of manners, but for the glory of God.

If we are to embrace the welcome of Christ, and to further extend that welcome to others – all the nations, as Paul says – then we must understand something about this kind of welcome, a Christian welcome.

The best image of such a welcome is found in the classic story of Victor Hugo – Les Miserables. Jean Valjean, a poor and miserable man who lives with his sister and her seven children in abject poverty. Until one day when they are no longer able to eke out a living, he shatters the window of the bakery, grabs a loaf of bread and runs. He is caught and sentenced to prison for four years. After a few unsuccessful attempts at escape, his sentence is extended to 19 years. 19 years in prison for a broken window and a loaf of bread.

When he is released he finds his way to the home of a priest – Monseigneur Bienvenu. The priest welcomes him. He breaks bread with him, listens to him, and gives him a bed for the night. Jean Valjean doesn’t know what to do with such kindness. Nineteen years in prison have drained his humanity from him. During the night, Jean Valjean slips out of the house with the priest’s silverware. He is caught by the police.

In the morning, Monseigneur Bienvenu is summoned to the door to find the man whom he welcomed into his home the night before, in the hands of the police, looking ever so much the criminal. But the priest sees a sacred human being. He says, “I am glad to see you. But I gave you the candlesticks too. Why did you not take them along with the forks and the spoons? My friend, here are the candlesticks. Take them.”

The priest, with his extravagant welcome, gave Jean Valjean a chance at new life. “Use this now to become an honest man,” says the priest, Monseigneur Bienvenu – which, of course, means welcome.

The welcome of Christ sees the sacred that is within everyone. This welcome accepts each one as they are and is ready to give what is needed.

It’s not a low bar. Not a wide path.

Perhaps we can wonder: In what ways have we failed to recognize the sacred that dwells in every human being? Who are the ones we have neglected to invite into our midst? When has our welcome been less than Christian?

In a world crying out for peace, for compassion, we are all in a wilderness, as John the Baptist proclaims. Our paths are in need of straightening. Our fruits are not always evident. But as John makes clear, it is not too late for repentance, because God is able to change everything.

Photo by Marissa Daeger on Unsplash 

Advent One: Sacred Time

Romans 13:11-14       

Matthew 24:36-44      

When we come to the season of Advent we begin again. We begin the cycle of our worship year, and we begin with waiting.

Waiting accompanies beginnings in a natural way.  We wait for the beginning of a new life through nine months of pregnancy. We wait for the beginning of a new school year. We wait for vacations, for promotions, for the release of a long-awaited movie or a new book from a favorite author. We wait for a response to our email. We wait for someone to return our phone call. We are always waiting.

We wait for doctor appointments and dentist appointments. We wait for the furniture we ordered to be delivered. We wait.

We wait for spring and then for summer. We wait for someone to notice us and offer us what we need. We just wait.

We wait for the interminable meeting to be over. We wait for the coffee to brew. We wait for five o’clock to come, for Friday to come. We wait for sleep to come. We wait.

We wait for that person to forgive us, finally. We wait; we are always waiting.

The early followers of Jesus were in a state of waiting for him to return and bring an end to the world as they knew it, and we know it. They waited with the kind of anxiety you and I are familiar with, the anxiety that accompanies our waiting for something important to happen – waiting for the kids to arrive; they are late and we don’t know what is keeping them. Waiting for the lab test results that will tell us: are we dying or not?

They were waiting for the Savior to return – our Savior, Jesus Christ. Waiting for the fullness of time, for the end of suffering and tears, for the lion and the lamb to lie down together, for peace on earth. That’s all.

And it wasn’t coming quickly enough. Jesus was late. He should have been here by now, they said to one another. We have been watching and waiting, like he told us to do. We have said our goodbyes to this world and we are ready for the next one.

They were ready, because they knew just how broken the world was. They walked down roads lined with crosses, the bodies of their friends and loved ones on display. They tried not to look.

They knew how broken everything was, just as we do. We read headlines that say, “7 Mass Shootings in the Last 7 Days.” War in Ukraine rages on. White supremacists and neo-Nazis have dinner together to plan their next moves.

We often try not to look.

So we wait for our Savior. We are peering out the window waiting for his car to pull into the driveway. We imagine his arrival. Jesus, finally; you’re here. We were so worried about you. Because we’ve been waiting.

There is a poem called “The Whole Earth’s a Waiting Room,” by Joseph T. Nolan, which draws an apt picture of our constant state of waiting, always waiting for something to happen; always waiting for something to change.

The whole earth’s a waiting room!
“The Savior will see you now”
is what we expect to hear at the end.
Maybe we should raise our expectations.
The Savior might see us now
if we know how to find him.

What if we did raise our expectations? That is, if we stopped waiting for Jesus to helicopter in and clean things up in one great sweep? And we began looking for the signs of him here and now?

C.S. Lewis wrote the wonderful stories about the land of Narnia, where the lion named Aslan is at the center of it all. Most of the time, though, Aslan is neither seen nor heard. But occasionally someone will say to another, “Aslan is on the move.”

“Aslan is on the move,” they will say to one another in a hushed and reverent tone. Something wonderful is coming because Aslan is on the move. When Aslan, the creator and redeemer of the land of Narnia, is on the move, marvelous things happen.

What if what we are waiting for is already here? As the poem says:

Maybe we should raise our expectations.
The Savior might see us now
if we know how to find him.
Could it be that Jesus, too, is waiting
for us to know he is around?

It is true, isn’t it? He left something of himself here, didn’t he? In all the ways he taught us – in his words and his actions – didn’t he leave something of himself? In the stories we tell of the times he fed the multitudes, seemingly out of nothing there was plenty! We tell the stories again and again and we say, just as he said: Go and do likewise. Didn’t Jesus leave something of himself in each one of us?

Didn’t he leave something of himself in the divine Spirit that permeates everything on earth? That kernel of goodness that is in everything God created – which is to say, everything – don’t we see something of our Savior in it?

We fill our time with waiting, always waiting. But didn’t Jesus say, “Stay awake; pay attention; keep watch.” Didn’t Paul say, “Now is the moment.” Can we see that our waiting must be watching for the sacred that is here right now; that we are living in sacred time?

It’s a matter of perspective. Stop. Pay attention and see the sacred that is around you and in you.

Stop your busyness, your stewing about all the things that didn’t go perfectly and all the people who didn’t do what they were supposed to do. Stop trying to make perfection. Look for the things of God because they are already perfect.

Feed someone. Hug someone. Smile at someone. Assume the best of someone, just as you would want them to do for you.

Listen to someone. Tell them you believe in them. Bless them. And, yes, you need to do it for yourself sometimes just as much as you need to do it for others.

Open your eyes to sacred time. Practice seeing that kernel of goodness that is in everything and everyone. And if you can’t see it in them, then pray for them. Pray for the goodness of their creator to shine through.

And when you are doing these things, you are living in sacred time.

 

 Photo by Andraz Lazic on Unsplash

Jesus Rules

 

Jeremiah 23:1-6 

Luke 23:33-43    

There was a time in my life when I declared myself sovereign ruler of my home, and the kitchen was my throne room.  It was a wide open room in the back of the house, from where I could survey my domain. I had a clear view of who entered or exited the front or back door. I could see anyone coming up or down the stairs. I could stand at my counter peeling apples and maintain command over the household. I called out orders as I kneaded dough. I answered questions while I diced onions. And you can be certain, nobody was getting any forbidden snacks, or failing to clean up their messes, while I was in my place. 

For a time, when they were small enough, I actually extended my kingdom to anywhere I happened to be with my children. They were, the four of them, essentially, my realm. The little ones running down the sidewalk ahead of me would stop on my command. Strangers would look at me, clearly impressed by my power. I simply nodded. Of course. I am the ruler of this realm.

In those days and those places, I was sovereign. At least, that’s how I remember it now.

We don’t have kings, of course, in our nation. No monarchs or dictators for us. We have democratically elected leaders and systems of checks and balances, and that sort of thing, because we have a healthy suspicion of power in the hands of any one person. Absolute power is a dangerous thing in the hands of men and women.

The people of Israel experienced this over and over again. God never wanted to give them a king in the first place, because they should have known God is the only king they would ever need. But they had a serious case of keeping up with the Joneses. Israel looked around and said, everyone in the neighborhood has a king; we want one too. And finally, they got their way.

This is where that old saying, “Be careful what you wish for,” seems apt. For hundreds of years, between the occasional benevolent monarch, they were beset with cruel, careless, and malevolent leaders. The problem with absolute power was absolutely clear. But the only ones speaking up about it were the prophets, like Jeremiah, calling out those shepherds who destroy the flock. A shepherd who destroys the flock! Shameful, isn’t it? To allow the destruction of those you have been entrusted with care of; to abandon the least powerful and most vulnerable of the flock for the sake of your own gain. These are, as the Lord says, evil doings.

No one but the prophets were speaking out about it, though, because no one really wanted to put themselves at risk by challenging the ultimate authority in the land. The one who protests will risk the wrath of the whole kingdom coming down on him.

And when Jesus challenged the authorities of his day, this is what happened. It did not matter that he made no claims to be king of Israel. It did not matter that he voiced no intentions of revolting against kings or emperors. It did not matter that he broke no laws of the empire. It only mattered that he questioned the conventional wisdom. He shone a light on the cracks where evil seeped in. He peeled away the veneer of law and order, showing the corruption that lay beneath. This just would not be tolerated because we all, every one of us, want to believe that the system is ok, that the benefits we carve out from it, however small they might be, are safe. My tax cuts, my job, my cheap goods and entertainment are safe.

So it wasn’t just the empire that could not tolerate someone like Jesus. The Pharisees and the Sadducees and the Chief Priests, who had all carved out their little realms of power could not tolerate Jesus. The people who just lived day to day, hand to mouth, a breath away from homelessness, who had carved out their tiny realms of what little they had, who heard the authorities warn he was a threat to their safety – they could not tolerate Jesus. Jesus had to be cast as a criminal, an enemy of the state. 

So they mocked him as king, oblivious to the truth of what they were saying. They hung him on the cross, alongside two other men who had been charged and convicted in their courts.  One of these dead men joined the taunts of the crowd, but the other one turned to Jesus and said, “Remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Remember me when you come into your kingdom. This one hanging alongside him recognized him for who he was.  He saw in him what so many others could not see, the kingdom of God. And he wanted to be a part of this kingdom.

Perhaps the only reason this man could speak this way was because he had nothing left to lose.

The truth is that for most of us it is a hard thing to proclaim Jesus’ kingdom because so much of what we value stands as a barrier to it. The truth is that we may not want to recognize the kingdom of Jesus because it bids us come and die along with him. The truth is that if we live in fear we won’t be able to see that his kingdom is not just pie in the sky in the sweet by and by but is also here and now. The kingdom is in our midst.

The kingdom of Jesus is here as well as there. It is now as well as then. The kingdom of God is present to all who can see it and live into it and living into it means dying to all that resists it.

Christ is the king of both heaven and earth, of here and now and always, of this realm and the realm of eternity.  He is the one who would be called, in the words of Jeremiah, The Lord Is Our Righteousness. And we cannot make light of this kingship.  It does not serve us or this world well if we try to reduce his realm in time and place to one hour on a Sunday morning, one room in one building.

It does not do to reduce his rule to the lord who puts Band-Aids on my wounds, the lord who is my cheerleader, I shall not want for self-confidence.  It does not do to pit him against others because he is “my” Jesus. It does not do to claim him as the lord of my needs while ignoring the needs of so many others.

If Christ is our king, we will stand with those whom he stands beside, however much the powers of this world despise them.  We will stand with whom he stands with, however different they might seem from us.  We are being called to do this even now.

There has been a new level of hate unleashed in our land. It has reached an unnerving level, a point where the haters don’t even bother to pretend they are better. This hate is unleashed on all kinds of vulnerable people, but in particular, recently, for reasons I have trouble fathoming, against the Jews.

Words of hate, which lead to acts of hate, have been used by some people with really big megaphones. So many refuse to stand up to them. How will you and I respond? It won’t do to shrug it off and say, it’s just talk, it’s just words. Because words of hate almost always, eventually, lead to acts of violence. We have seen it before.

We must resist it, if we believe in the kingship of Jesus.  We must work for justice if we are citizens of the kingdom of Jesus. Here and now.

Jesus rules in this world wherever there are people who choose his reign over the reign of “might makes right.” Jesus rules in this world wherever there are people who choose to stand where he stands – with the persecuted, the despised, the least, the last, and the lost.

Whenever someone stands with the person who is being taunted or bullied. Whenever someone gives up a privilege so that another might have their basic human dignity.  Whenever someone calls out the authorities who are neglecting their responsibility as the shepherd to all the sheep – Jesus rules.

Jesus rules in this world when he rules in our hearts. And when he rules in our hearts, the world will know it, my friends.  The world will know it.

Photo: ChurchArt.com