Christ the King?

John 18:33-37

Welcome to the end of our liturgical year! Next Sunday we start Advent. As our undecorated Christmas tree tells us, soon, very soon, we’ll begin to officially anticipate the birth of Christ. But we’re not there yet. We’re still in Ordinary Time, which is where we spend most of our time.

Before we can start to dream of a sweet, newborn Jesus, we remember the events just before Easter-- we must listen in on the confrontation between Pilate and Jesus. Jesus has been turned in and Pilate has to figure out why. Jesus isn’t really on his radar, but he’s obviously upset somebody and so here we are. The only thing that slightly disturbs Pilate is this alleged claim of Jesus’ to be king, for this could signal possible political disturbance and unrest and it’s illegal to just challenge the emperors throne. And we watch this scene, wondering, with Pilate, if Jesus really is a king. But Jesus doesn’t answer, not directly, he doesn’t make the situation any less confusing for Pilate or for us.

Sometimes, reading this, I want the story to be different. I want Jesus to say “No!” I’m not here to challenge Caesar’s throne, I’m not a threat in the ways that you think, I was no threat to Herod, just let me go, back to what I was doing all along.

Sometimes, I want Jesus to say “Yes!” Of course, I am the king of the Jews, of the entire world, and your emperor should still not be concerned with me, because I’m not taking over in the way that you think—I’m not after his particular throne, but out to change the entire world--not as a power-hungry maniac, but as the living breathing god that I am, now let me go so I can get back to what I was doing all along.

But Jesus rarely behaves the way we want him to. Instead, he turns the question back to Pilate. Just as he did to his disciples when they asked if he was the Messiah and he replied with, “who do you say that I am.” To Pilate’s inquiry: those are your words not mine. “You say that I am.” And with Pilate, we wonder, does this cryptic, noncommittal response make Jesus a king? It’s enough to convince Pilate that Jesus is not a criminal, but not enough to save him from death.

This Jesus as King business is no less complicated and strange for us who do not live in the land of kings, than for the people who were much more familiar with the likes of King David. King David had questionable integrity, and yet was loved and chosen by God

Jesus is a king we can feel confident in, no moral ambiguity about this one—not possessing wives and slaves and riches and power, not about control, military might, or coercion.

And while Jesus does not say he is a king, he does lay claim to a kingdom—one that is “not of this world.” If his kingdom were an earthly one, his followers would fight for his freedom—he would have some sort of military might—some fighting power, followers who were organized and motivated to defend and protect their leader—but Jesus needs no such protection.

Not a violent, political image, not a worldly leader with robes and a crown—not a literal reality, but a metaphor. Because this humble man standing before Pilate, the one who is about to be tortured, is not of earthly royalty.

What does it mean for us? Do we say that Jesus is King of our hearts/king of our lives? Jesus is King—as ultimate ruler, or does it mean something else? Something bigger, something more expansive.

Because Jesus is both ruler and servant, both King and subject. It’s a paradoxical image, because Jesus is lowly servant as well as master of the universe—one who comes to save, rather than to control.

He tells Pilate, “I came into this world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice”—those who listen have no need to ask. Pilate demonstrates his cluelessness, his lack of insider knowledge, his missing VIP card to the club of truth, when he asks: “What is truth?” There’s no answer—if you don’t know, you don’t know—and if you read through the gospel of John, you’ll find your answer: It’s Jesus. Pilate looks him right in the face and misses the literal truth that is before him.

It probably wouldn’t make Pilate’s life any easier for jesus to say “I’m not a King, I’m the almighty God incarnate.” Jesus doesn’t say those things so much as let people figure it out for themselves. God generally doesn’t approach us and demand that we recognize God, God is more subtle, more shifty, more difficult to pin down, sometimes easy to miss, and easy to dismiss, and easy to doubt. Faith isn’t easy, isn’t obvious, and so jesus is going to parade around as God the King in any recognizable fashion and demand that we bow before his crown and kiss the hem of his robes. For those who do bow and kiss his feet, he offers praise, but he never asks for such devotion. That is on our part. It’s our responsibility to see God, to be alert, to watch for the truth. Sometimes it hits us over the head like a frying pan, obvious, plain to sight, and yet even then, what we see of as “proof” others can easily call coincidence, modern medicine, friendship, love, luck, but nothing more, nothing divine and holy, not the hand of God.

And so we have our unusual King to crown this morning—one who is humble and subtle, not loud and ostentatious, not obvious, but rather easy to pass by, to mistake as a bruised and battered and misunderstood criminal.

And he is our Lord. When we are bruised and battered and misunderstood, we know he has gone before us, has been there too. He’s not a distant king, living a good and comfortable life, removed from everyday existence. He is a servant who has suffered—most likely even more than we ever will.

And when asked who he is, Jesus says the Truth. Which is still rather confusing and why there are still so many answers in the world: Jesus is Lord, Savor, King, prophet, teacher— to some God, to others merely an exceptional human being, and to some, a complete joke.

And yet he is the Truth—the entire truth of the universe, of existence, of all that is divine, of all that is God—embodied as a human man. No wonder our words fail us.

Commitment

Ruth 3:1-5; 4:13-17

Mark 12:38-44

The Hebrew term for loyalty is Chesed. This can be faithfulness between God and a human community or between members of a family or community. Chesed is a major theme in the book of Ruth.

The three main characters—Naomi, Ruth, and Boas--do not have to care for one another nearly to the extent that they do: their family obligations to each other are minimal and yet they come together to form their own close-knit family. They demonstrate a high level of commitment and loyalty to each other and the best part is because they choose to do so.

The story of Ruth begins with tragedy. First a famine in Bethlehem causes a family: Elimelech and Naomi with two sons to move to the land of Moab. There, Elimelech dies of unknown causes. The two sons marry local women—Orpah and Ruth—but after 10 years, the two husbands die also for unmentioned reasons. Naomi, Orpah and Ruth—are left without husbands and without children. They are three women, related only through marriage to deceased men. Because women were entirely dependent on men, these widows have very little status in the world—no one to provide for them, to protect them, or to give meaning for their lives.

Naomi decides to trade in this foreign land of death and sadness for her homeland where the famine that drove them out had ended. As she and her daughters-in-law pack up, she encourages each of them to return to their own homes that they might remarry since they still have hope that life could turn out well for them. For Naomi, she feels her own life is essentially over. She cannot have more children, cannot produce sons for Orpah and Ruth to marry, so their connection should be severed. It’s too late for Naomi to have a good life again, but the young women still have a chance for remarriage and children. Orpah agrees, sadly, and returns to her family. Ruth, however, clings to Naomi, not wanting to leave her. The language of clinging is like that of a husband to a wife, she transfers the faithfulness she had for her husband, over to her husband’s mother and in a vow befitting a marriage ceremony, she professes her commitment to stay with Naomi: “Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die—There will I be buried. May the Lord do thus and so to me, and more as well, if even death parts me from you!” Ruth is making a claim both of ethnicity and religious identity—there was no conversion then, what you were born is what you were—but Ruth claims that she will no longer be a Moabite and no longer worship the Gods of Moab. She will travel with Naomi and make her home in a foreign land just as Naomi had done. She doesn’t have to do this for Naomi, and that’s why it’s so amazing that she does.

Naomi sees that she will not be able to convince Ruth otherwise, and so they set off for Bethlehem. This homecoming is particularly difficult for Naomi who left with husband and sons, and now returns “empty” as she says.

They return to Bethlehem at the beginning of the harvest—a good sign that more fruitful times may be ahead. In her role as Naomi’s provider, Ruth decides to go out and glean behind the harvesters. Amazingly enough, she ends up in the field of her late father-in-law’s kinsmen. She meets Boaz who has heard of this Moabite woman who has stayed with Naomi. Boaz praises Ruth for taking care of Naomi and encourages her to stay and glean in his fields—he offers her protection—food and drink—and additional grain. He goes far beyond his family duty to care for Ruth and Naomi.

Seeing Ruth return with such a bounty, Naomi suspects that Boas might be a suitable and willing husband for Ruth—she cannot give Ruth another son to marry, but she can still hope for one of her husband’s relatives to be a suitable match. And so she carefully instructs Ruth to visit Boaz on the threshing floor—and yes, this scene is absolutely not rated for General audiences nor is it the socially approved method for gaining a spouse. Even though he’s been slightly tricked, Boaz responds well to the whole arrangement and marries Ruth gives her and Naomi further security with the purchase of land. Not because he has to, but because he wants to.

Their marriage produces a son who will go on to become the grandfather of King David. And so Ruth’s and Naomi’s fortunes are overturned: they have men in their lives again. The story that began with such disaster and sadness ends happily.

They form this tiny, love community out of their own free agency—a system of mutual protection and care and security and a future for two women who otherwise would have had none.

The widow in the gospel, who gives everything she has away, is like Naomi and Ruth. They have very little in the world, and yet they give each other what they can: their love and assistance—giving out of their poverty and loss. Boaz is a wealthy landowner, but unlike the scribes, he does not take advantage of the widows, but restores their fortunes out of his own abundance. Their family works because they are mutually invested in each other.

At it’s best, the church is kind of like this. Whether we give out of abundance or out of poverty, we give of ourselves. For the most part, none of us have to be here, none of us have to love each other, or be loyal to each other, or show any level of commitment to each other. And yet we do.

In a few moments, we will receive our confirmands—three young men—into the membership of our church community. They have been a part of the church since infanthood, baptized and raised in the faith, but today they get to make the decision for themselves, that the God of their parents, is also their God, that their parent’s faith and parent’s church is also their faith and their church. We give thanks for their families, for their mentors, who have encouraged them along the way and helped them to feel that we are all their families too.

Though they do not remember their baptisms, they are living into the promises that their parents and church made for them on their behalf. They come now, to join as full members of this congregation, not because they have to, but because they want to.

And as they promise their Chesed to God and to God’s church, the rest of us, will reaffirm our commitment to support them, to care for them, and to give thanks to God for them—not because we have to, but because we want to.

Thanks be to God.