A sermon for the Last Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 29
November 24, 2024, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Hot Springs, AR
Readings: John 18:33-37
“Are you the king of the Jews?” That’s Pontius Pilate’s question for Jesus. Today is Christ the King Sunday, the last Sunday after Pentecost, the last Sunday of the church year. Today is a triumphant day, when we declare that Christ is King of kings and Lord of lords. And yet, curiously, our gospel reading is not about Christ seated in heaven, but rather about Christ before Pilate: Christ accused, Christ on trial, Christ on his way to his cross.
Ultimately the Gospel of John is taking us to Calvary. Christ will be lifted high for all the world to see: not in celebrity exaltation and triumph, but in apparent failure, in complete and abject humiliation–scourged, tortured, dying. This king will not be robed in soft silks and velvets, but naked, robed only in our humble flesh, the thing he came to redeem. This king will not be crowned with jewels, but with rude thorns, twisted into his brow. The very creation that Christ, the Word of God, breathed life into has now turned on its King and kills him, not knowing what it does: a tree is cut into cross, a bramble of thorns is twisted into a crown, grapes turned to sour wine, a reed used for mockery, iron ore hammered into nails, human beings crying crucify him.
Today invites us to see victory in all of this. The world sees the cross, an instrument of torture, but we behold a throne. The world sees death, our Lord and Master lifeless with blood pouring down, but we see Life: everlasting Life, given to us because of his sacrifice for our sins. The world sees a criminal strung up as a warning, like a scarecrow, but we behold God in the flesh, the King of kings and Lord of lords.
“So you are a king?” Pilate asks Jesus. Jesus replies, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.”
In a sense, Pilate is not only asking Jesus this question, but he’s asking us, too. He’s asking us now, “Is this guy a king, your king? This guy, hung up between criminals and tortured and dead, is that who you’re following and serving and even worshiping?” What’s our answer? Our answer is found ultimately in our actions, whether we listen to his voice and follow where he leads.
Pilate does not listen to his voice. In a few moments, we will confess our faith using the words of the Nicene Creed, like centuries of Christians before us. And for centuries, Christians have called Pontius Pilate’s name in the Creed: he suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and buried. Pontius Pilate, the man ultimately responsible for his crucifixion, is named as a warning for us. Pilate listens, not to the voice of Christ, but to the voice of the crowds shouting, crucify him. Pilate listens, not to the voice of Christ, but to that sinful voice inside him saying, just go along with the crowds; give them what they want; you’ll look good to the emperor and in the eyes of Rome; and just maybe, if you play these cards right, you will get you that promotion, that recognition, that honor you so crave. Pilate listens, not to the voice of Christ, but to the voice of the Evil One, enticing him, saying, bow down before me and I will give you all the kingdoms of the earth.
If we’re honest, we can be like Pontius Pilate. We can, in a sense, crucify Christ–when we hate our neighbor, when we listen to those voices of pride and deceit, when we follow our own selfish desires instead of loving God. We can put the cross of Christ away and follow our own path, content to be our own ruler, a friend to the powers of this world instead of the world yet to come.
But Pilate isn’t the only person mentioned in the Nicene Creed. We have another option: St. Mary, the mother of our Lord, whom the Church calls the Mother of God. The one who said yes to God and bore the very Word of God in her body. The one who stands at the foot of Christ’s cross as he suffers and dies–and a sword pierces her own heart also. The one who takes down his dead body and cradles it in love. Mary, who tells the angel, be it unto me according to thy word. Jesus says today, everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice. Mary knows that voice. She listens; she obeys.
We can be like Mary. We can follow after Christ, listening to his voice, walking in his way, confessing him as our Lord and Savior before the powers of this world. Will we, like Mary, go to the foot of the cross? Will we kneel at that throne, where blood and sorrow flow mingled down? If we are willing to kneel at that throne, we will see, amidst the blood and sorrow, hope. We will see, amidst death, life. We will see, amidst our human pain, God–God robed in our own humble, torn, feeble, human flesh.
We find the cross, not only in art, not only in the words of scripture, but also in our own lives. We find the cross in our sickness: as we are broken, the brutalized Christ is there with us. We find the cross in our pain: as we are hurting, the tortured Christ is there with us. We find the cross in our death: as we breathe our last, the Son of God takes our hand and leads us from the cross we bear, through the conquered tomb, and into life, everlasting and new. And then we see him as he truly is. The scars bear witness that it is indeed he. But now transfigured, he reigns as King of All. Forever. And we will be with him. Forever.
Storied Grace 