November 2019
November 17, 2019
"A Living Sanctuary," based on Luke 21:5-11
(readings follow the sermon)
When I read today’s lesson from Luke with its list of dire predictions, it reminds me of a daily email I receive from CNN, called “5 Things.” Every morning, the email lays out the five worst news items from around the world. A great way to start out each day—right?
On Friday morning, the email included these 5 updates:
Number 1: The California shooting on Thursday at Santa Clarita’s High School—with two students killed and five others shot by a 16-year-old classmate. Such tragic news.
Number 2: The impeachment investigation…. Need I say more?
Number 3: The ceasefire of the cross-border fighting in Gaza that started on Tuesday—which launched 450 rockets.
Number 4: The violent political protests in Chile.
Number 5: A return of the “Plague” or “Black Death,” which killed 50 million Europeans during the Middle Ages. The World Health Organization reported that during a recent five-year period nearly 3,200 new cases and 600 deaths—with 50,000 total cases in the past two decades. Today, the ancient plague is back.
While there weren’t any earthquakes or famines mentioned, this email list sounds a lot like the apocalyptic events and other signs described by Jesus in our Gospel reading. Jesus also predicts the destruction of the Jewish Temple.
Eight years ago, my husband Charlie and I visited the Temple Mount in Jerusalem with a group from our Minneapolis church. There, we saw a street with filled with Temple stones pushed down by Roman soldiers 2,000 years ago. Some of these blocks were massive. Just one of them could fill this sanctuary.
Today, the remaining foundation stones form the Western Wall, also called the “Wailing Wall.” A place where we prayed side by side with Jews and Christians and Muslims from all over the world. At the Wall, they hand you a piece of paper and pencil, and you write a prayer or hope or message. Then you insert your note between the giant stones.
This tradition is linked to an old Jewish teaching that the Divine Presence of God which dwelt in the Sanctuary never moved from that holy spot. Standing at the Wall praying, I was amazed at how something so gigantic could be destroyed.
I also sensed the immense sacredness of that space. Over a million hand-written prayers are placed on the wall each year. Prayers for healing. Prayers of fear and sadness. Prayers for comfort and guidance and wisdom. Prayers for God’s presence in the midst of anxiety and tragedy and loss.
By the time Luke wrote his Gospel around 85 AD, the Temple had already been destroyed. In effect, for Luke’s original readers what Jesus says here is not a disaster prediction. Instead, it’s a news report of something that happened 15 years before.
For us, it would be like predicting the 9/11 terrorist attacks today, 18 years after they took place. And thinking about the long-term effects of that fateful day.
Many of us (who are old enough) can remember exactly where we were when we first heard the news. I was driving to work at United Way in downtown Minneapolis, when I heard a report on MPR about a plane flying into the World Trade Center.
For the Jewish community to which Jesus belonged, the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple was their 9/11. It changed their history forever. I’m sure many wondered if their faith would survive. Eventually, the synagogue became the center of Jewish life.
Most early Christians were part of that community. But that event pushed them to new places, too. They had to create ways of worshiping without a Temple. Many gathered in believers’ homes.
In Rome, some Christians worshiped in catacombs—underground tunnels where the dead were buried. Even without a physical temple, they believed the presence of God went with them out into the community.
The history of our congregation parallels that story. Six years ago, St. Mark’s had to sell its original building. The boiler stopped working. The roof leaked. And even though the building wasn’t destroyed, St. Mark’s left the place where we had worshiped for over 100 years. Since then, the building has been renovated and now it’s the Sanctuary Event Center. But our true sanctuary is no longer there.
For three years, St. Mark’s worshiped at Elim Lutheran. Then in April 2017, we moved to the convent chapel at Prairie St. John’s. Eventually the hospital decided to tear down that building to make way for a new facility. And in August we moved here to the synagogue.
So many people have told me how much they admire what we are doing here at Temple Beth El. And members of the synagogue are delighted. Ironically (maybe prophetically), we are a Christian community worshipping in a Jewish Temple—just like Jesus did.
Every week, when I’m preparing my sermon, I’m aware of how, in big and small ways, this new home informs my theology and what it means to me to be Christian in our modern world.
I wish more Lutherans could have this experience. Of dwelling in a space that is not our own. Where another totally different faith community has welcomed us with open arms.
In its original meaning, a “sanctuary” is a sacred place, like a church or mosque or temple. A secondary meaning for the word is “a place of refuge.” During the Middle Ages, churches became legal sanctuaries for fugitives fleeing enemies and authorities.
This summer the ELCA (our national organization) voted to become a “sanctuary Church.’ And while what exactly that means was not clearly defined, the sanctuary movement goes back to the 1980s. Where American Christians began providing sanctuary to refugees fleeing civil wars in Central America.
Today, some Christians are seeking to help migrants imprisoned in detention centers and camping in tents along the Mexican border. Men and women and children, seeking a safe place to live and work and worship. People of faith without a home, facing tremendous hardships as a result of our government’s new restrictions.
Eighty-six years ago, Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran pastor in Germany who dared to defy an oppressive government. Who, ultimately, was killed by the Nazis for those efforts. As Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party seduced the German people, conquered a continent, and brought genocide on the Jews, Bonhoeffer and a small group of Christian dissidents sought to dismantle the Third Reich from within.
In April 1933, shortly after Hitler was appointed chancellor, Bonhoeffer wrote an essay called, “The Church and the Jewish Question,” which he presented to a meeting of Lutheran pastors.
His first point was that—especially during difficult and oppressive movements in human history—God calls the Church to be a prophetic voice. To be willing to question the actions, even the legitimacy of the ruling State or government.
And if, as Bonhoeffer goes on to say, certain individuals become victims of the negative effects of the State’s actions, then the Church has an “unconditional obligation” to step in and to help those victims. To become a living sanctuary for them.
Of course, the victims of that time were the Jews and others attacked by the Nazis. What’s disturbing today is that anti-Semitism is once again on the rise.
But Bonhoeffer doesn’t stop there. He argues that the Church is obligated not to just bandage the victims crushed by the oppressive wheels of government, but to become a stick pushed into the spokes of the wheel to stop the vehicle itself.
At Bonhoeffer’s presentation, most of the Lutheran ministers walked out before he could finish. They were so fully enmeshed in the anti-Semitism of their country, they could not see why the Church should do anything to stop it. Which made Bonhoeffer realize that God’s call to be a prophetic voice is a long and lonely road.
Today, I believe God is calling us as the Church to be that kind of prophetic voice. Here. In this temple. In this community. In this country.
A voice for refugees and people of color. A voice for trans and queer individuals. A voice for Muslims and Jews. A voice for all those who are the targets of contemporary racism and bigotry.
That we may bring healing to those who suffer. Kindness to those who are oppressed. Love to those who are hated.
And God’s holy sanctuary to those without a place to call home. Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON – Luke 21:5-11
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, [Jesus] said, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.” They asked him, “Teacher, when will this be, and what will be the sign that this is about to take place?” And he said, “Beware that you are not led astray; for many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and, ‘The time is near!’ Do not go after them. When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified; for these things must take place first, but the end will not follow immediately.” Then he said to them, “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be great earthquakes, and in various places famines and plagues; and there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.”
On Friday morning, the email included these 5 updates:
Number 1: The California shooting on Thursday at Santa Clarita’s High School—with two students killed and five others shot by a 16-year-old classmate. Such tragic news.
Number 2: The impeachment investigation…. Need I say more?
Number 3: The ceasefire of the cross-border fighting in Gaza that started on Tuesday—which launched 450 rockets.
Number 4: The violent political protests in Chile.
Number 5: A return of the “Plague” or “Black Death,” which killed 50 million Europeans during the Middle Ages. The World Health Organization reported that during a recent five-year period nearly 3,200 new cases and 600 deaths—with 50,000 total cases in the past two decades. Today, the ancient plague is back.
While there weren’t any earthquakes or famines mentioned, this email list sounds a lot like the apocalyptic events and other signs described by Jesus in our Gospel reading. Jesus also predicts the destruction of the Jewish Temple.
Eight years ago, my husband Charlie and I visited the Temple Mount in Jerusalem with a group from our Minneapolis church. There, we saw a street with filled with Temple stones pushed down by Roman soldiers 2,000 years ago. Some of these blocks were massive. Just one of them could fill this sanctuary.
Today, the remaining foundation stones form the Western Wall, also called the “Wailing Wall.” A place where we prayed side by side with Jews and Christians and Muslims from all over the world. At the Wall, they hand you a piece of paper and pencil, and you write a prayer or hope or message. Then you insert your note between the giant stones.
This tradition is linked to an old Jewish teaching that the Divine Presence of God which dwelt in the Sanctuary never moved from that holy spot. Standing at the Wall praying, I was amazed at how something so gigantic could be destroyed.
I also sensed the immense sacredness of that space. Over a million hand-written prayers are placed on the wall each year. Prayers for healing. Prayers of fear and sadness. Prayers for comfort and guidance and wisdom. Prayers for God’s presence in the midst of anxiety and tragedy and loss.
By the time Luke wrote his Gospel around 85 AD, the Temple had already been destroyed. In effect, for Luke’s original readers what Jesus says here is not a disaster prediction. Instead, it’s a news report of something that happened 15 years before.
For us, it would be like predicting the 9/11 terrorist attacks today, 18 years after they took place. And thinking about the long-term effects of that fateful day.
Many of us (who are old enough) can remember exactly where we were when we first heard the news. I was driving to work at United Way in downtown Minneapolis, when I heard a report on MPR about a plane flying into the World Trade Center.
For the Jewish community to which Jesus belonged, the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple was their 9/11. It changed their history forever. I’m sure many wondered if their faith would survive. Eventually, the synagogue became the center of Jewish life.
Most early Christians were part of that community. But that event pushed them to new places, too. They had to create ways of worshiping without a Temple. Many gathered in believers’ homes.
In Rome, some Christians worshiped in catacombs—underground tunnels where the dead were buried. Even without a physical temple, they believed the presence of God went with them out into the community.
The history of our congregation parallels that story. Six years ago, St. Mark’s had to sell its original building. The boiler stopped working. The roof leaked. And even though the building wasn’t destroyed, St. Mark’s left the place where we had worshiped for over 100 years. Since then, the building has been renovated and now it’s the Sanctuary Event Center. But our true sanctuary is no longer there.
For three years, St. Mark’s worshiped at Elim Lutheran. Then in April 2017, we moved to the convent chapel at Prairie St. John’s. Eventually the hospital decided to tear down that building to make way for a new facility. And in August we moved here to the synagogue.
So many people have told me how much they admire what we are doing here at Temple Beth El. And members of the synagogue are delighted. Ironically (maybe prophetically), we are a Christian community worshipping in a Jewish Temple—just like Jesus did.
Every week, when I’m preparing my sermon, I’m aware of how, in big and small ways, this new home informs my theology and what it means to me to be Christian in our modern world.
I wish more Lutherans could have this experience. Of dwelling in a space that is not our own. Where another totally different faith community has welcomed us with open arms.
In its original meaning, a “sanctuary” is a sacred place, like a church or mosque or temple. A secondary meaning for the word is “a place of refuge.” During the Middle Ages, churches became legal sanctuaries for fugitives fleeing enemies and authorities.
This summer the ELCA (our national organization) voted to become a “sanctuary Church.’ And while what exactly that means was not clearly defined, the sanctuary movement goes back to the 1980s. Where American Christians began providing sanctuary to refugees fleeing civil wars in Central America.
Today, some Christians are seeking to help migrants imprisoned in detention centers and camping in tents along the Mexican border. Men and women and children, seeking a safe place to live and work and worship. People of faith without a home, facing tremendous hardships as a result of our government’s new restrictions.
Eighty-six years ago, Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran pastor in Germany who dared to defy an oppressive government. Who, ultimately, was killed by the Nazis for those efforts. As Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party seduced the German people, conquered a continent, and brought genocide on the Jews, Bonhoeffer and a small group of Christian dissidents sought to dismantle the Third Reich from within.
In April 1933, shortly after Hitler was appointed chancellor, Bonhoeffer wrote an essay called, “The Church and the Jewish Question,” which he presented to a meeting of Lutheran pastors.
His first point was that—especially during difficult and oppressive movements in human history—God calls the Church to be a prophetic voice. To be willing to question the actions, even the legitimacy of the ruling State or government.
And if, as Bonhoeffer goes on to say, certain individuals become victims of the negative effects of the State’s actions, then the Church has an “unconditional obligation” to step in and to help those victims. To become a living sanctuary for them.
Of course, the victims of that time were the Jews and others attacked by the Nazis. What’s disturbing today is that anti-Semitism is once again on the rise.
But Bonhoeffer doesn’t stop there. He argues that the Church is obligated not to just bandage the victims crushed by the oppressive wheels of government, but to become a stick pushed into the spokes of the wheel to stop the vehicle itself.
At Bonhoeffer’s presentation, most of the Lutheran ministers walked out before he could finish. They were so fully enmeshed in the anti-Semitism of their country, they could not see why the Church should do anything to stop it. Which made Bonhoeffer realize that God’s call to be a prophetic voice is a long and lonely road.
Today, I believe God is calling us as the Church to be that kind of prophetic voice. Here. In this temple. In this community. In this country.
A voice for refugees and people of color. A voice for trans and queer individuals. A voice for Muslims and Jews. A voice for all those who are the targets of contemporary racism and bigotry.
That we may bring healing to those who suffer. Kindness to those who are oppressed. Love to those who are hated.
And God’s holy sanctuary to those without a place to call home. Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON – Luke 21:5-11
When some were speaking about the temple, how it was adorned with beautiful stones and gifts dedicated to God, [Jesus] said, “As for these things that you see, the days will come when not one stone will be left upon another; all will be thrown down.” They asked him, “Teacher, when will this be, and what will be the sign that this is about to take place?” And he said, “Beware that you are not led astray; for many will come in my name and say, ‘I am he!’ and, ‘The time is near!’ Do not go after them. When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified; for these things must take place first, but the end will not follow immediately.” Then he said to them, “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be great earthquakes, and in various places famines and plagues; and there will be dreadful portents and great signs from heaven.”
November 24, 2019
"I'm King of the World!" based on Luke 23:33-43
(reading follows the sermon)
Maybe it’s because I just saw a Celine Dion concert last month here in Fargo, but when I read this Gospel lesson earlier this week, I was reminded of a scene from the 1997 film, Titanic.
The scene takes place shortly after Jack Dawson, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, and his friend Fabrizio win third-class tickets to America in a poker game with two Swedes named Sven and Olaf (which I love!)
Jack is an optimistic artist. His companion Fabrizio, an Italian emigrant. With their tickets, they get on board with no IDs—using the names of the original Swedish ticketholders. Something that would never happen now. Today, we’d call them illegal immigrants.
Eventually, the two friends take a walk around the ship. They end up on the prow of the Titanic. Looking out to sea, Fabrizio jokes, “I can see the Statue of Liberty already! Very small, of course.”
Then Jack experiences one of the best moments of his life (at least until he gets to kiss Kate Winslet.) Standing on the rail at the front of the ship, Jack shoots up his fists and spreads his arms wide. Then he shouts in ecstasy, “I'm the king of the world!”
Which is the movie’s catchphrase. Since then, almost anytime you’re feeling really good about yourself—especially if you’re standing at the bow of a ship—you might yell those words. Right? How many of you have ever done that?
What’s ironic, of course, is that Jack was no king. He was a poor, unemployed drifter with big dreams. Who ends up dying unknown. And unnamed on the Titanic’s list of dead passengers. Jack doesn’t fit what we expect a king to be.
Today is Christ the King Sunday. The last Sunday in our liturgical year. Personally, I don’t really like this Sunday. For me it seems like an old-fashioned, empire-based way of looking at Jesus. Christ as a European king.
Which doesn’t fit how today some of us are talking about “decolonizing” Lutheranism. Meaning that as a denomination we need to move beyond seeing our faith only through the lens of a Northern European heritage and history. A culture brought here by immigrants on ships like the Titanic over a century ago.
Decolonizing Lutheranism means we acknowledge many people in our church are part of a dominant group that still sets up and maintains our cultural norms. Norms that for many still define what it means to be Lutheran. A European-American culture with strong ties to Germany and Scandinavia. Not that there’s anything wrong with those traditions, in and of themselves.
However, when we talk about decolonizing Lutheranism, we are seeking to ask some hard questions. Questions like: Who holds the power in our Church? Who controls the norms of Lutheranism today? Who really has a voice—especially those from other communities or cultures?
And if someone like me—with a last name like “Larson”—doesn’t feel the need to address this issue, maybe it’s because (even as a gay man) I’m part of that dominant culture. For I’m a white, cisgender male.
Where it’s easy to view everything our Church does and says as normal and fair. That experience is called “privilege.”
I believe that privileged perspective also affects how we see Jesus, especially if Christ is a king. Historically, it’s interesting that this day was added to our liturgical calendar only about 100 years ago, largely in response to what was happening in Europe.
Emphasizing the royal attributes of Jesus was a predictable choice for the decade after World War I. When better to reflect on a heavenly kingdom that will stand forever, than in the aftermath of a war that toppled four royal dynasties and killed 10 million soldiers and eight million civilians?
By the same token, placing theological emphasis on the kingship of Jesus also reflects the nervousness of our past religious hierarchy that long relied on earthly kings to empower the worldwide Church.
Today I know there are still many Christians who prefer seeing Jesus as their glorious and victorious, reigning King. Whom they can praise with uplifted hands.
Many of us, deep in our hearts, want a mighty savior will protect you and me from disappointments, disease, and death. We want to believe that being a Christian is some kind of protection against tragedy and loss.
But that’s a theology of glory. A Christ without a cross.
Yet we know—if we are truly honest with ourselves and with one another—that life isn’t always a picnic. That sometimes we have to face serious illness, separation and divorce, and loss of loved ones.
We Lutherans call that the theology of the cross. A theology that allows us to believe God is with us in the midst of our pain and suffering. That during difficult times, we like Jesus can honestly cry, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”
For me, the one thing that does make Christ the King Sunday meaningful is to be able to see Jesus as one who reigns not from a powerful throne, but from a cross. That Jesus chose not to be an indestructible ruler, but a human who suffers and dies like us.
Jesus was not the king people expected him to be. On the cross, Jesus revealed the love of God. With arms wide open to the sky.
But without a victory shout, like in a movie. Instead the people yell at him. They laugh at him. They dare him to save himself. First, it’s the religious leaders. Then the Roman soldiers. Finally, one of the criminals on another cross.
We see Jesus at the lowest point of his ministry. He appears to be beaten down by everyone. Suffering a humiliating defeat and death. A cruel punishment reserved for slaves, rebels and enemies of the Empire. Today we’d call them terrorists.
One of those criminals stands out in the story in Luke. To me, it’s amazing that Jesus doesn’t respond to any of those who mock him. Instead, he speaks only to the condemned rebel, who admits he is guilty of his crimes.
The one who requests, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” The one to whom Jesus promises, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
It’s truly ironic that Christ the King choses a nameless criminal—a stranger most people would ignore or condemn—as the first person to join Jesus in heaven. Yet, if you read the Gospels, that’s exactly how Jesus describes the Kingdom of God.
For Jesus, the Kingdom of God is not a place with castles or armies or wealth or power. For Jesus, the Kingdom of God isn’t about Hollywood fame, or the many things our culture values.
For Jesus, the Kingdom of God is not like a Caesar or President who oppresses the weak. It’s not a kingdom that guards its borders, or arms its citizens, or puts children in detention camps.
For Jesus, the Kingdom of God is about grace. Something that happens among flawed people like us. A Kingdom that we followers of Christ can make real by doing the same things Jesus did.
Like feeding hungry people. Like bringing healing to the sick in body and mind. Like overcoming the hatred of this world with kindness and hospitality. Like making holy what seems to others mundane and ugly.
In his death on the cross, Jesus reveals what love and mercy and hope are all about. For even in dying, we find grace.
And meet a lowly king. Who wears a crown of thorns. Who sits on the throne of a cross. Who suffers among us, fully human.
Who draws all people to the love of God. Who bestows on each of us life that never ends. Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON: Luke 23:33-43
When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.” One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
The scene takes place shortly after Jack Dawson, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, and his friend Fabrizio win third-class tickets to America in a poker game with two Swedes named Sven and Olaf (which I love!)
Jack is an optimistic artist. His companion Fabrizio, an Italian emigrant. With their tickets, they get on board with no IDs—using the names of the original Swedish ticketholders. Something that would never happen now. Today, we’d call them illegal immigrants.
Eventually, the two friends take a walk around the ship. They end up on the prow of the Titanic. Looking out to sea, Fabrizio jokes, “I can see the Statue of Liberty already! Very small, of course.”
Then Jack experiences one of the best moments of his life (at least until he gets to kiss Kate Winslet.) Standing on the rail at the front of the ship, Jack shoots up his fists and spreads his arms wide. Then he shouts in ecstasy, “I'm the king of the world!”
Which is the movie’s catchphrase. Since then, almost anytime you’re feeling really good about yourself—especially if you’re standing at the bow of a ship—you might yell those words. Right? How many of you have ever done that?
What’s ironic, of course, is that Jack was no king. He was a poor, unemployed drifter with big dreams. Who ends up dying unknown. And unnamed on the Titanic’s list of dead passengers. Jack doesn’t fit what we expect a king to be.
Today is Christ the King Sunday. The last Sunday in our liturgical year. Personally, I don’t really like this Sunday. For me it seems like an old-fashioned, empire-based way of looking at Jesus. Christ as a European king.
Which doesn’t fit how today some of us are talking about “decolonizing” Lutheranism. Meaning that as a denomination we need to move beyond seeing our faith only through the lens of a Northern European heritage and history. A culture brought here by immigrants on ships like the Titanic over a century ago.
Decolonizing Lutheranism means we acknowledge many people in our church are part of a dominant group that still sets up and maintains our cultural norms. Norms that for many still define what it means to be Lutheran. A European-American culture with strong ties to Germany and Scandinavia. Not that there’s anything wrong with those traditions, in and of themselves.
However, when we talk about decolonizing Lutheranism, we are seeking to ask some hard questions. Questions like: Who holds the power in our Church? Who controls the norms of Lutheranism today? Who really has a voice—especially those from other communities or cultures?
And if someone like me—with a last name like “Larson”—doesn’t feel the need to address this issue, maybe it’s because (even as a gay man) I’m part of that dominant culture. For I’m a white, cisgender male.
Where it’s easy to view everything our Church does and says as normal and fair. That experience is called “privilege.”
I believe that privileged perspective also affects how we see Jesus, especially if Christ is a king. Historically, it’s interesting that this day was added to our liturgical calendar only about 100 years ago, largely in response to what was happening in Europe.
Emphasizing the royal attributes of Jesus was a predictable choice for the decade after World War I. When better to reflect on a heavenly kingdom that will stand forever, than in the aftermath of a war that toppled four royal dynasties and killed 10 million soldiers and eight million civilians?
By the same token, placing theological emphasis on the kingship of Jesus also reflects the nervousness of our past religious hierarchy that long relied on earthly kings to empower the worldwide Church.
Today I know there are still many Christians who prefer seeing Jesus as their glorious and victorious, reigning King. Whom they can praise with uplifted hands.
Many of us, deep in our hearts, want a mighty savior will protect you and me from disappointments, disease, and death. We want to believe that being a Christian is some kind of protection against tragedy and loss.
But that’s a theology of glory. A Christ without a cross.
Yet we know—if we are truly honest with ourselves and with one another—that life isn’t always a picnic. That sometimes we have to face serious illness, separation and divorce, and loss of loved ones.
We Lutherans call that the theology of the cross. A theology that allows us to believe God is with us in the midst of our pain and suffering. That during difficult times, we like Jesus can honestly cry, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”
For me, the one thing that does make Christ the King Sunday meaningful is to be able to see Jesus as one who reigns not from a powerful throne, but from a cross. That Jesus chose not to be an indestructible ruler, but a human who suffers and dies like us.
Jesus was not the king people expected him to be. On the cross, Jesus revealed the love of God. With arms wide open to the sky.
But without a victory shout, like in a movie. Instead the people yell at him. They laugh at him. They dare him to save himself. First, it’s the religious leaders. Then the Roman soldiers. Finally, one of the criminals on another cross.
We see Jesus at the lowest point of his ministry. He appears to be beaten down by everyone. Suffering a humiliating defeat and death. A cruel punishment reserved for slaves, rebels and enemies of the Empire. Today we’d call them terrorists.
One of those criminals stands out in the story in Luke. To me, it’s amazing that Jesus doesn’t respond to any of those who mock him. Instead, he speaks only to the condemned rebel, who admits he is guilty of his crimes.
The one who requests, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” The one to whom Jesus promises, “Today you will be with me in paradise.”
It’s truly ironic that Christ the King choses a nameless criminal—a stranger most people would ignore or condemn—as the first person to join Jesus in heaven. Yet, if you read the Gospels, that’s exactly how Jesus describes the Kingdom of God.
For Jesus, the Kingdom of God is not a place with castles or armies or wealth or power. For Jesus, the Kingdom of God isn’t about Hollywood fame, or the many things our culture values.
For Jesus, the Kingdom of God is not like a Caesar or President who oppresses the weak. It’s not a kingdom that guards its borders, or arms its citizens, or puts children in detention camps.
For Jesus, the Kingdom of God is about grace. Something that happens among flawed people like us. A Kingdom that we followers of Christ can make real by doing the same things Jesus did.
Like feeding hungry people. Like bringing healing to the sick in body and mind. Like overcoming the hatred of this world with kindness and hospitality. Like making holy what seems to others mundane and ugly.
In his death on the cross, Jesus reveals what love and mercy and hope are all about. For even in dying, we find grace.
And meet a lowly king. Who wears a crown of thorns. Who sits on the throne of a cross. Who suffers among us, fully human.
Who draws all people to the love of God. Who bestows on each of us life that never ends. Amen.
+ + +
GOSPEL LESSON: Luke 23:33-43
When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” There was also an inscription over him, “This is the King of the Jews.” One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”