The Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King
The Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King
Almighty and everlasting God, whose will it is to restore all things in your well-beloved Son, the King of kings and Lord of lords: Mercifully grant that the peoples of the earth, divided and enslaved by sin, may be freed and brought together under his most gracious rule; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
The Last Sunday after Pentecost: Christ the King
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Scripture citation(s): Zechariah 9:9-16; Luke 19:11-27
A Sermon by
Fr. Daniels
on
Zechariah 9:9-16; Luke 19:11-27
✛
No god but God, no king but Christ
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In the early part of the fourth century, the Roman Empire was in a condition of significant internal conflict. Following the abdication of the emperor Diocletian in A.D. 305, various factions over the course of the following years would struggle for control over the great state. In what was, in part, a battle over succession, Constantine and Maxentius faced off near the Tiber River late in October, 312. The latter general was determined to keep the former out of Rome, and out of power.
The historian/propagandist Eusebius of Caesarea recounts what followed. There are conflicting details, but the legend that emerged has it that Constantine had a vision before the battle. Above the sun there appeared a cross of light, and with it the Greek words, ἐν τούτῳ νίκα: “In this sign”—that is, the sign of the cross—“conquer.” Subsequently, in a dream, Jesus appeared to the pagan emperor, promising him that, if Constantine represented Christ in battle, he would be victorious. “In this sign, conquer.”
And conquer he did. On October 28, 312, with a symbol of Christ on their shields, hundreds of thousands of troops faced off. The forces of Constantine pushed the forces of Maxentius back toward the Tiber River, and to their deaths. The soldiers of Constantine overcame their enemies with a decisive victory. Maxentius himself died in the battle and, legend has it, his body was decapitated and displayed, the triumph being total. Constantine became the emperor of the undivided Roman Empire. Soon enough he would begin to favor Christianity—the religion whose God handed him Rome itself—and in time the faith would become the state religion of the empire.
By the time Constantine had his famous vision, the resurrection was several centuries in the past. Christians in the empire had sometimes been tolerated, sometimes persecuted. But with Constantine’s victory and the settlement with the Christians that followed, the fortunes of the faith reversed themselves. With civic sanction, the Church soon spread throughout the known world. Art, architecture, music, and so much more, centered around the cross of Jesus, became a normative part of culture, and the world would never be the same.
The faith would never be the same, either, for better and for worse. With Constantine’s victory on the banks of the Tiber, the crown of thorns was traded in for a crown of gold. The Christ who ruled from the cross now ruled from the throne. The victim of the empire was now its king, or so they thought.
Constantine’s purported dream—of a Christendom victorious, everywhere and forever—never came true. I do not mean that Christian princes and magistrates did not come into authority of all types; they did, and they do. I do not even mean just that Rome did not last forever; its influence abides. But the dream of Christ victorious in the way that he wanted—in the same way those followers of Jesus wanted in today’s reading from Luke—never came true.
The glories of the Christian world—the towering cathedrals, the patronage-funded artwork, the beauty of it all—are in many ways dependent on that decision made by Constantine and, for Christians like most all of us who do not face martyrdom for the practice of our faith, there is something to be said for that. I admire the martyrs, but I am not overly eager to become one. I am not too upset that I will not be facing down hungry lions in Yankee Stadium anytime soon. No doubt those who had suffered persecution in the fourth century did not mind the sudden state interest in Church affairs, if it meant fewer martyrs. No one could blame them. But it was not without its own costs.
Christ is king. We proclaim that as the Church, and it is true. But Christ the King is a funny kind of king. He was, after all, offered all of the accoutrements of royalty: the gold crown, the imperial throne, and the power that came with them. The person who offered him those things was Satan. The tempter “shewed unto him all the kingdoms of the world in a moment of time. And the devil said unto him, ‘If thou … wilt worship me, all shall be thine’” (4:6-7). In this sign, conquer. To all of that, Jesus turned his back.
The Satanic kingship offered to him in the wilderness is of the kind described in the parable from the gospel of Luke that was our second reading. When Jesus speaks to his excited followers, they are delirious with joy, believing that their day has almost come. He was “nigh unto Jerusalem,” Luke says, where they believed that he would be crowned an earthly king. And so Jesus told them a parable about kings, kings of the world, with all of their authority and their glory. It is a parable about cruelty, about the arbitrariness of power, about the profit that can come from theft and dishonesty. You want a king? Behold the kings.
Christ is king, but he is a funny kind of king. If it was a king of the world that those followers were looking for, there would be generations of them to come: Herods, various Caesars, Constantines, and their descendants throughout the ages. Wielding the sharp edge of power and profit; usury as custom; the powerful exploiting the powerless, world without end.
But that world will end. Luke writes, “They thought”—the apostles thought—“that the kingdom of God should immediately appear,” and it would appear, but only on Easter morning, with the rising Christ, and the promissory note put down for his return.
Between Easter and that coming return—in this long wait of history and culture and politics—there would be kings aplenty ruling with the sword. Like the king in the Lucan parable, they would slay the rebels who refused to go along with their program, those who refused to cooperate with the wicked kings’ practices of taking up what they did not lay down, and reaping what they did not sow. Those who refused to live by the standards of those kings would be killed, because they identified themselves as subjects, first and foremost, of the King of all kings, the Lord of all lords—a fact that will always sit uneasily within the empires of the world.
From Easter morning forward, those subjects, sealed by the mark of baptism, joined to Christ forever, would be strangers even at home, pilgrims in their own country. During this long wait, they would be, in Zechariah’s beautiful phrase, “prisoners of hope.” Prisoners of hope who know that their king reigns, and so we will have no god, and no kings, before him. Because Christ is king, no sovereign is sovereign. Because Christ is king, no earthly power is ultimately powerful. Because Christ is king, the dead shall live, and so all worldly regimes that are founded on a fear of death will be threatened. As they should be. Because Christ is king.
Zechariah tells us that that kingdom of God shall be “from the river even to the ends of the earth,” and that the mark of that universal kingdom will be peace. Weapons will be destroyed on that day; no more battles between contenders for imperial thrones. The New Jerusalem will be established, so no hundreds of thousands staring across battle lines, intent to kill. The mark of Christ’s kingdom is peace. No more exploitation of the poor for the benefit of the rich. No more theft or intimidation; because the mark of Christ’s kingdom is peace.
It is that peace that we look for when we proclaim the lordship of Christ. It is that peace that we wait for, and that we work for, as we await the triumphant return of our king.
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