On the secular calendar, this is the Sunday after Thanksgiving; a day for traveling back home after a long holiday weekend; a day for heading out to the mall, or flopping in front of the TV with a plateful of leftovers.

It is also, as one church staff person wryly noted, the day we clergy types hope someone shows up for worship.¹

Fortunately for us, that is one thing we don’t have to worry about today. It is with great joy that we welcome the extended Sprissler family to witness and participate in the baptism of beautiful little Elisabeth.

But while on the secular calendar there are still 36 days left in 2007, on the church calendar, this is the last Sunday of the liturgical year. The Church lives in a different time and a different space, with a different calendar than the rest of world.

While “out there” we are being told to get ready for Christmas, in here, we are being called in a different direction. While the culture is preparing for Christmas, our Gospel lesson for this morning is about the Crucifixion. It is jarring to be confronted with a Good Friday passage as we hover on the brink of the Advent season, nestled between the feel-good holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

One preacher ² uses the image of a labyrinth to explain the placing of a holy week scripture just before the start of Advent. If you have ever walked a labyrinth, you know that the center of the journey is never as close as it appears, and yet it is somehow always in sight. On this last Sunday of the Christian year, we are so close to the story of Jesus’ birth, so close we can almost touch that story of anticipation and hope. And yet, as we journey towards that story, we are confronted with Jesus’ crucifixion -- a story full of holy sorrow.

On this Christ the King Sunday, as we stand at the brink of a new church year, both the cross and the cradle are in sharp view, death and birth coming face to face. But that is the nature of the Church. Within this family of faith, we share with each other both the joy of a new baby and the sorrow of losing a loved one. Today, our joy is with Elisabeth and her family at her baptism. Our sorrow is with the family of Audrey Foster, who died last Tuesday. And at the center of both of those life-transforming moments is Christ the King.

Christ the King Sunday was instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925, a time of competing kingdoms in Europe. Benito Mussolini had recently come into power in Italy; the Nazi party was growing in popularity under Adolph Hitler, who was teaching people to hate Jews, homosexuals, disabled persons, and anyone who did not fit into his vision of a master race. The world was about to be embroiled in the cataclysm of world wide war and the horror of the Holocaust.

In the midst of this tense, repressive political climate, Pope Pius wanted to show that there was an alternative to such abusive power. And so the church decided to introduce a Sunday on which Christ would be proclaimed King, to show a different kind of ruler and a different way to reign, to make a statement about the primacy of Christ, to proclaim that no government is the final authority over Christian faith and life; that Christ alone is our King.

Christ the King. This monarchical image is one that we Americans might greet with uneasiness. Afterall, we embrace the values of freedom and equality – that was what the American Revolution was all about. The last thing we Americans want is king – especially of our spiritual lives.

But the image of Christ the King doesn’t fit if we think only in secular terms. The Reign of Christ is about something entirely different than the power and principalities of the world, and the kingship of Jesus is radically different from earthly monarchs. His is a life focused not on power and wealth, but on God; Christ the King is humble and seemingly powerless. He rides into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday not on the mighty steed of a powerful monarch, but on a humble donkey. Instead of being coronated, he is scorned as “King of the Jews” and challenged: “If you are a king, save yourself.” Jesus has power, but it is not of swords and fear and hatred. It is the power of God’s Truth.

Instead of commanding an army to advance his message, he commissions a straggly band of common people to spread the gospel of peace and love. And rather than expecting royal treatment, rather than demanding that people bow before him, Jesus kneels before others in servanthood, to wash their feet, cool their fevered brows, touch their sores, and ease their pain.

He ruled with love and justice and service; his royal robe was a towel; his crown was made out of thorns; the only throne from which he reigned was a cross. And the kingdom he proclaimed was different than what people expected.

In a day when many wanted a military power to challenge the tyranny of Roman rule, Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is like a tiny mustard seed…,” “The kingdom of God is like yeast hidden in dough…,” The kingdom of God is like a hidden pearl…,” “The kingdom of God belongs to the poor and to little children and must be received like a child.”

No, the kingdom of God was never quite what people thought it would be, nor was it where people thought it would be located. The Gospels describe the Kingdom of God not as a fixed geographic place or an area of land that could be divided or limited by borders. Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is within you,” and he rules within and through the hearts and minds of all who follow him.

The kingdom of God is a relationship – it is within, and among, and in the midst of us; it is wherever God’s forgiveness and mercy are felt and lived out among us. It is wherever God and neighbor are loved. It is wherever there is reconciliation and healing, wherever the hungry are fed, the lowly uplifted, the stranger welcomed, and injustice fought.

And whenever we are reminded that we are beloved children of God, we are drawn into the kingdom.

Christ the King Sunday is like the last chapter of a good book, in which the entire story is tied together with a triumphant flare. Throughout every church year, we journey with Jesus — from birth, to death on the cross, to resurrection. And today, on this last Sunday of the church year, we come to the fulfillment of the Gospel story. And between the cradle and the cross, Jesus has shown us – once again – a way of living that calls for a change in our own lives. Over this past year, we have heard what it means to follow Jesus, what it means to share the Good News and to be the body of Christ, carrying compassion and justice to the powerless and marginalized. And beginning next week – just in case we haven’t entirely gotten the message – we’ll have a chance to hear it all over again.

Next Sunday, the first Sunday of Advent, is the church’s New Year. We turn the page on the liturgical calendar and receive a new start, another chance, one more opportunity to hear God’s story. Beginning next Sunday, we will once again await the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger, once again sing the familiar carols that proclaim “Joy to the World.”

And so, in the coming week, may we all take a look back over this past year and gather up what we have learned of Jesus’ life and ministry, of his death and resurrection, so that as we enter the season of Advent next Sunday, our hearts may sing out, “Let earth receive her King!” Amen.

¹Rev. Patricia de Jong, “The Politics of Jesus,” First Congregational Church of Berkeley, CA, November 26, 2006.
²Rev. Jamie Harris Martinez, “The Cross and the Cradle,” First Presbyterian Church of New Canaan, CT, November 26, 2006.

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