Christ the King

Nov 20, 2016

The Feast of the Reign of Christ. Christ the King: this is the final moment of the Christian year: everything, the birth and the death and the resurrection, the ministry of healing and teaching and the outpouring to the Spirit; the birth of the church; everything leads up to this day. Crown him with many crowns! we sing. Jesus reigning over all creation. Redeem the time; our own lives redeemed. This is the end toward which the year and our whole life as Christians moves.

It is an end we badly need. The news has been full this week of footage from Aleppo. The whole East section of the city is nothing but rubble, and yesterday the last hospital in the city was bombed. Where now to care for the wounded?

The city is being destroyed by rebels and the leaders of the nations. Is it Russia or Syria who is bombing? No one seems to know. The city is being destroyed and the people are scattered. How many million refugees now from Syria alone?

Jeremiah knew about this time.

“Woe to the shepherds,” he cries as Babylon looms on Israel’s horizon. “Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture, says the Lord” (Jer 23:1). Jeremiah was talking about the siege of Jerusalem and its eventual destruction. The great city of David was, like Aleppo, reduced to rubble, and the temple, the place of God’s presence among the nations, the beacon of God’s presence among the nations, was burned, and the people were carried away from their homes into a long exile.

A voice is heard in Ramah, Jeremiah says;

Weeping and loud lamentation.

Rachel weeping for her children

And she will not be comforted,

For they are no more. (Jer 31:15)

 Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture, says the Lord.

There is a fracturing that runs deep in the history of the world, nation rising against nation and people divided against themselves; children lost and the noblest works of human hands—Solomon’s great temple in 587 BC; ancient Palmyra just a year or so ago—destroyed. In our own time Aleppo, and in our own place, here in Toronto, in our own diocese, the fracturing of the Anglican church.

Jeremiah finds the problem in the failure of the shepherds, because their task is precisely to shepherd: to keep the people close to their God. But in Jeremiah’s time the shepherds are running scared, and they turn to the pagan nations around them, trusting in the power of the secular state rather than in the power of the unseen God. Behind the destruction and the scattering there is a failure to walk with God, and the failure is often quite concrete. The leaders are politicians rather than people of prayer.

And this too, like the fracturing that haunts the world, is a temptation that runs deep. The two are connected. If we are beleaguered and threatened, if our churches are bleeding people, let us turn, we say, to the nation around us. Let us seek our strength in its wisdom; let us follow the mind of a majority that does not know God, and find in their ways our salvation.

Woe to the shepherds, Jeremiah says, who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture.

This way lies only disintegration. It is not here that we will find our help.

Our help, as the psalmist knows, is in God, the Lord of heaven and earth. It is not in the world that does not know God. We are here in the midst of the world for the sake of the world, to stand in its midst as a beacon, a people lit and shining and healed by prayer.

We are the people who proclaim Christ’s reign. Yet we act as if Christ’s reign is not true, as if it were not the culmination of everything we do in the worship of the church, the end toward which all our worship leads.

When we ask, “Where is God in this,” in this fracturing that haunts our world and our church, it is a good idea to remember that we choose often to act as if there were no God.

This day, this Feast of Christ the King, stands here at the culmination of the Christian year to call us back. Remember that it is God who is our shepherd. Remember that we are first of all people of prayer. We are the people who turn to God first of all, and last.

Christ the King is our wake-up call, and it is one we badly need.

But it is also—because after all this is God we are talking about, God who is not only judge but also always shepherd—this day is also our sign of hope.

For Christ rises over the world as King on this day, and his throne has the shape of the cross. Luke sees the hope this day offers, and he offers it to us with characteristic grace.

And when they came to the place called the Skull they crucified him there with two criminals—two wrongdoers, the Greek says—one on his right hand and one on his left (Luke 23:33).

This, the inscription read over his head, This is the King of the Jews.

To the bystanders, to the leaders of the people and the Roman soldiers, it is a joke. Here is the King of the Jews, dying between two criminals on a cross. Some king.

But for Jesus, this is the whole point.

It is on the cross that he is with us. It is the criminals, the wrong-doers, those who have wandered far from God; it is the wrongdoers he cares about. It is precisely when we are at the place of the skull that God is with us.

And when by our turning away from him we bring on ourselves our own destruction, then he is with us to save.

This is what God’s power looks like. It looks like faithfulness, the faithfulness that endures, the love that pours itself out – even to death – for the people who are dying. God is the shepherd who does not destroy and scatter, but gives his very life to save.

Do you not fear God? The second criminal says. We are paying the just penalty for what we have done, but his man has done nothing wrong.

This man has done nothing wrong, and he is standing with us, he is suffering with us, in the place of the cost of the wrong we have done. In the place of our scattering. In the place of our dying. He is suffering with us to save.

This is the love that gives itself, not just to be there with us in the place of disintegration, but to restore. To bring us back. It is not solidarity we are talking about, but salvation. It is Christ the King with whom we have to do.

Jesus, remember me, the wrongdoer says, when you come into your kingdom.

And Jesus, dying there beside him, says, Today. Today you will be with me in Paradise.

For today is the day the kingdom dawns. This is the day of Christ’s reign, this day when he dies between two thieves on a cross. This is the place of his reign, here between the thieves at the place of the Skull.

O love, how deep, how broad, how high.

Luke knows that Christ is king. And he knows that his throne is a cross, because this is where God is with us. To the world it is foolishness. But to us who are being saved, Christ the power and the wisdom of God.

Christ the king. The sun and the moon rise under his lifted arms, his arms lifted on the cross. He holds the whole world in his hands, and the serpent is crushed under his crucified feet: Christ the image of the unseen God, first-born of creation, first-born from the dead (Col 1:15, 18). Here is the power, all the saving power of God. Here in Christ crucified, dying between two thieves on the cross.

So in this time, so in all times of scattering and division, Aleppo’s destruction and the fracturing of the Anglican church, he calls us to turn to him. We come at the end of the Christian year to the Christ: Jesus Christ, rising over time and all things on the cross. Christ with us in our failure and in our great need, Christ holding the sun and the moon in his arms. This day he asks us to be with him.

Jesus, remember me, when you come into your kingdom. Let this be the prayer of our hearts, at the first moment of every day and at the last. Let this be our hope and our guide. Just this: Jesus. Christ our King. Let us turn to him.

Art: Crucifixion of Christ, by Bartolomeo Passerotti.

St. Mark the Evangelist

St Mark Evangelist

Feast Day April 25

He was not an apostle. He did not sign the Gospel that the church has always attributed to him. We know almost nothing for certain about him. He may have been the John Mark of Acts 12:12, 25 (and Acts 13 and 15), and so a member of Peter’s church in Jerusalem and a companion of Paul in ministry. He may have been the Mark whom Paul himself names in the letter to Philemon, first among his fellow-workers; he may have been the Mark whom 1 Peter names as his beloved fellow-worker (“my son”) in Rome. (And these may, or may not, all be the same Mark!) We do not know his face.

Yet his symbol is the great winged lion that sings day and night beside the throne of God (Rev 4:6-9) and he has left us not just the earliest Gospel but the whole Gospel tradition. (He also, tradition says, founded the Coptic Orthodox Church in Egypt, where his head still rests—his body having been stolen by the Venetians, this piratical act inspiring by the humour in God’s grace the lasting beauty of San Marco).

Mark was the first to write a Gospel. He was, Papias says, the interpreter of Peter, writing down what he heard him say about Jesus’ words and deeds, turning Peter’s words into the narrative we call a Gospel (

The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ (Mark 1:1)

Good news: euangelion in Greek; god-spell in Old English; gospel.

We are so used to this thing we call “Gospel” that we do not recognize how surprising it is. Mark gives us something quite new. He turned proclamation (Hear the good news!) into narrative; he turned narrative (This is the life of Jesus) into proclamation (This is the Christ!). He blew open the boundaries of the ancient bios, biography, so that it spoke suddenly to the long purpose of God. He claimed for this narrative continuity with the history of Israel and the hope of the world.

The beginning of the Gospel of Jesus Christ the son of God; as it is written in Isaiah the prophet, “Behold I send my messenger before your face,…the voice of one crying in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way of the Lord!” (Mark 1:1-2)

Mark was doing something new, and Matthew and Luke followed him. The whole Gospel tradition starts here, and we owe to this unknown man the story in its revolutionary voice that stands at the centre of our faith.

What is it that Mark does? Mark’s Gospel tells a mystery. And the word became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14): What John’s Gospel states unfolds in Mark on the narrative plane. From the beginning of the Gospel, the power of God in Jesus—and also the humanity of the Christ. Mark gives us the God-man. Isaiah’s voice goes before, announcing the coming of the Lord. This is the time of repentance that marks the great Day of the Lord. Judgement is near, and restoration: now God’s reign arrives.

Note that it is a “coming,” for Mark. He does not place Jesus first in the manger; he places Jesus in the Jordan River, rising up out of the water like the Israelites out of the Red Sea to declare God’s deliverance. Salvation erupts into Galilee in Jesus, in water and the Holy Spirit; this is the coming of the Lord.

There is no sweetness of the baby in Mark, no shepherds or angel-song. There is John the Baptist in camel hair crying in the wilderness and the way that will be made straight. There are the heavens torn open. And there is also, immediately, Satan in the desert. Jesus is driven right from his baptism into confrontation with Satan. From the beginning in Mark’s vision it is the last battle and the apocalypse.

Jesus’ first healing in Mark is an exorcism. No sooner does he come into Galilee and start teaching in the synagogues than “immediately”—everything happens immediately in Mark, for the Lord is coming—a man with an unclean spirit challenges him. “Have you come to destroy us, Jesus of Nazareth? I know who you are, the holy one of God.” “Be silent,” Jesus says (literally, “be bound”) and come out of him. Later he will say to the authorities who accuse him that “the strong man”—Satan—has been bound. Jesus casts out demons to show that the victory over evil is being and has already been won (3:20-29).

Nor is it just Jesus’ power over the power of evil that Mark stresses. It is also his bounty, his sovereignty, his grace. Jesus feeds 5,000 people and then 4,000 with nothing but a few loaves of bread; he touches the leper and heals the sick…and the word about him goes out everywhere…he walks on water; he calms the storm; he gives blind Bartimaeus his sight. “Who is this,” the disciples say, “that even the winds and the sea obey him?” “And they feared with a great fear” (Mark 4:41). Jesus in Mark’s Gospel is awe-ful. There is in him the power and the danger and the grace of God.

Yet at the same time, Jesus is utterly human. He gets hungry (11:12). He gets tired (4:38). He gets mad (9:19). His heart goes out to the rich young man. He holds the children in his arms. He has a sense of humour: when the unclean spirits who inhabit and torment the Gerasene demoniac tell Jesus that their name is “Legion” (which is of course the name for the basic unit of the [occupying] Roman army) Jesus sends them into a herd of pigs.* There are things Jesus does not know: “who touched me?” he asks, when healing power goes out of him in the press of the crowd (5:30). And to the people of his village he looks like just another small-town boy (Mark 6).

Jesus is earthy in Mark every bit as much as he is awe-ful, full of the power of God. Confronted by a man who is both deaf and dumb Jesus does not simply lay hands on him, as he has been asked. He puts his fingers in the man’s ears and spits and touches the man’s tongue. He groans as he says, “Ephphatha: be opened!” Jesus comes in the body to heal the body; if this is a battle between all the powers of heaven and hell, it is in and for the earth that it is fought.

The word became flesh and dwelt among us: Mark gives us salvation as incarnation, Jesus who is very God and very man.

So the cross stands at the heart of the story. Everything in Mark’s Gospel points toward the Passion, and the Passion draws together all that has gone before. Here in the body Jesus shares the life of the world even unto death; here in the body Jesus takes the world with him through death into life.

It is in the body that the battle is finally joined. This is the mystery of God’s love. To share our human nature, to live and die as one of us, and in this way to bring us bodily out of the power of evil into the life that belongs to God.

Mark tells a mystery in Jesus the God-man. And he leaves us there at the resurrection, in mystery—in what used to be called the fear of God—face to face with the news that is impossible and also true: humanly impossible, and in the one who is both Lord and crucified, humanly true.

And they fled away from the tomb, for fear and ecstasy gripped them, and they said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid (Mark 16:8).

*My thanks to Canon Peter Walker for this insight.


Il Pordenone: Mark the Evanglist

Carpaccio: The Lion of Venice

William Blake: Baptism of Jesus