Last Sunday of Pentecost:  Christ the King.
Proper 29B.  21 November 2021. The Rev. Pamela L. Werntz

2 Samuel 23:1-7. The spirit of the LORD is upon me.
Revelation 1:4b-8. Grace to you and peace.
John 18:33-37 .  For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth.

O Wondrous Power of Love, grant us the strength, the wisdom and the courage to seek always and everywhere after truth, come when it may, and cost what it will.

We have come to the end of our liturgical year on the last Sunday in the season of Pentecost, now known as The Feast of Christ the King. It’s a newish holiday, first declared by the Bishop of Rome, Pius XI, in 1925 as he was trying to make friends with Benito Mussolini. As Episcopalians keep our ecumenical commitment to use the Revised Common Lectionary, Christ the King Sunday has become a part of our annual observance, printed on our calendars and planning books (that’s how we know it’s real). If I didn’t feel so strongly about the redeeming urge of the Holy One, I’d say that we shouldn’t observe this feast at all; maybe take the Sunday off before the holidays. But I think we have a moral obligation to acknowledge that, as Frederick Buechner observes in his book Telling the Truth, “the Gospel is often bad news before it’s good news.”

I’ve been struck by how many people I know who tell me that they have given up watching the news. I get that; it’s frightening and depressing; I can only take it in small doses. I think of what one of my theology professors, Christopher Duraisingh, once said: “Unless you are pacing and ranting while watching the news, you’re not really paying attention to it.” I hear people say that things are worse thaJewsus’ crown was a crown of thorns.

What I want to say first is that no matter what any of us believes or doesn’t believe, none of us should believe Pontius Pilate. Pilate was not a reliable source for information; he was a villain. According to a more trustworthy source, Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish philosopher who lived in Egypt and died in 50 CE, Pontius Pilate was known for a furious and vindictive temper, and Pilate’s term as procurator (or governor) was characterized by “briberies, insults, robberies, outrages, executions without trial constantly repeated, and ceaseless and supremely grievous cruelty.”[2] We know from Roman historians that Pilate’s excessive cruelty was the reason for his removal from office in the year 37 and his subsequent exile. Whatever the truth is, it’s not coming out of Pilate’s mouth. In fact, what Pilate says in response to Jesus (left out of our portion today) is, “What is truth?”  There is intense irony in this passage with its disturbing language and that charged exchange about kings and truth. Part of the irony is that, even with the translation change, this passage still perpetuates the lie that “Jewish Judeans”, rather than the Romans, were responsible for crucifying Jesus. Pilate is lying when he says that Jesus’ own people are to blame.

It’s possible that the Gospel writer of John did want to make Pilate seem not so bad because of a late-first-century self-preservation attempt, combined with the in-fighting between new-Jesus-followers and non-Jesus-followers. In the process of arguing that Jesus was the full embodiment of the Love of God, John the Evangelist codified the untruth of who was ultimately responsible for Jesus’ death in a Gospel so concerned with the word truth that it appears fifty-five times! I found it fascinating to look at the Greek lexicon’s definition for truth (alethia), illuminated or explained by a series of words that are opposites of truth. The opposite of truth is going astray, wandering. The opposite of truth is fake (pseudo), the opposite of truth is evil. The opposite of truth is pretext.[3]

Part of the irony in this passage has to do with the nature of kings and what it means to be king and to have a kingdom. When Jesus says that his kingdom is not of this world, he doesn’t mean that it’s not physical or that it’s not now. He means that his realm is countercultural. It’s peacemaking not warmongering, liberating not exploiting, sacrificing not subjugating, merciful not vengeful, caring for people who are vulnerable rather than protecting those who are powerful, acting out of generosity rather than greed, humility rather than hubris, inclusion rather than exclusivity.[4]

Here is Jesus, arrested and bound, being interrogated by the Roman government’s highest authority in the land. Jesus represents compassion, righteousness, and deep humility. Here Pilate represents military, social, and economic power. Jesus’ primary concern is for the last, the least, and the lost (those who are hungry, sick, imprisoned, inadequately clothed or sheltered). Jesus’ work is all about re-creating, encouraging, and inspiring fullness of life. Pilate’s concern is for the first, the most, and the best. Pilate’s work is all about demeaning, condescending, and controlling by means of violence. Pilate embodies cynicism and the love of power. Jesus embodies compassion and the power of love. Pilate is arrested by his political situation and bound by his ego. In the story, he believes that his hands are tied. In contrast Jesus is spiritually free. He is free from the constraints of the goal of self-preservation, and free from both self-aggrandizement and self-loathing. Jesus exhibits perfect freedom in a most-limiting and oppressive situation. He is demonstrating something about courageous living in whatever horrible, present moment, in contrast to hunkering down and merely surviving. He is demonstrating that the more one is motivated by love, the more fearless and free one becomes.[5]

This is what we rightly hold up when we proclaim Christ as sovereign. Of course, claiming the supreme rule of the faithfulness of God in Jesus Christ is one thing when being oppressed by military, political, and economic might; and it is quite another when claiming the religious right to assault and kill “infidels” or any other kind of enemy in the name of the Holy One. Perhaps recognizing the relative speed with which we fearful human beings go there could help us extend our compassion whenever we behave, or anyone (on our behalf) behaves, in the face of conflict more like Pilate than like Jesus – as long as extending our compassion moves us to stop the cycle of violence, rather than accepting it as inevitable.

The story in the Gospel of John goes that Pilate didn’t wait around for an answer to his question, “What is truth?” It’s not clear whether he ever knew that he was staring right at it when he asked. Truth, in the biblical sense, has to do with integrity, firmness, fidelity, reliability, stability, sincerity, and candor. Biblical truth can never be separated from Love. The psalmist declares that in God, lovingkindness and truth have met together. In God, justice and peace have kissed each other. The truth of God, according to theologian John A.T. Robinson, “is an experience at one and the same time of ultimacy and intimacy.”[6] The Truth of God, according to the Gospel of John, was Jesus. The Truth of God is Love. Truth is something to which one belongs, according to Jesus.

Fortunately our common lectionary calls for a reading from 2 Samuel about the everlasting covenant of the Love of God, the farewell prophecy of David. David’s final teaching is that, while what is not of God (that is, what is not of Love) might be too sharp or hot to touch bare-handed, in the end, it is just fuel for the fire – which lights our way and warms our bodies. Like most preachers, David was preaching to himself first. We also hear, in the beginning of the Revelation to John the Divine, assurance about the Holy One, Who is past, present, and future even in the middle of chaos and persecution. Both are beautiful and uplifting messages of hope amidst uncertainty, violence, and death.

When people ask me what I do, sometimes I tell them I run a spiritual-repair shop on Newbury Street in Boston. I didn’t build it, but I take care of it the best I can. What I know about the rule of Jesus Christ is this: if people are hungry, feed them; thirsty, give them something to drink; inadequately clothed, give them something to wear; unhoused, shelter them; sick or in prison, visit them; indebted to you, forgive them; weighed down, offer to lighten their load; oppressed by injustice, take your thumbs off the scale; possessed, set them free. That’s the rule of Christ. (It’s the rule of Torah, too, by the way.) Jesus’ most gracious rule is mercy and compassion, mutual and abiding. It is for this reason that he was born, and it’s for this reason we were born, Emmanuel: to show God with us. For this have we come into the world: for restoration and repair. Why in this moment? Because the Realm of God is very near; it is within and among us.

[1] See articles in The Jewish Annotated New Testament (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012).

[2] Ronald J. Allen and Clark M. Williamson, Preaching the Gospel without Blaming the Jews (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2004), p. 167.

[3] Analytical lexicon in Silver Mountain Software “Bibloi”.

[4] See www.journeywithJesus.net lectionary page for 11/25/2012.

[5] An idea attributed to the Dalai Lama recently circulating on Facebook.

[6] John A. T. Robinson, Honest to God (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1963), p. 131.