The Feast of Christ the King

“I saw Jesus at the bowling alley,

slinging nothing but gutter balls.

He said, ‘You’ve gotta love a hobby

That allows ugly shoes.’

He lit a cigarette and bought me a beer.

So I invited him to dinner.

I knew the Lord couldn’t see my house

In its current condition, so I gave it an out

Of season spring cleaning. What to serve for

Dinner? Fish—the logical choice,

But after 2000 years, he must grow weary of everyone’s

favorite seafood dishes.

I thought of my Granny’s ham with Coca Cola

Glaze, but you can’t serve that to a Jewish boy.

Likewise pizza—all my favorite toppings involve pork.

In the end, I made us an all-dessert buffet.

We played Scrabble and Uno and Yahtzee

And listened to Bill Monroe.

Jesus has a healthy appetite for sweets,

I’m happy to report. He told strange stories

which I’ve puzzled over for days now.

We’ve got an appointment for golf on Wednesday.

Ordinarily, I don’t play, and certainly not in this humidity.

But the Lord says he knows a grand miniature

golf course with fiberglass mermaids and working windmills

and the best homemade ice cream you ever tasted.

Sounds like Heaven to me.”

The delightfully irreverent poem penned by Kristin Berkey-Abbott from her collection, Whistling Past the Graveyard, presents us with a stark contrast to the images often provided in the church’s celebration of the Feast of Christ the King. Jesus slinging gutter balls at a bowling alley, enjoying an all-dessert buffet, and anticipating a round of miniature golf on a rather cheesy layout of plastic mermaids and working windmills, certainly do not represent the normal piety expressed from the pulpit on a given Sunday morning – not to mention the idea of Jesus enjoying perhaps a pint of Shiner and an occasional smoke. While the ancient creeds and doctrines allow Jesus to be both divine and human, we have to admit that we have grown accustomed to preferring the divine side of the theological spectrum at some expense to the human. We like our divinity with more than a touch of the royal hue, and our humanity – at least at it pertains to Jesus – to be at least on the respectable side of proper, neat and tidy. This didn’t just originate with us – it began long ago, and has been repeated in almost every age. Consider the Victorian hymn writer, Mrs. C.F. Alexander, the author of Once in Royal David’s City, one of our favorite Christmas hymns. In her original version she included this verse:

“And through all his wondrous childhood

He would honor and obey,

Love and watch the lowly Maiden

In whose gentle arms he lay;

Christian children all must be

Mild, obedient, good as he.”

Even those with the deepest respect for Victorian sensibilities and practice would have to admit, in reading the New Testament, that such a portrayal of Jesus is wishful thinking at best, and a pure fabrication at worst. By the time the Lord of life has healed, and picked corn on the sacred Sabbath, insulted the king by referring to him as a fox, and upended a few tables and chairs in the temple, courtly eportment and manners seem but a thing of the past. But the humanity remains, just the same, and in acknowledging and embracing its fullness, we are somehow drawn ever closer into the Divine Mystery itself. As Annie Dillard reminds us:

“Week after week, we witness the same miracle: that God is so mighty that he can stifle his own laughter. Week after week, we witness the same miracle: that God, for reasons unfathomable, refrains from blowing our dancing bear act to smithereens. Week after week, Christ washes the disciples dirty feet, handles their very toes, and repeats, It is all right – believe it or not – to be human. Who can believe it?”

And there is that moment every year, rounding out the liturgical calendar, when the long season of Ordinary Time, the greenness of Pentecostal pronouncements, conclude in order to punctuate the old by celebrating Christ as King. It has the feeling of a grand finale; the church triumphant on display, with all the pageantry that we can muster, as we proclaim in word and song that our king rules and lives forever. There is certainly precedent for such a celebration and practice. The New Testament refers to Christ as King Eternal, King of Israel, King of the Jews, King of Kings, King of the Ages, and Ruler of the Kings of the Earth – just to name a few examples. Our technological friend, Mr. Google, shows us in the blink of an eye and a touch of the keyboard, that there are hundreds and hundreds of parishes around the globe named for Christ the King. The image of Christ as King is so deeply imbedded in our tradition, that it is ever present in almost every aspect of the church’s life – especially in our practices of prayer, praise, and devotion.

Questions about the kingship of Christ have always been standard fare. Pilate was interested in wanting to know if Jesus was indeed a king. We are told that on several occasions that after performing a miracle, or proclaiming the dawning of God’s kingdom on earth, that Jesus had to actually flee because the people wanted to make him their king. When he rode into the city of Jerusalem, he was hailed as royalty with songs of praise and palm branches. We have a question about his kingship as well: When we proclaim Christ as King, what kind of king are we talking about?

The answer to that question might provide the necessary bridge between the intimacy or closeness we feel with the Lord’s humanity, and the necessary distance that one knows in the worship and adoration of a divine and royal figure.

Of course, the beginning point in our search for an answer starts with Jesus himself. What did he think of the kingly title? In his entire life of teaching and prayer, Jesus never refers to God as “king”. It is clearly an illustration of a sharp and intentional departure from his own religious heritage and tradition. Not even on the night before his suffering and death, as he broke the bread and shared the cup with his friends, did Jesus, in the prayer of blessing, use the familiar phrase, “Lord, King of the universe.” Jesus knew about earthly, kingly power – living in an occupied country, he knew the price paid in order to experience some semblance of peace. For him, God’s relationship with creation demanded not a royal title, resplendent with crown, throne and sword – but a more intimate, familial image – God as father. And the kingdom, reflecting the values of the head, would be one dominated by the foundational principles of love of God and neighbor. Pope John Paul II, before his death, echoed the teachings of his predecessors: “Christ has dominion over all creatures, a dominion not seized by violence nor usurped, but by his essence and nature…Christ’s kingship is not based on human power, but on loving and serving others.” If Christ is our king, then he is a very different king indeed.

What does such a king demand of his followers?

Purely and simply – imitation…imitation in word and deed; in proclamation and practice; in season and out of season. Geza Vermes describes the blueprint for this imitation:

“The core of Jesus’ religion is not Torah observance as such – though it is by

no means excluded and prompts inner spirituality. It is not a search for purity– ritual or ethical.

It is not self-sanctification in the form of a life of prayer and worship – in the Temple or the synagogue. It seems not even to have been a pursuit of God for his own sake, but by means of devotion to his [brothers and sisters] after the pattern of a merciful heavenly father. He goes so far to assert that at the Last Judgment, the divine King’s single criterion will be whether or not a person imitated him in his deeds of love… The prize of salvation is awarded to those who have acted with generosity towards a God in disguise:

I was hungry and you gave me food.

I was thirsty and you gave me drink.

I was a stranger and you welcomed me.

I was naked and you clothed me.

I was sick and you visited me.

I was in prison and you visited me.

Whenever you have done these things for the least among us, you have done them for me.

Thus, the one who is served as King and Lord of all is also the one who serves others. The bridge is built between humanity and divinity.

It was Palm Sunday many years ago when I found myself in the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in New York City – traditionally known as “Smokey Mary’s” because of its Anglo-Catholic heritage and liturgy. We had entered into the moment singing “Ride On Ride On in Majesty, in lowly pomp ride on to die.” We had, once again, heard the drama of the great Passion Narrative – the arrest, betrayal, condemnation, crucifixion, and death of Jesus of Nazareth. We said our prayers, made our confession, received the Eucharistic gifts, and now faced the inevitable journey through the sorrows of Holy Week, searching once again for the light of Easter Day. It was then that I heard something ever so familiar, yet remarkably new – as if hearing the message for the first time. The context made all the difference in the world – and for the world. We left singing “Crown him with many crowns.”

“Crown him the Lord of heaven,

enthroned in worlds above,

crown him the king, to whom is given,

the wondrous name of Love.

Crown him with many crowns,

As thrones before him fall,

Crown him, ye kings with many crowns

For he is King of all.”

Sounds like heaven to me!