We arrive today at the end of the long green season of Pentecost. For months we have walked with Jesus as he teaches, heals, welcomes, and challenges. We have followed him across Galilee, into the homes of friends and strangers, through arguments with religious leaders, and into moments of astonishing grace. Next week we turn toward Advent. We will stand at the edge of the story again and wait in hope for Christ’s birth and his coming again.
But before that season begins, the church gives us this Sunday. Christ the King Sunday. For much of my life I did not quite know what to do with it. A feast about kingship can feel out of place in a church that centers a man who washed feet, told stories about mustard seeds, and spent most of his time with people no king would have bothered to notice. For years the title Christ the King landed on my ear as something grand and formal, something that did not match the Jesus I met in scripture.
But as I grew older, and as the world changed around us, I began to understand why the church made space for this day. I also learned it is not an ancient feast. It is actually our newest major celebration. Pope Pius XI established it in 1925, and that date is not an accident.
The First World War had shaken the world to the core. Millions were dead, entire regions were devastated, and the old political order had crumbled. People were anxious and searching for someone strong to put things back in place. In that climate, nationalism grew quickly. Many wanted leaders who promised security without accountability and unity without justice.
That same year Hitler published the first volume of Mein Kampf. The Ku Klux Klan marched openly in Washington as if their robes and torches were badges of honor. Mussolini tightened his grip on Italy and tried to win over the Catholic population through symbolic gestures. Across Europe, leaders talked about national purity, ethnic superiority, and the need for strong men to guide the masses.
Pius saw the danger in all this. He understood how easily people place their hope in political figures who promise salvation. So, he called Christians to remember a deeper truth. No matter where we live, our first loyalty is to Christ. Our truest identity is not national but spiritual. Real peace cannot be built on fear or on the desire to dominate. Real peace can only come under the reign of Christ the Prince of Peace.
For a long time, I thought this concern belonged to the past. I assumed we had learned enough from the last century not to repeat its mistakes. I assumed the toxic nationalism Pius warned about was a relic. But the past few years have shown all of us how fragile democracy can be and how quickly people rally around leaders who promise power without accountability. We have witnessed movements that treat cruelty as strength. We have heard rhetoric that targets immigrants, LGBTQ people, people of color, and religious minorities. And we have watched many who call themselves Christian embrace that rhetoric as if it came from Christ himself.
This is why the feast matters. Not because we need more titles for Jesus, but because we need to remember what kind of king he is. And we need to remember how different his kingship is from the kings and would-be kings who still rise up in this world.
So, what kind of king is Jesus?
If Jesus is God incarnate, then everything he does shows us how God sees power. His life reveals the world as God hopes it will become. And when we turn to today’s Gospel from Luke, we get a shocking picture of that power. It is shocking because it looks nothing like the power humans tend to admire.
At this moment in the story, Jesus has been arrested. He has not harmed anyone. He has not seized land or threatened violence. He has not built an army. He has not tried to overthrow Rome. What he has done is challenge the systems that keep people oppressed. He has lifted the poor, healed the sick, welcomed the stranger, protected the vulnerable, and demanded that those with power loosen their grip. He has refused to let religious leaders hide behind rules that serve only themselves. He has preached a kingdom where the last are first, where the hungry are fed, and where mercy is the measure of greatness. That kind of kingdom scares people who benefit from the status quo. It always has. So, the empire stepped in.
Crucifixion was not only execution. It was humiliation. Rome used it to break the spirit of people who challenged their authority. Crucifixion said you do not matter. Crucifixion erased dignity. Only the lowest classes were crucified. The point was shame, not honor. The point was fear.
Luke shows us this brutality clearly. Jesus is nailed to a cross between two criminals. The leaders scoff. The soldiers mock him. One of the criminals joins in. If you are the Messiah, save yourself. If you are the King of the Jews, prove it. Every word is meant to crush him further.
We like to say sticks and stones may break our bones, but words cannot hurt us. We know better. Words can wound. Words can humiliate. Words can isolate. Here, on the cross, Jesus absorbs not only physical torture but the full weight of human contempt.
And how does he respond? He forgives. Father, forgive them. They do not know what they are doing. He speaks kindness to the criminal beside him. Today you will be with me in paradise. He refuses to enter the cycle of violence. He refuses to trade insult for insult. He refuses to wield power the way humans do. He responds with love, with courage, and with mercy that does not depend on anyone deserving it.
This is what kingship looks like for Jesus. It is not domination. It is not control. It is not power over. It is power with. It is a strength rooted in compassion, not fear. It is a strength that lifts others up, even in the face of death.
A few months ago, I read an article by John Dominic Crossan and Sarah Sexton Crossan that stayed with me. They argue that the greatest danger facing humanity is not simply violence, but the way violence grows. Violence escalates. Once it begins, it feeds on itself. Human beings invent stronger and stronger weapons and then use them. Empires rise and fall, each convinced that total control will bring peace. It never does.
The Crossans argue that if civilization saves us from chaos, then something must save us from civilization itself. Their claim is simple. The only thing that can break the cycle of violence is disciplined nonviolence. Not passivity, but active resistance that refuses to mirror the cruelty we are trying to end. Jesus lived that. He died living that. And in doing so he showed a path that leads away from destruction.
Christ the King Sunday calls us to choose that path. Not only for the sake of our souls, but for the sake of our species. If we keep returning violence for violence, we will not survive. The world is too connected now. The weapons are too powerful. The earth is too fragile. We cannot keep living by the rules of worldly kings and expect a different future.
The alternative is the kingdom Jesus shows us. A kingdom where power is shared and not hoarded. A kingdom where the vulnerable are centered and not brushed aside. A kingdom where mercy is not weakness but strength. A kingdom where courage looks like compassion in the face of cruelty.
Some days it feels like the would-be kings of our world hold all the cards. Some days it feels like hatred shouts louder than hope. But scripture reminds us that every act of peace breaks open the kingdom of God a little more. The kingdom does not arrive all at once. It arrives seed by seed, choice by choice, moment by moment.
Every time we meet anger with patience, the kingdom breaks in.
Every time we treat another person with dignity, the kingdom breaks in.
Every time we see creation as sacred rather than as a resource to be exploited, the kingdom breaks in.
Every time we choose generosity over fear, the kingdom breaks in.
Every time we use our voices or our privilege to defend those on the margins, the kingdom breaks in.
Every time we forgive instead of seeking revenge, the kingdom breaks in.
Every time we place our loyalty with Christ rather than with the loudest or strongest leader of the moment, the kingdom breaks in.
These small choices matter. They matter because they shape us. They matter because they reveal what kind of king we follow. And they matter because the world is watching. When Christians follow the way of Jesus, we become a witness to a different kind of power. A power that heals rather than harms. A power that builds rather than destroys. A power that leads through service rather than control.
Christ the King Sunday asks us to claim that power as our own. Not because we hold it, but because Christ shares it. We do not worship a king who sits far away on a throne. We worship a king who stood with the broken, who challenged the proud, who forgave his enemies, and who rose to show that love is stronger than death.
May we follow that king with our whole lives. May we give him our loyalty above every other claim. And may his peace shape our hearts, our choices, our community, and our world.
Amen.
