All throughout his public ministry, Jesus preached about the kingdom of God. He taught his disciples to pray: “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done…” During his trial at the end of his life he told Pontius Pilate: “My kingdom is not of this world.”
Throughout the ages Jesus has been acknowledged as Lord and King. But it was not until 1925, at the direction of Pope Pius XI, that the church instituted a feast to honor the Lord as our King, today’s feast: the solemnity of our Lord Jesus Christ the King. I am not sure why, but it always comes as something of a jolt when I prepare the homily each year and find that the gospel is about Jesus as King, not in his heavenly glory, but Jesus as King on the throne of his cross.
Today’s gospel scene presents us with some of the most unsettling words in all the scriptures: those spoken by the leaders of the people and the Roman soldiers who jeered and taunted Jesus: if you are the King of the Jews, then save yourself. The criminal, also hanging in crucifixion, joined in with words crying out, half in scorn but perhaps also uttered with the hope of a way out: if you are the Messiah, save yourself and save us. Those words are unsettling for our theological sensitivities in this time and place far removed from Calvary, for we understand that it was only the acceptance of the cross and not its abandonment that crowned Jesus as Lord and Savior.
In today’s gospel, the words that give meaning and hope are those spoken by the other criminal, the one tradition has named “Dismas”; it is the words of the good thief that echo down the corridors of time and find a home on our lips; often when fear is crippling; sometimes when the drama of life brings confusion and uncertainty; usually when we know we have nowhere else to turn. Then, with silent expectation, the words of Dismas become our own whispered with a hope that they will be heard by the one whose cross is never far from our own: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
We pray those words when we finally admit that once again we have given in to false gods who tell us we can dull the pain with one more drink or one more pill. The next day, when the euphoria wears off and the pain of real living envelopes us once again, we turn our aching head in the direction of the cross and say with embarrassment: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
We pray those words when the news is not good, when the last hope of treatment fails, when the doctor says there is nothing more that I can do. With humble resignation we attempt to take one foot out of this world and place it in the next with an earnest plea to the one who understands out helplessness: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
We pray those words when the biting insults of the one we love pierce our broken heart; when the friends who promised to be there in good times and in bad are nowhere to be found at the moment we need them most; when the church we love demands of us perfection while she, herself, is at times guilty of the greater sin. Wondering if we can forgive one more time we look into the eyes of the one who understands what it is to be denied, to be betrayed and we cry out: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
We pray those words when we have to say “no” to our child for the 100th time, and “no” to our aging parent for the first time ever when with tears we announce I can no longer care for you at home. Then through the frustration and through the tears we look to the one on the cross who had nowhere to lay his head and plead: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
We pray those words when the day begins and holds no more than the same routine as yesterday, and ends with the stark realization that it will all begin again with the less than exciting obligations of tomorrow. Then needing strength to do just what is expected of us, what we promised we would do, we impose on the one who took up his cross daily, and dare to ask: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
We pray those words when Christmas comes too early and the check comes too late; when the numbers do not balance and there’s no relief in sight; when the security we expected seems to be slipping through our hands. Then, with no other rudder to steady us and no anchor to keep us from running adrift, we fold our hands and say to the one who calmed the storm at sea: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
It is a great paradox, it is a challenge that defies human reason, to profess a faith in one whose kingdom is not of this world, and whose kingship is manifested not on a throne adorned with gold and precious jewels, but on a throne whose wood splinters the all too human flesh of a God made man.
But I sometimes wonder if the greater challenge is to have the honesty to admit that the golden throne and the balanced checkbook and the body most beautiful do not, when all is said and done, bring us the peace we seek and a security that will last beyond the next day’s crisis.
The criminal mind of Dismas knew that true freedom was not to be found by release from the pain of the cross; his freedom could only be secured when he was released from the pain of his sins. The profligate Augustine, after a life that gave into his every whim and fancy, had to admit that his heart was not at home in the warmth of the next available bed, but only when it found rest in the pierced heart of the one who is the crucified king.
You and I, on a day of splendor that celebrates the victory of the king, are asked to take inventory; to set aside all pretense and false hope; and to anchor our lives not on the firmament that is the earth beneath our feet, but on the kingdom that is in the heavens above, beyond our reach but thanks to God’s saving grace, not beyond our grasp.
Today, with hearts humble and contrite, with hearts longing for a peace this world cannot give, we say with the good thief: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom. And if we empty ourselves of the noise of the Roman soldiers of our day, who lure us with their misguided cynicism and promise that for the right price we can have it all, we just might hear the crucified king answer our prayer: this day you will be with me in paradise.
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