Fit for a King
Colossians 1:11-20
We set our clocks back—what was it—three weeks ago already? I know that many people dread the annual act of turning back the clocks, despite getting an extra hour of sleep, because they find it depressing to see the sun set at 4:30 in the afternoon. I have to say, I’m not among them. Not only do I not mind resetting the clock the first Sunday of November, if it were up to me I’d return to the old schedule that I grew up with of an even six months of Standard Time and six months of Daylight Saving Time. Spring ahead the last Sunday of April, fall back the last Sunday of October as God intended. Fifty fifty. Even Steven.
It always amuses me that around the same time that we as a nation are turning our clocks back, the church is preparing to look ahead. Before the Thanksgiving leftovers have been finished, while there are still a few slices of pumpkin pie left in the fridge, the church is busy preparing for the new year. I don’t mean January 1st and Auld Lang Syne, but rather the first Sunday of Advent, which as far as the church is concerned, marks the start of the new year. And that new year is just a week away.
I am a big proponent of following the church calendar because it reminds us as Christians and proclaims to the world that the church marks time in its own way, according to its own rhythms. At times that way and those rhythms put us willfully out of step with the broader culture. I find that to be especially true this Sunday, not because it’s November 23rd, but because it’s Reign of Christ Sunday, or if you want to be more daring, Christ the King Sunday.
In certain Christian circles there is a desire—misguided I would argue—to avoid referring to Jesus as a king or to speak of the “kingdom of God.” That’s royalist, hierarchical language, so the thinking goes. Instead of “the kingdom of God” you’ll sometimes hear of the kindom of God (without the “g”), a phrase guaranteed to make me roll my eyes (I can’t help it; it’s a reflex). The idea behind using kindom rather than “kingdom” is that it emphasizes the oneness of all people, that we are all kin, fellow siblings in Christ. That is of course true and good, but…. No, let me save my reservation for the time being.
Beyond the church there is a general discomfort with the language of kingship that’s simply part of the American DNA. Last month there were nationwide “No Kings” protests, including one just down the road from here in Nanuet. America has never had a king in any way, shape, or form. The very idea of an absolute monarch, even an aspiring one, inspires a reflexive disdain in many of us. To our 21st century sensibilities, the concept of a king is a relic of a bygone era, as relevant to us as knee britches, powdered wigs, and waltzing to the latest harpsichord hits.
Speaking of which, I’ve been watching Ken Burns’ documentary on the American Revolution that began airing on PBS last week. I was interested to learn that in the years leading up to the war, the focus of the colonists’ ire was not King George but rather the British Parliament, for it was Parliament, not the king, that had the power to tax the colonies. Leaders among the colonists actually appealed to the king to rein in Parliament’s oppressive tax policies.
It was only after independence was declared more than a year into the war that the king became a convenient symbol of tyranny. If you read the Declaration of Independence, after the famous preamble it’s basically a long list of grievances against the king, which makes sense. It’s much easier to focus your anger on a single person than on a faceless entity like Parliament.
A rejection of anything smacking of kingship is written into our founding document. Then what are we, as 21st century Americans, to do with all the talk of kings, kingship, and the kingdom of God that we find throughout the Bible? Should we regard it as outdated, reflective of a premodern worldview? Should we reject it as incompatible with our more enlightened, democratic modern sensibilities?
I certainly don’t think so. In fact, one of the reasons that Reign of Christ Sunday or Christ the King Sunday is so important is that, like so much that Jesus teaches and embodies, it turns the notion of kingship on its head. This special day on the church calendar encourages us to consider the kind of king that Jesus represents—not a tyrant but a servant. A king who doesn’t ride proudly upon a war horse to lay waste his enemies, but rather a king who sits humbly upon a donkey, a working animal, and who goes to die for his enemies. A king whose crown is not forged from gold and set with precious stones but is twisted together from branches of thorns. A king whose power is not in wealth or land or armies but in the power to forgive sins. That is the type of king that we see in Jesus—not a Caesar but a Savior.
And that is the type of power that Paul prays would strengthen the Christian church in Colossae. “May you be made strong with all the strength that comes from his glorious power,” he writes. Normally when we think of God’s “glorious power” we think of something dramatic, something cinematic, like the Red Sea parting or the walls of Jericho crumbling to the ground. But Paul has something else in mind. That glorious power he speaks of is the power of God to forgive sins, to reconcile, and to save. “He has rescued us from the power of darkness and transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins.”
That is the type of king that we see in Jesus—not a Caesar but a Savior.
God’s glorious power looks nothing at all like worldly power. What is Paul’s prayer for the Colossian church? That God will give them the power to grow their numbers, meet their per capita, and pay off their building loans? No! Paul prays that they would be made strong in God’s glorious power so that they would be prepared to endure everything with patience, while at the same time joyfully giving thanks.
As for enduring everything with patience, Paul should know. He wrote this letter from a Roman prison. And yet despite his imprisonment, Paul declares that God already—at this very moment—“has rescued us from the power of darkness.” It’s a done deal. Right here. Right now. It does not wait. It does not delay. God has rescued us and “transferred us into the kingdom of his beloved Son.”
But how can Paul talk like this while he’s still in prison? In what sense has he been “rescued” while he is still behind bars? And how on earth are we supposed to endure everything with patience while at the same time joyfully giving thanks? That’s an awfully tall order, is it not?
Here is the beauty of this passage: Paul is not asking you to do anything other than receive what God has already done for you. Whatever you might feel that you are struggling to endure at the moment—a strained relationship, health issues, worries about money, loneliness, depression—Paul is not suggesting that you do so heroically of your own accord by girding your loins, gritting your teeth, and keeping a stiff upper lip, as the British say. You are not the hero of this story. Jesus is. And he has rescued you from the power of darkness and transferred you into his kingdom. He has crawled down into the hole where you found yourself, scooped you up, and carried you into his light.
Now, that does not mean that you won’t still experience hardship. It does not mean that you won’t still suffer. Again, Paul, the greatest evangelist Christianity has ever known, is writing this letter from prison. But what it does mean is that suffering and hardship—no matter how long-lasting, no matter how severe—will not have the last word. Paul knows that he may die in prison—and ultimately he would—but that would make no difference to him. Because his faith, your faith, and my faith is in Jesus Christ who endured the cross for all our sakes. The final word belongs to him, and he has reconciled to himself all things, and that includes you.
I’m tempted to end the sermon there, but I’ve covered only half the passage. That’s the thing with Paul. That’s what makes preaching from his letters so challenging. He crams so many ideas into just a few sentences. To use a metaphor that everyone in Haverstraw can relate to, it’s like trying to read all the lettering on the cars of a passing train. There’s so much coming at you in such quick succession that it can be overwhelming. You have to pick and choose your spot to focus on because if you try to take in all of it, there’s simply too much there.
But there is just one thing more that I want to address. Writing in verse 15, Paul says of Jesus that “He is the image of the invisible God.” I want to pause here and consider what a bold statement that is. Jesus, this wandering rabbi from a rural backwater, who was not born into money, who never amassed any worldly power, who gathered to himself disciples of no repute, who was rejected by the religious establishment, who was condemned as a criminal, and who was executed in the most dehumanizing manner imaginable by the world’s preeminent military power…he, Paul writes, is the image of the invisible God. For in this carpenter from Galilee, in this crucified king, all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell.