The second is from the Eighth Chapter of St. Paul’s Epistle to the Romans where the Blessed, if not sometimes grumpy, Apostle says, “For I am convinced that neither life nor death, nor angels nor principalities, nor things present nor things to come, nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
And the third is this morning’s Gospel, the separating of the sheep from the goats and that what we do to the least of the members of Christ’s family, in other words, all humanity, we do to him.
In many ways, it seems pointless to preach on this morning’s Gospel. No preacher can outdo our Lord in this wonderful passage. And, in our particular case, any preacher would be preaching to the Choir. This is a passage that we understand and that we as a community have taken to heart. And we do the best we can as individuals and as a community and leave the rest to the grace of God.
In some ways, it’s unfortunate that this wonderful Gospel is appointed for the Feast of Christ the King because the Feast of Christ the King is somewhat an oxymoron. Jesus didn’t come to be King. He came to serve and to give his life that we might live. The Feast itself has odious roots to begin with.
Some historians claim that the First World War was a family feud gone terribly bad. The Kaiser, the Czar and the King were all first cousins, grandsons of Her Glorious Majesty, Victoria, Queen of England, Scotland, Northern Ireland and Her Dominions, and Empress of India. When the smoke cleared after the most vicious and destructive war in human history up to that point, the Czar and his family were dead, the Kaiser was in exile in Holland, and the King’s empire less powerful than when the war had started. In November of 1918, Europe lay in ruins, refugees migrating here and there. Chaos ruled in many parts. New nation states were trying to form and well into the 1920s, the economic situation on the Continent was dire especially in what was left of Germany and the former Austro-Hungarian Empire of the Hapsburgs. All was ripe for an opportunist to come onto the scene and try to steal the show.
That opportunist was to be found in the person of Pius XI, Bishop of Rome. Pius had his own problems. He and his entourage were essentially prisoners within what eventually would become the nation state of Vatican City. His predecessors having lost the Papal States in the previous century, His Holiness’ temporal power was all but gone. And, in a bid to reassert his power, he established the Feast of Christ the King in 1925. The theology of the feast celebrated the Lordship of Christ over all humanity who owed him their undying allegiance. Fair enough. But Pius had other ideas too. Being Christ’s vicar on Earth, the allegiance was to be shown to him and his authority obeyed without question. After all, he WAS the Pope! The non-Catholic world just rolled their eyes and thumbed their noses at Pius. And Roman Catholics were happy to celebrate the feast, but as for the rest of it, they just smiled and said, “How nice, Your Holiness. Thanks for sharing,” and went on their merry ways as if nothing had happened.
And it’s no wonder that nobody took Pius seriously. Let’s face it: kings haven’t been a real success in the political business. From the Pharaohs to the Roman Emperors to the Czars to the monarchs of our own Tradition as Anglicans, kings in general have either been tyrants who oppressed their people to the ultimate degree or were just plain incompetent hedonists. The only monarchs worth their salt have been the women. Within our own Tradition, from Good Queen Bess, to Queen Anne, to the seemingly never-ending reign of Queen Victoria to the present occupant of the British throne, the women have, in comparison to the men, been a rousing success. They have been seen as the kind but strong mothers of their realms and healthy mothers always have their wellbeing of their children at heart. The metaphor of Christ as King just doesn’t work. First of all, Jesus came not to be a king but to give his life so that we might live abundantly. But to call this Feast the Feast of Christ the Queen might raise some eyebrows, or just make everyone laugh hysterically. So we won’t go there.
One such typical king was Edward the 8th who almost reigned over the British Empire in the 1930s. The issue, at least in the news papers, was that “David,” as he was known to the family, wanted to marry an American divorcee by the name of Mrs. Simpson. And according to Canon Law, the King could not be married to a divorced woman nor be divorced himself. So, the King would have to abdicate. Behind closed doors, the real truth was that David was an ardent admirer of the little square mustached dictator in Germany and wanted Britain to enter the coming war on the side of the Axis powers. Cosmo Lang, the Archbishop of Canterbury, an ardent loather of Hitler and National Socialism would have none of it. The divorce was a good excuse. But David would be a Nazi King over the Archbishop’s dead body. And so, things were diplomatically resolved and David and Mrs. Simpson were married and moved to France. In this case, “moved” means exiled.
This left his younger brother, George, to ascend the throne. Now, George, or Bertie as he was known to his family since one of his Christian names was Albert after his great-great grandfather, the Prince Consort to Queen Victoria, hadn’t been raised to assume royal duties as the King. He’d been raised to cut ribbons and christen ships and the last thing he really wanted was to be King of anything. He was an extreme introvert with a speech impediment who probably suffered from some sort of anxiety disorder which was neither diagnosed nor treated in those days. Fortunately, he’d married Elizabeth Bowes Lyons, the daughter of a Scottish aristocrat, who was a gracious and gregarious woman and whom we all grew to love as the Queen Mum. With their two daughters, one of which now sits on the British Throne to this day, before all the controversy their future was one of quiet royalty living in peace and doing things that the royals do. But now, this timid man with the stutter was to be King. And he wasn’t too happy about it. But, then, what could he do?
In September of 1940, the Luftwaffe began nightly air raids over London which lasted for eight months. At first, the raids had their benefit. Initially, the blitz was aimed at the industrial sections of London which had once been residential. Here were situated many Churches whose congregations had long since moved away. But by law, each Church still needed to be staffed by a paid Vicar. With the blitz, the Churches were gone and Archbishop Lang was relieved that his budget had been freed up a bit. But other than this, there were no benefits especially once the Luftwaffe began its onslaught upon the civilian population in residential districts. The devastation was massive and the cost in human lives unbearable. But each morning, the residents of London, with that stiff upper lip, would come up from the Underground and begin the process of cleaning up the mess and mourning the dead.
Now, you must know that the staff of Buckingham Palace is very tight lipped about what goes on within the Royal Family. They are very protective their employers but occasionally a story leaks out. The story is told that one night the bombings had been particularly fierce. Large residential areas lay smoldering in ruins. At 7 O’clock in the morning, the Queen entered the Royal Bed Chamber and said, “Bertie, there’s been a bombing. Bertie? Where are you?” The reply came, “I’m under the bed.” “What on earth are you doing there?” “I heard the bombs dropping and figured it was safer down here.” The valets coaxed his Majesty out from under the bed and as they began to get him dressed the Queen looked at him and said, “Now, Bertie, the people are bad off. They need us. They need you. You are their king. And we must be with them now. It won’t be easy for you, so you’ll have to be strong. It is our duty.” Bertie wasn’t thrilled but he knew his beloved wife was right. Within a half an hour, the Bentley was winding its way through the streets of London.
The news reels from that time are overwhelmingly moving. They show the Bentley driving into a street, the homes nothing more than heaps of smoldering bricks and broken glass. Finally the Bentley slows and stops. The chauffer emerges and opens the back passenger door. And the first thing you see is a white glove extended and a middle aged woman with a very big hat teeming with feathers gets out. Immediately she’s shaking hands with the locals, offering them her condolences and the comfort only a mother can give. And then, like a deer in the headlights, emerges a man in a long military coat and officer’s hat. It’s the King. His wife gently pulls him from the car and introduces him to her newly made friends. This is no photo op. This is real life. And the news reel ends with the Queen’s right arm over the shoulders of a local woman in an apron, her hair in a top not. The Queen is smiling, giving hope to those who really need it. And the King is there and he knows he is where he needs to be.
This is a monarch worthy of the metaphor of the Feast of Christ the King. This is a monarch worthy of this morning’s Gospel reading. Here is a monarch – the wife of a monarch really – willing to forgo the protocol of centuries to be with the least of these, the members of her family. And here is the queen, the power behind the throne, giving her husband the love and nurture he needs to be the King his people need him to be.
But there is no metaphor when it comes to the real image of Christ the King. It’s the truth. It’s fact which no one can doubt; that in the blitzes of our own lives, it is Christ the King, even Christ the Queen Mum, who comes to us and emerges from the Bentley and wraps her arms around us – and we are not alone. It is this King that meets us where we are, warts and all, who smiles at the camera and gives us the courage to meet the challenge of the present and move into the future with hope and love. And it is this King, this Christ, who calls us then to go into the world to feed the hungry and clothe the naked; to visit the prisoners and embrace the outcast; to love the unlovable and sit with the lonely; because we know that these people are not just people, but they are Christ himself.
Now that I think of it, and I’ve preached this sermon, maybe the Feast of Christ the King has something to it for King Jesus is no tyrant. Nor is he an opportunist trying to assert his power. No, this King Jesus rules with the iron rod of peace and mercy, of compassion and joy. This King Jesus comes down from the throne and not only dwells among us, but lives vibrantly within us. Look at the person seated next to you. She or he is Christ himself. Treat him or her as you would any great monarch. And when you are confronted with the poor and the neglected, the cranky and the sometimes unlovable, bow in deep respect for your are in the presence of your Lord, the One we know as Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
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