Small, medium, or large?
Commentary
Object:
With a national election still large in our rearview mirror, it's an easy thing for us to be preoccupied with small stuff.
"But wait!" someone says. "A presidential election isn't small stuff, is it? It's very big! It's about the direction and future of our nation. It's about the global economy and foreign policy. It's about jobs, national security, and individual rights. A presidential election is very big stuff indeed!"
Ah, but objects in our rearview mirror may appear bigger than they actually are. And, for that matter, so do a lot of the objects in our windshields. For all of our current events are seen as small against the larger backdrop of human history. All of human history is small when set against the backdrop of eternity.
Perhaps we might illustrate the point by borrowing a page from modern science. The Hubble telescope has dazzled us with images and discoveries from outer space. I recently saw, for example, a beautiful picture of a galaxy that has been functionally named NGC 3949. Astronomers estimate that NGC 3949 is fifty million light years from our galaxy, the Milky Way.
A light year, as you may recall from some high school science class, is the distance that light travels in a year. Well, since light travels at 186,000 miles per second, this means that in one year light would travel nearly six trillion miles. So multiply six trillion miles by fifty million and you've got the distance from here to NGC 3949.
Over against that, the Prophet Isaiah asks, "Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand and marked off the heavens with a span?" (Isaiah 40:12). A "span," of course, was rendered as the distance between a person's extended thumb and little finger. So while human beings have to measure the heavens in millions of light years, our God does it with the palm of his hand.
On Christ the King Sunday, therefore, we are invited to put the puniness of our world's campaigns, elections, and leaders behind us. Let us, instead, lift up our eyes from the temporary to the eternal, from the newspaper to the Bible, from human affairs to the glory and majesty of our God who reigns.
2 Samuel 23:1-7
Kings are on our mind this week. Our theme at the close of the liturgical year is "Christ the King," and so we surround ourselves with texts that point to thrones and kingdoms. Of course, we Americans are at something of a disadvantage in handling this subject, for we know little of royalty and nothing of sovereignty.
The Bible, on the other hand, comes to us from a world of kings and kingdoms. From some of the earliest stories in Genesis, we see that the whole landscape is shaped by the machinations of kings (see Genesis 14). Egypt's throne is pivotal in the elevation of Joseph (Genesis 40), the oppression and bondage of the Hebrews (Exodus 1:8ff), and God's deliverance through Moses (e.g., Exodus 3:18-20). Kings are the culture context in which the early Israelites live, prompting them to ask to have a king as well (1 Samuel 8:4-5). And from that day forward the plotline in Israel (and later Judah) traces the story of their kings.
The theme is not relegated to Old Testament history. The Christmas story is shaped by kings -- the decree of Caesar Augustus, the paranoia of Herod the Great, and the Magi's provocative search for the one "born king of the Jews" (Matthew 2:2). John the Baptist and Jesus both emerge with "the kingdom" as the centerpiece of their preaching. Appearing before kings is part of Paul's calling in his missionary work (Acts 9:15). And the entire New Testament finds its climax around a "great white throne" (see Revelation 20:11).
But for all the multitude of kings that parade across the stage of biblical history, none stands taller than David. He is the one who led Israel from insignificance to greatness. He established Jerusalem as the political and spiritual capital of the land. He ushered in Israel's golden age. Subsequent kings are measured by the degree to which they did or did not emulate David. And his is the throne and line that are promised by God to have an everlasting quality to them, giving rise to the messianic understanding of the phrase "son of David."
While the writers of the Old Testament arguably never finished with the story of David, this selected passage brings near its conclusion the record of his individual life and reign. As he prepares to relinquish the throne and die, David waxes on about kingship. That is the subject of his "last words."
Significantly, we see that David's reign is a function of the provident work and sovereign choice of God. David does not reckon his throne to his shrewdness or savvy. He is not king because of his strength, feats, or maneuvers. It is neither royal line, victories on the battlefield, nor political effectiveness that gained David his crown; rather it is entirely the work of God. It is the Lord who has favored, exalted, and anointed David.
Furthermore, David expresses here his understanding that his reign is not just initiated by God but lived out "in the fear of God" and permanently established by virtue of "an everlasting covenant" from God. All of David's help and prosperity, therefore, are the work of God.
It is customary in our day for accomplished people -- from winning coaches to top executives -- to write books that outline the keys to their success. If David had written such a book, it would have been a short one. For while his list of successes was long, his list of keys is not. It is all about God.
Revelation 1:4b-8
All of our lights are artificial.
Designers and interior decorators will sometimes speak of "natural light" over against "artificial light." Natural light, of course, refers to the light that comes into a room from the sun, while artificial light is anything we human beings manage to manufacture for ourselves in the absence of the sun. If you look at our stadiums, metropolitan areas at night, and our "big box" home improvement stores, you can see that we human beings can generate a lot of light. Yet when it's all said and done, our light cannot hold a candle to the sun.
Let us imagine, then, how grim our situation would be if we lost all sense for natural light. What if the only light we knew was what we could turn on with a switch? The light and warmth of the sun is literally "out of this world" and nothing about our manufactured lights would equip us to imagine it.
So too with the glory and majesty of God.
We enjoy a certain amount of pomp and circumstance in our worldly cultures. We routinely witness a sort of glitzy form of glory. And we have our various definitions of "power." Yet to the extent that our world does not really know God, and as our culture drifts further and further from him, we are like that imaginary circumstance in which we are only exposed to artificial light. The actual glory, majesty, and power of God are beyond our comprehension. Our human experiences of such things are incapable of preparing us from the real thing.
The opening verses of Revelation give us a glimpse of the real thing.
My experience in thirty years of ministry is that Revelation reveals our human preoccupation with artificial light. I have met a great many people who are fascinated by the book, but that fascination almost always seems to be misplaced. That is to say, folks look to the book for insight into human events and affairs. Yet the best thing that this book offers is not human but divine. It is not what it explains to us about our newspapers, but rather what it reveals to us about our Lord.
Even within these initial verses, which are often skimmed past as merely introductory, we are offered a profound glimpse of the character, work, and glory of God. He is revealed as almighty, eternal, and reigning above all. Yet it is against that backdrop of unrivaled majesty, then, that his mercy and love are seen more clearly, for he is the one "who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood." What an unfathomable condescension from the one who is "the ruler of the kings of the earth."
The reference to "the kings of the earth," meanwhile, resonates with our larger theme for the week. We see that all human potentates are dwarfed by and subject to the eternal one. Right from the start, he is identified with a throne. Also, while human kings have their own little jurisdictions, "all the tribes of the earth" will see and respond to this one king. Finally, all of the pageantry and power associated with earthly rulers are small potatoes compared to the unending "glory and dominion" that are ascribed to the Lord.
John 18:33-37
"King of the Jews" seems to have been the default setting. It was a misunderstanding, to be sure, but it appears to have been the most common misunderstanding. This was, after all, what the Magi thought they were coming to find (Matthew 2:2). It was the basis for the soldiers' mocking as they beat Jesus (John 19:2-3) and as they crucified him (Luke 23:36-37). It was Pilate's label for him when addressing the bloodthirsty crowd (Mark 15:9) and when identifying him on the cross (Mark 15:26). And, here, it was Pilate's first question to Jesus: "Are you the King of the Jews?"
Herod the Great may give us some helpful insight into the connotation of the title. When the wise men come from the east seeking the one born to be king of the Jews, Herod responded by asking the chief priests and the scribes "where the Messiah was to be born" (Matthew 2:4). In that moment, you see, Herod translates "king of the Jews" for us. The wise men say "king of the Jews," and Herod hears "Messiah."
This, no doubt, is why Jesus insisted on talking about the cross as soon as he was positively identified as the Christ (Mark 8:29-31). All of the human connotations with "king" would suggest to his followers conquest, human glory, and earthly rule. But "(his) kingdom is not from this world." So the disciples needed to shed from the start any misapprehension about the Christ. The anticipated "king of the Jews" had, in fact, a much different, higher kingdom in view.
The dialogue between Jesus and Pilate puts the matter in perspective. Pilate's thinking runs on the same narrow rails that all the others had. "Are you the King of the Jews?" he asks. And when Jesus presses him on the subject, Pilate is quick to exclude himself from the province of the discussion: "I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and chief priests have handed you over to me."
Pilate pretends that he is comfortably outside the circle of this dispute. This is a local thing... regional... ethnic. And the whole nuisance involves him only to the extent that he is lord over the land where the dispute takes place, and so he must adjudicate its resolution.
In truth, of course, Pilate is neither outside the circle, nor is he lord over the situation. In one of the great dramatic ironies of human history, the importance of these two men is contrary to all appearances. To the outside observer, you see, Pilate is the man with the power and rank, while Jesus is just one more Roman subject under Pilate's authority. But twenty centuries later, we see that it is Jesus who has the real power and rank. And the Roman governor's greatest claim to fame is nothing other than the role that he played in the life and death of Jesus.
Before our selected portion of the dialogue with Pilate is complete, Jesus introduces the issue of truth. This is thematically central to John's gospel, of course, and it gives rise to the compelling summary statement that Jesus offers. He encapsulates the reason that he was born and came into the world in this simple phrase: "to testify to the truth."
In the end, Pilate would remain stubbornly fixed in his preconceived paradigm. He would post above Jesus' head on the cross the sign that identified Jesus as the "king of the Jews." One wonders, though, if he secretly knew better. Feared better. For in this moment he was told better by the one whose kingdom "is not from here."
Application
We don't know much about Pontius Pilate. He is among the most famous characters in world history; yet his story remains mostly untold. We do not know what dreams and plans he may have had. Perhaps he was an effective and ambitious man. If so, he would not have reckoned that the trial of a minor Jewish criminal would have been the most important item on his schedule that day.
In reality, it was the most important deed of his entire life.
For all of his seeming significance and power at that moment on that day, Pontius Pilate would have receded into almost complete anonymity if it had not been for his contact with this Jewish carpenter's son. He is infamous for that contact, to be sure. Yet his name is known by millions upon millions of people around the world, who recite his name routinely within their core statement of what they believe.
The point is that Pilate's importance is derivative. In the final analysis, he is not important in his own right. He is only important because of Jesus.
At a different level, the final words of David affirm the same truth. David did not know Jesus by name, and they did not cross paths in history the way that Pilate and Jesus did. Nevertheless, David had enough wisdom and perspective to see that his reign, power, glory, and importance were all derivative. They all traced back to the choice and work of God. Then, going beyond the brief span of David's own life and reign, we see that his greatest significance is also found in Christ. For while his buildings and his borders have come and gone, he is forever cherished for what took place in "the city of David" (Luke 2:11), where the most anticipated and famous "son of David" (Matthew 21:9-15, 22:41-42; Luke 18:38-39) was born.
And what is true of Pilate and David is true of all of us. Our importance is entirely derivative. Our ultimate significance is found only and entirely in him.
We considered at the outset the immensity of outer space. Why should the creator and king of all of that give a second thought to our speck of dust? Yet he gives not only a second thought, but he gives his own Son. Hence, we are significant.
Then that eternal king takes yet one more unthinkable step. In addition to his incarnation and his saving death, he then "made us to be a kingdom." The ultimate and eternal king deigns to include us in his kingdom. For amidst Revelation's portrait of the trumping power and sovereignty of God, we are suddenly brought into the picture, not merely as conquests or subjects, but as "priests serving his God and Father."
This Sunday, we affirm Christ as King. As we see him and see ourselves clearly, we will see how small and insignificant we are by comparison. Even our biggest and brightest and most important things are dwarfed. But then, in the next breath, we discover that we are immeasurably significant -- though not on our own. We are significant because of him.
Alternative Application
Revelation 1:4b-8. "The death of kings." Shakespeare's Richard II invites his companions to "sit upon the ground / and tell sad stories of the death of kings."1 He soberly observes that death is the real monarch, and kings sit on their thrones only temporarily. Thinking himself more sovereign and impregnable than he is, the human king reigns arrogantly until death "bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!" And so Richard admits that the king's crown is worn on "mortal temples."
Even a tiny knowledge of history confirms Richard's somber outlook. The kings of the earth come and go with such predictable regularity as to raise a question about their significance even while they are alive. They come to power, they fight their battles, and they pass on. They rise and fall. Whatever importance they have, it is not ultimate.
Our passages this week prompt us to ponder the death of kings. The Old Testament lection features King David's last words, reminding us that even the greatest, most accomplished of kings go the way of all flesh. The gospel passage, meanwhile, suggests the execution of a king -- or a would-be king, at least. And then there is the reading from Revelation.
These opening lines from Revelation give us, as Christians, the ultimate perspective on the death of kings. For here we are given a glorious glimpse of the one who is the King of kings -- "the ruler of the kings of the earth." He is the ultimate king, whose reign is forever. And yet he too died.
The passage makes three references to his death. He is "the firstborn of the dead." He has freed us "by his blood." He is the one who was "pierced." Unlike every other king, however, this king's death is not the final chapter in his reign. Not at all.
He is different precisely because he is "the firstborn of the dead." For his death was not final. He rose again to be given "glory and dominion forever and ever."
For all of their pomp and glory, every consideration of human kings should prompt us, with Richard, to ponder the death of kings. And when we do, we will be reminded of the King of kings, who died for all and who reigns forever.
__________
1. William Shakespeare, The Life and Death of Richard the Second, Act 3, Scene 2.
"But wait!" someone says. "A presidential election isn't small stuff, is it? It's very big! It's about the direction and future of our nation. It's about the global economy and foreign policy. It's about jobs, national security, and individual rights. A presidential election is very big stuff indeed!"
Ah, but objects in our rearview mirror may appear bigger than they actually are. And, for that matter, so do a lot of the objects in our windshields. For all of our current events are seen as small against the larger backdrop of human history. All of human history is small when set against the backdrop of eternity.
Perhaps we might illustrate the point by borrowing a page from modern science. The Hubble telescope has dazzled us with images and discoveries from outer space. I recently saw, for example, a beautiful picture of a galaxy that has been functionally named NGC 3949. Astronomers estimate that NGC 3949 is fifty million light years from our galaxy, the Milky Way.
A light year, as you may recall from some high school science class, is the distance that light travels in a year. Well, since light travels at 186,000 miles per second, this means that in one year light would travel nearly six trillion miles. So multiply six trillion miles by fifty million and you've got the distance from here to NGC 3949.
Over against that, the Prophet Isaiah asks, "Who has measured the waters in the hollow of his hand and marked off the heavens with a span?" (Isaiah 40:12). A "span," of course, was rendered as the distance between a person's extended thumb and little finger. So while human beings have to measure the heavens in millions of light years, our God does it with the palm of his hand.
On Christ the King Sunday, therefore, we are invited to put the puniness of our world's campaigns, elections, and leaders behind us. Let us, instead, lift up our eyes from the temporary to the eternal, from the newspaper to the Bible, from human affairs to the glory and majesty of our God who reigns.
2 Samuel 23:1-7
Kings are on our mind this week. Our theme at the close of the liturgical year is "Christ the King," and so we surround ourselves with texts that point to thrones and kingdoms. Of course, we Americans are at something of a disadvantage in handling this subject, for we know little of royalty and nothing of sovereignty.
The Bible, on the other hand, comes to us from a world of kings and kingdoms. From some of the earliest stories in Genesis, we see that the whole landscape is shaped by the machinations of kings (see Genesis 14). Egypt's throne is pivotal in the elevation of Joseph (Genesis 40), the oppression and bondage of the Hebrews (Exodus 1:8ff), and God's deliverance through Moses (e.g., Exodus 3:18-20). Kings are the culture context in which the early Israelites live, prompting them to ask to have a king as well (1 Samuel 8:4-5). And from that day forward the plotline in Israel (and later Judah) traces the story of their kings.
The theme is not relegated to Old Testament history. The Christmas story is shaped by kings -- the decree of Caesar Augustus, the paranoia of Herod the Great, and the Magi's provocative search for the one "born king of the Jews" (Matthew 2:2). John the Baptist and Jesus both emerge with "the kingdom" as the centerpiece of their preaching. Appearing before kings is part of Paul's calling in his missionary work (Acts 9:15). And the entire New Testament finds its climax around a "great white throne" (see Revelation 20:11).
But for all the multitude of kings that parade across the stage of biblical history, none stands taller than David. He is the one who led Israel from insignificance to greatness. He established Jerusalem as the political and spiritual capital of the land. He ushered in Israel's golden age. Subsequent kings are measured by the degree to which they did or did not emulate David. And his is the throne and line that are promised by God to have an everlasting quality to them, giving rise to the messianic understanding of the phrase "son of David."
While the writers of the Old Testament arguably never finished with the story of David, this selected passage brings near its conclusion the record of his individual life and reign. As he prepares to relinquish the throne and die, David waxes on about kingship. That is the subject of his "last words."
Significantly, we see that David's reign is a function of the provident work and sovereign choice of God. David does not reckon his throne to his shrewdness or savvy. He is not king because of his strength, feats, or maneuvers. It is neither royal line, victories on the battlefield, nor political effectiveness that gained David his crown; rather it is entirely the work of God. It is the Lord who has favored, exalted, and anointed David.
Furthermore, David expresses here his understanding that his reign is not just initiated by God but lived out "in the fear of God" and permanently established by virtue of "an everlasting covenant" from God. All of David's help and prosperity, therefore, are the work of God.
It is customary in our day for accomplished people -- from winning coaches to top executives -- to write books that outline the keys to their success. If David had written such a book, it would have been a short one. For while his list of successes was long, his list of keys is not. It is all about God.
Revelation 1:4b-8
All of our lights are artificial.
Designers and interior decorators will sometimes speak of "natural light" over against "artificial light." Natural light, of course, refers to the light that comes into a room from the sun, while artificial light is anything we human beings manage to manufacture for ourselves in the absence of the sun. If you look at our stadiums, metropolitan areas at night, and our "big box" home improvement stores, you can see that we human beings can generate a lot of light. Yet when it's all said and done, our light cannot hold a candle to the sun.
Let us imagine, then, how grim our situation would be if we lost all sense for natural light. What if the only light we knew was what we could turn on with a switch? The light and warmth of the sun is literally "out of this world" and nothing about our manufactured lights would equip us to imagine it.
So too with the glory and majesty of God.
We enjoy a certain amount of pomp and circumstance in our worldly cultures. We routinely witness a sort of glitzy form of glory. And we have our various definitions of "power." Yet to the extent that our world does not really know God, and as our culture drifts further and further from him, we are like that imaginary circumstance in which we are only exposed to artificial light. The actual glory, majesty, and power of God are beyond our comprehension. Our human experiences of such things are incapable of preparing us from the real thing.
The opening verses of Revelation give us a glimpse of the real thing.
My experience in thirty years of ministry is that Revelation reveals our human preoccupation with artificial light. I have met a great many people who are fascinated by the book, but that fascination almost always seems to be misplaced. That is to say, folks look to the book for insight into human events and affairs. Yet the best thing that this book offers is not human but divine. It is not what it explains to us about our newspapers, but rather what it reveals to us about our Lord.
Even within these initial verses, which are often skimmed past as merely introductory, we are offered a profound glimpse of the character, work, and glory of God. He is revealed as almighty, eternal, and reigning above all. Yet it is against that backdrop of unrivaled majesty, then, that his mercy and love are seen more clearly, for he is the one "who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood." What an unfathomable condescension from the one who is "the ruler of the kings of the earth."
The reference to "the kings of the earth," meanwhile, resonates with our larger theme for the week. We see that all human potentates are dwarfed by and subject to the eternal one. Right from the start, he is identified with a throne. Also, while human kings have their own little jurisdictions, "all the tribes of the earth" will see and respond to this one king. Finally, all of the pageantry and power associated with earthly rulers are small potatoes compared to the unending "glory and dominion" that are ascribed to the Lord.
John 18:33-37
"King of the Jews" seems to have been the default setting. It was a misunderstanding, to be sure, but it appears to have been the most common misunderstanding. This was, after all, what the Magi thought they were coming to find (Matthew 2:2). It was the basis for the soldiers' mocking as they beat Jesus (John 19:2-3) and as they crucified him (Luke 23:36-37). It was Pilate's label for him when addressing the bloodthirsty crowd (Mark 15:9) and when identifying him on the cross (Mark 15:26). And, here, it was Pilate's first question to Jesus: "Are you the King of the Jews?"
Herod the Great may give us some helpful insight into the connotation of the title. When the wise men come from the east seeking the one born to be king of the Jews, Herod responded by asking the chief priests and the scribes "where the Messiah was to be born" (Matthew 2:4). In that moment, you see, Herod translates "king of the Jews" for us. The wise men say "king of the Jews," and Herod hears "Messiah."
This, no doubt, is why Jesus insisted on talking about the cross as soon as he was positively identified as the Christ (Mark 8:29-31). All of the human connotations with "king" would suggest to his followers conquest, human glory, and earthly rule. But "(his) kingdom is not from this world." So the disciples needed to shed from the start any misapprehension about the Christ. The anticipated "king of the Jews" had, in fact, a much different, higher kingdom in view.
The dialogue between Jesus and Pilate puts the matter in perspective. Pilate's thinking runs on the same narrow rails that all the others had. "Are you the King of the Jews?" he asks. And when Jesus presses him on the subject, Pilate is quick to exclude himself from the province of the discussion: "I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and chief priests have handed you over to me."
Pilate pretends that he is comfortably outside the circle of this dispute. This is a local thing... regional... ethnic. And the whole nuisance involves him only to the extent that he is lord over the land where the dispute takes place, and so he must adjudicate its resolution.
In truth, of course, Pilate is neither outside the circle, nor is he lord over the situation. In one of the great dramatic ironies of human history, the importance of these two men is contrary to all appearances. To the outside observer, you see, Pilate is the man with the power and rank, while Jesus is just one more Roman subject under Pilate's authority. But twenty centuries later, we see that it is Jesus who has the real power and rank. And the Roman governor's greatest claim to fame is nothing other than the role that he played in the life and death of Jesus.
Before our selected portion of the dialogue with Pilate is complete, Jesus introduces the issue of truth. This is thematically central to John's gospel, of course, and it gives rise to the compelling summary statement that Jesus offers. He encapsulates the reason that he was born and came into the world in this simple phrase: "to testify to the truth."
In the end, Pilate would remain stubbornly fixed in his preconceived paradigm. He would post above Jesus' head on the cross the sign that identified Jesus as the "king of the Jews." One wonders, though, if he secretly knew better. Feared better. For in this moment he was told better by the one whose kingdom "is not from here."
Application
We don't know much about Pontius Pilate. He is among the most famous characters in world history; yet his story remains mostly untold. We do not know what dreams and plans he may have had. Perhaps he was an effective and ambitious man. If so, he would not have reckoned that the trial of a minor Jewish criminal would have been the most important item on his schedule that day.
In reality, it was the most important deed of his entire life.
For all of his seeming significance and power at that moment on that day, Pontius Pilate would have receded into almost complete anonymity if it had not been for his contact with this Jewish carpenter's son. He is infamous for that contact, to be sure. Yet his name is known by millions upon millions of people around the world, who recite his name routinely within their core statement of what they believe.
The point is that Pilate's importance is derivative. In the final analysis, he is not important in his own right. He is only important because of Jesus.
At a different level, the final words of David affirm the same truth. David did not know Jesus by name, and they did not cross paths in history the way that Pilate and Jesus did. Nevertheless, David had enough wisdom and perspective to see that his reign, power, glory, and importance were all derivative. They all traced back to the choice and work of God. Then, going beyond the brief span of David's own life and reign, we see that his greatest significance is also found in Christ. For while his buildings and his borders have come and gone, he is forever cherished for what took place in "the city of David" (Luke 2:11), where the most anticipated and famous "son of David" (Matthew 21:9-15, 22:41-42; Luke 18:38-39) was born.
And what is true of Pilate and David is true of all of us. Our importance is entirely derivative. Our ultimate significance is found only and entirely in him.
We considered at the outset the immensity of outer space. Why should the creator and king of all of that give a second thought to our speck of dust? Yet he gives not only a second thought, but he gives his own Son. Hence, we are significant.
Then that eternal king takes yet one more unthinkable step. In addition to his incarnation and his saving death, he then "made us to be a kingdom." The ultimate and eternal king deigns to include us in his kingdom. For amidst Revelation's portrait of the trumping power and sovereignty of God, we are suddenly brought into the picture, not merely as conquests or subjects, but as "priests serving his God and Father."
This Sunday, we affirm Christ as King. As we see him and see ourselves clearly, we will see how small and insignificant we are by comparison. Even our biggest and brightest and most important things are dwarfed. But then, in the next breath, we discover that we are immeasurably significant -- though not on our own. We are significant because of him.
Alternative Application
Revelation 1:4b-8. "The death of kings." Shakespeare's Richard II invites his companions to "sit upon the ground / and tell sad stories of the death of kings."1 He soberly observes that death is the real monarch, and kings sit on their thrones only temporarily. Thinking himself more sovereign and impregnable than he is, the human king reigns arrogantly until death "bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!" And so Richard admits that the king's crown is worn on "mortal temples."
Even a tiny knowledge of history confirms Richard's somber outlook. The kings of the earth come and go with such predictable regularity as to raise a question about their significance even while they are alive. They come to power, they fight their battles, and they pass on. They rise and fall. Whatever importance they have, it is not ultimate.
Our passages this week prompt us to ponder the death of kings. The Old Testament lection features King David's last words, reminding us that even the greatest, most accomplished of kings go the way of all flesh. The gospel passage, meanwhile, suggests the execution of a king -- or a would-be king, at least. And then there is the reading from Revelation.
These opening lines from Revelation give us, as Christians, the ultimate perspective on the death of kings. For here we are given a glorious glimpse of the one who is the King of kings -- "the ruler of the kings of the earth." He is the ultimate king, whose reign is forever. And yet he too died.
The passage makes three references to his death. He is "the firstborn of the dead." He has freed us "by his blood." He is the one who was "pierced." Unlike every other king, however, this king's death is not the final chapter in his reign. Not at all.
He is different precisely because he is "the firstborn of the dead." For his death was not final. He rose again to be given "glory and dominion forever and ever."
For all of their pomp and glory, every consideration of human kings should prompt us, with Richard, to ponder the death of kings. And when we do, we will be reminded of the King of kings, who died for all and who reigns forever.
__________
1. William Shakespeare, The Life and Death of Richard the Second, Act 3, Scene 2.
