Christ the King (A) – 23 November 2014

sermon preached at St Oswald’s, King’s Park, Glasgow

Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Psalm 100
Ephesians 1:15-23
Matthew 25:31-46

Today, the last Sunday of the Church’s Year, is Christ the King Sunday. The German Protestant Churches call it Ewigkeitssonntag – eternity Sunday – and this is indeed a day – indeed it is a season – in which we contemplate eternity. Over the last few weeks our readings have called us to reflect on judgement and the Last Things, and today we turn particularly to reflect on Christ’s reign over the kingdom – Christ as King.

In this year, the centenary of the outbreak of the First World War, it is worth remembering that the Feast of Christ the King was established in the aftermath of that war. It was instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI. Pius XI was deeply concerned about the state of the world; worried that “the majority of men had thrust Jesus Christ and his holy law out of their lives; that these had no place either in private affairs or in politics: and … that as long as individuals and states refused to submit to the rule of our Saviour, there would be no really hopeful prospect of a lasting peace among nations.”[1]   For Pius XI, the emphasis in thinking of Christ as the King is on Christ as the King of peace. By instituting the feast of Christ the King, Pius XI was looking for a way to remind all people, and especially all secular rulers, that the Church “has a natural and inalienable right to perfect freedom and immunity from the power of the state,” that it should not be suppressed or persecuted. As the encyclical put it, “not only private individuals but also rulers and princes are bound to give public honour and obedience to Christ.”

Persecution of the Church was a growing problem in 1920s, in the context of the growth of communism and fascism and of increasing economic instability; it would become more so in the 1930s. Perhaps this makes this festival particularly poignant as we witness the increased persecution of Christians today.

But the feast of Christ the King was also intended to inspire all Christians to live their lives under Christ’s reign: “Christ must reign in our minds … . He must reign in our wills … He must reign in our hearts …. He must reign in our bodies … which should serve as instruments for the interior sanctification of our souls.”

In short – and this is in short, since the encyclical was quite long! – the feast of Christ the King as it was first conceived was intended to put worldly interests and powers and authorities into perspective: to remind us that Christ reigns, and that Christ’s reign is not only about our individual faith but about our social and legal structures, not only about how we to worship Christ, but also about how we relate to the world. That is: recognising Christ’s kingship is a matter of our daily choices as we live our lives. In proclaiming Christ as our King, we are – or should be – challenged to recognise that what we do matters.

Matthew’s Gospel reminds us that Christ’s kingship is about judgment. As we celebrate Christ the King, we contemplate the reality of our lives, and the reality of eternal life, life after death. In that sense the Feast of Christ the King is the culmination of the themes of our Sunday lectionary over the past few weeks. As the last Sunday of the Church year, it rounds off what is sometimes called the kingdom season, that pre-Advent time which faces us over and over again with reflections on our mortality, on our readiness for the coming of Christ: beginning with All Saints and All Souls, and taking us through a series of rather alarming gospels about what happens to those who are not ready for what happens to them – whether as bridesmaids who have forgotten their oil, or as servants who have misjudged their master and buried their talents. That is, this season, and the feast of Christ the King, confronts us with death, which leads us into eternal life. We hope.

Whether that hope is to be fulfilled depends on how we live our lives now, as we are forcibly reminded in today’s gospel. Christ the King is also the judge. Christ will declare whether we are blessed or whether we are damned. And the thing about this judgment is that it is not centred on glorifying the person of the king directly. And it is not those whose lives have looked most holy, or religious, or churchy who are being offered eternal life. No: it was their kindness to others.  “You are blessed by my father; you inherit the kingdom and eternal life,” says Christ the King to those to the left of him. “Because you fed me when I was hungry; you gave me a drink when I was thirsty; you clothed me when I was naked; you welcomed me when I was a stranger.”

And they are utterly astonished. We did? When did we do all that to you? “You did it to the least of my family, you did it to me.”

The others are dumbfounded too. Told they are accursed, damned, they can’t believe they’ve heard right. “When did we see you hungry or thirsty or naked and didn’t do anything about it?” they ask. “You missed doing it for the least of these, you missed doing it for me,” says Jesus.

What we do matters. Matters more than we may know. Matters for eternity. But it matters so much that there is strangely no use worrying about it. Because the paradox of Christ the King we serve is that what he judges is ourselves as we are, turned to others as he was, doing as he did, not for the sake of what it might bring us – and remember what it brought him was death upon the cross – but for the sake of those to whom we do it, for the sake of the love that binds us to all those amongst whom we live, for the sake of Christ who is in everyone. And if we think about it, if we stop to think about it, to tot up how many good works we have done to others for the sake of what it might earn us with Christ in terms of eternity, then I suspect that we are already beginning to fail, to slip to doing it – not for Christ, not for those others who are Christ – but for our own sakes, for what it might get us.

To do for the sake of others and not for the sake of ourselves. That is the reign of Christ in our hearts, minds, wills, bodies. Worship of Christ the King – turned towards what is good for those in whom Christ is. Not orientated according to the world says, or what looks pious, but towards Christ. In our whole lives, not just on Sundays. So that the whole world may proclaim that Christ is indeed King.

Amen

[1]  All quotations from the Encyclical “Quas Primas” are taken from: http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/pius_xi/encyclicals/documents/hf_p-xi_enc_11121925_quas-primas_en.html.

Remembrance Sunday – 9 November 2014

sermon preached at St Margaret’s Newlands, Glasgow

Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25
1 Thessalonians 4:13-18
Matthew 25:1-13

Today we mark Remembrance Sunday, remembering the dead of the First World War, and of all the too many wars since. The First World War which began one hundred years ago this year, and which for over four years tore Europe apart, until the armistice was eventually signed at 11:00 a.m. on 11 November 1918. It is that signing, of course, that makes this Sunday Remembrance Sunday. But today – 9 November – is also a complex anniversary in its own right. An anniversary of three events which shaped German – and indeed European – history, and which in turn can shape our own remembering of war, our own remembering of what war means.

Twenty-five years ago, on 9 November 1989, the opening of the Berlin wall.

9 November 1989: Time Magazine reports:
Berlin wall falls. At the stroke of midnight on November 9, thousands who had gathered on both sides of the Wall let out a roar and started going through it, as well as up and over. West Berliners pulled East Berliners to the top of the barrier along which in years past many an East German had been shot while trying to escape. They brought out hammers and chisels and whacked away at the hated symbol of imprisonment, knocking loose chunks of concrete and waving them triumphantly before television cameras. It was one of those rare times when the tectonic plates of history shift beneath men’s feet, and nothing after is quite the same.
For Christ is our peace; in his flesh he has made both groups into one and has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us. [Ephesians 2:14]

Seventy-six years ago, on 9 November 1938, Reichskristallnacht, the burning of synagogues across Germany and the destruction of property which belonged to Jews.

9 November 1938: The Times reports:
Synogogues burned! As a result of the murder of Herr von Rath by a Polish Jew in Paris, all Jewish newspapers in Germany are ordered to cease publication until further notice and all Jewish cultural and educational societies to be dissolved. Other steps will be taken officially against the 400,000 Jews who remain in the Reich, but individual demonstrations or attacks on Jews are have been expressly forbidden. However, either the German authorities are a party to the burnings and beatings and blackguardly assaults upon defenceless people which are disgracing that country, or their powers over public order and a hooligan minority are not what they are proudly claimed to be.
For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. [Ephesians 6:12]

Ninety-six years ago, on 9 November 1918, the abdication of Kaiser Wilhelm II in the face of the German revolution.

9 November 1918: The Times reports:
5th year of the war. 98th day. Germany has been given until Monday morning, 11 November, to decide whether she will accept the terms of armistice or not. Reports have come through that the revolutionary movement which began at Kiel on Sunday has spread to most German ports. There are reports in Holland that revolution has also broken out in Berlin, and that the Kaiser has abdicated. The Archbishop of Canterbury issued the following notice yesterday: In the present uncertainty from day to day, or even from hour to hour, as to the possible signing of an armistice, it is essential that the clergy everywhere should make arrangements enabling a service of thanksgiving and prayer to be held at the shortest notice.
Now therefore, O kings, be wise; be warned, O rulers of the earth. Serve the Lord with fear, with trembling kiss his feet. [Psalm 2:10-11]

Those events remind us that the effects of war are not only felt in the terrible lists of the dead and the mourning and unlived futures that they leave behind, but that they are felt too in the ways in which societies respond, change, develop.

The German revolution emerged out of the despair of the German people towards the end of the First World War. As that despair morphed into anger and frustration, as the Weimar republic descended into civil war, National Socialism began to rise. The revolution and the abdication of the Kaiser gave rise to the search for a new security, a new order, and perhaps above all a new clarity about German’s role, which led to the 1933 elections and the establishment of the Third Reich – and as a consequence of that to the progroms against the German Jews of which Reichskristallnacht was one terrifying aspect. The rise of the Third Reich led into the Second World War, as Hitler’s claims to territory in central Europe (much more than the totalitarian regime which he headed up or its attitudes to the Jews) prompted other European powers to intervene. Out of the Second World War springs the shape of Europe with which I grew up, divided by the iron curtain, of which the Berlin wall was one sector. Until that miraculous year of 1989 when suddenly the borders opened and differences, it seemed, had been overcome.

But perhaps that year of European reconciliation in some strange way paved the way for the wars through which we now find ourselves living: the growing tensions with and within the Arab world. It certainly opened an era of growing uncertainty about European identity which is still affecting us and our political discourse deeply, opening up new levels of difference and distrust.

Wars do not happen in a hermetically sealed environment: that is really the point I want to make. The First World War did not just happen for over four years and then stop. Wars have causes, but they also have consequences which shape the future and affect the lives of many, not only at the time, but for years, decades, even centuries to come. And so when we remember – when we stop today to think about those who died – we do well to ponder the complex political and social legacies of war of which today’s quadruple anniversary reminds us. For these legacies in turn point us to the complex allegiances which drive us, and which drive our society.

Our Old Testament reading, from the book of Joshua, shows the people of Israel making an unequivocal commitment to giving up foreign gods and following God. This is, they affirm, “the Lord our God who brought us and our ancestors up from the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery, and who did those great signs in our sight. He protected us along all the way that we went, and among all the peoples through whom we passed; and the Lord drove out before us all the peoples, the Amorites who lived in the land. Therefore we also will serve the Lord, for he is our God.” (Joshua 24:17-18)

When we read our history, do we read it in this way? This passage has underlying hints of what today is called ethnic cleansing which are not unproblematic. Indeed, I think there is a real danger if we tangle up our sense of national identity with our sense of religious identity. Preachers in the First World War were often very sure that God was on their side – whichever side they were preaching on. There is a danger of tying God to one historical viewpoint in this way; and yet, as any contemplation of Reichskristallnacht reminds us, there are also moments in history when it seems necessary to act to combat injustice, to counter evil – even to the extent of embarking on a second world war.

Remembrance Sunday, however, is primarily and importantly about the immediate human consequences of war. There has been considerable discussion in recent weeks of the poppy memorial at the Tower of London, which by all accounts is a powerful, moving tribute to the British and Commonwealth dead. My own sadness about it is the focus on the national memory to the exclusion of the so many dead of the others countries that fought in the First World War.

In response to these concerns, the Quakers have produced a map showing the streets that would be covered by poppies if the Tower of London idea were extended to all those who died in the war. The numbers are appalling:

British and Commonwealth military deaths: 888,246 (this is the number marked by the poppies at the the Tower of London).

Other Allied military deaths: 4,170,720;
Germany & Central Powers’ military deaths: 3,366,650;
Allied countries, civilians killed by military violence: 3,301,386;
Central Powers, civilians killed by military violence:  2,975,000;
Allied country deaths from hunger and disease: 2,520,000;
Central Powers’ deaths from hunger and disease: 2,330,000).[1]

In total 19.5 million, whose deaths were caused directly by consequences of the First World War. The poppies would stretch along both sides of the river, to Lambeth Palace, the Houses of Parliament, and Westminster Abbey to Lambeth Bridge, would fill Whitehall and spread all the way down the Mall to Buckingham Palace. 19.5 million people, 19.5 million deaths.

Our reading from 1 Thessalonians points powerfully to the hope that their deaths were not the end, but that we will all meet again in the life to come, when Christ returns at the second coming. But this is not only about the eschaton. By remembering today the extent of war, the implications of war, we do something to make their deaths into symbols of hope here and now: hope that this kind of conflict will not again destroy the lives of so many, inspiring us to prayer and action to make it that way, inspiring us not to give into despair in the face of the situations of conflict that confront us now.

It can be very hard to know how to react as the news brings us information about one atrocity after another, of destruction and disintegration, threatening, at least in my case, to blunt me to any feeling at all. Perhaps our gospel reading this morning is a reminder that sometimes all we can do in this situation is to remain awake and attentive to the realities of what is happening, prepared, as the wise bridesmaids were, to respond when the need arises. We may not be able to do anything but wait and watch, watch and wait. And pray. That means to try to keep ourselves informed, without sinking into despair. And perhaps we can take hope from the fact that our quadruple anniversary today – from the abdication of the Kaiser and Remembrance Sunday in 1918, through Reichskristallnacht in 1938, to the falling of the Berlin wall twenty-five years ago – reminds us that the courses of history can and do shift and change: from conflict to reconciliation, and from despair to hope.

Let us pray:

We pray to you, O God,
the lover of all, for those whom we remember today,
For those we call our friends and allies,
and for those whom we have named our enemies.
Deliver us from the hardness of heart
that keeps us locked in confrontation.
Deliver us from the fear and hatred
that binds us in ways which lead away from you.
Grant to all people the blessing of your love.
And grant to us such transformation of our lives
that we might make peace with our enemies,
and that together we might make this world a safer place for all;
in Christ’s name we pray.^[2] Amen.

[1] See: https://www.google.com/maps/d/viewer?mid=ztmNGmuUWfH0.k5FfbOPspjLI. For the figures, click on the map captions.

[2]    Adapted from Vienna Cobb Anderson, SPCK Book of Prayer, # 379, p. 158.