The Sign [Proper 29C (Christ the King) - Luke 23:33-43]

 The Rt. Rev. Jeremiah Williamson

Luke 23:33-43

 

The Sign

Calvary, Burnt Hills, NY

 

The sign is a joke.  Not a funny joke; not a joke that brings joy or happiness to the world.  It is, instead, one of those “clever” jokes, like a cartoon in the New Yorker. Maybe it doesn’t make you laugh out loud, but if you get it, if you can untangle the irony, you smile a little and feel smart.  The sign was that kind of joke.

 

And the joke, this joke, it is on us.  Because we clearly don’t get it, don’t get the clever irony.  We take the sign, nailed as it was just above the head of Jesus, literally.  As if that sign was an informative museum plaque.  And that is a strange stance to take, given the circumstance, in light of the terrible events of this Gospel story.   

 

Most everyone in the story was in on the joke.  The leaders riffed on it, for the entertainment of the crowd, stand-up in the way desperate politicians think they can be comedians: “If he is the Messiah, let him save himself.”  The soldiers, the ones working the crucifixion shift, they enjoyed the humor, despite its darkness.  They teased the man beneath the sign.  And even the criminal, the one hanging on the cross beside Jesus, even he thought it was funny.  Maybe the joke distracted him from his own dire circumstances.  Or maybe he was just cruel.  Given his fate, that is certainly not beyond the realm of possibility.  But anyway, he thought derision worthy of his dying breath.

 

The joke was obvious, of course – even lazy.  Jesus, the one marked with the royal placard, didn’t have the look of a king – certainly not on that day.  His crown was thorns.  His appearance was pitiful.  His swollen face adorned with a patchy beard – partially, and forcefully, removed.  He was arrayed in crimson, but only because of the whips and the nails.  The company of his court: two condemned men.  And his royal throne was a rugged cross.  And so it is no mystery why the heartless in the audience appreciated the juxtaposition of sign and scene.  It was an easy joke but for some, for those who lacked imagination, it was effective.

 

The mystery of this lesson is what the other criminal, the one who failed to get the joke, saw in Jesus.  He, like us, took the sign literally.  And I wonder why.  He, unlike us, did not have the privilege of Easter hindsight.  He had only what he saw.  And that was ugly and decidedly undignified. 

 

And while it is possible that, before the cross, some might have flattered Jesus in hope of healing, maybe even because he was known to make bread, this man had no hope – at least not on this earth.  He was done and his last words were reserved for someone else who was, like him, clearly at the end of the line.

 

And yet, unlike the man who used his dying breath to deride, this man wastes his dying breath on some ragged hope.  Some ragged hope placed in a ragged man, a ragged man hanging beneath a ragged sign.  His prayer is one that we could pray still today – “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” – but we pray that prayer to the Jesus in your stained glass window, the one with the Easter glow and the golden crown and the royal robes.  The criminal didn’t know that Jesus.  He knew only the Jesus with the nails and thorns.

 

In John’s Gospel the Risen Christ says to Thomas, who was finding it hard to believe, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”  And I appreciate Jesus’ endorsement – although I am still pretty impressed with Thomas despite his sight.  And I acknowledge that it does take a lot of faith for us to celebrate Christ the King this Sunday.  We admittedly operate this religion without much proof.  But I am most impressed with this criminal.  Because he saw too much and still found a way to produce some stubborn faith – enough faith to take that ridiculous sign seriously.

 

The truth is: most of the time I think I find the Christ the King from our Colossians’ reading more appealing.  He’s cosmic and powerful, stretched across the universe and forever victorious.  And that feels like the kind of Jesus you want on your side.  Like everything will be OK if that Christ is your king. 

 

The one stretched across wood, who appears to have lost, feels a little less certain.  The one beneath the sign, the butt of the joke, doesn’t fit our typical image of a king – neither does he fit our image of a god.

 

Which, I assume, is the point.  That all of this is to show us that we have had it all wrong all along.  That the goal was never the pursuit of power or wealth or fame – a pursuit that has left behind it a wake of destruction, death, and devastation.  The goal of this king, and the grail of his kingdom, was to love us to death.  And that he did.

 

And to invite us into his kingdom.  And that he does.  But the way into the kingdom of Christ the King is most apparent, not to those with deep pockets or exclusive VIP passes, but instead to those who are foolish enough to follow the sign.