John 18:33-37
33 Then Pilate entered the
headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, "Are you the King of
the Jews?" 34 Jesus answered, "Do you ask this on your own, or did others
tell you about me?" 35 Pilate replied, "I am not a Jew, am I? Your
own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you
done?" 36 Jesus answered, "My kingdom is not from this world. If my
kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from
being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here."
37 Pilate asked him, "So you are a king?" Jesus answered, "You
say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world,
to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my
voice."
It’s a mask made of solid gold, inlaid with carnelian (a
reddish semi-precious stone), lapis lazuli (a deep blue precious stone),
turquoise-colored glass, and quartz. There are two golden serpents, poised to
strike, perched on the forehead of a face that bears the expression of regality
and youthful pride. The long, stylized beard that protrudes from his chin tells
those who may see such a mask that the one beneath it was indeed one of
importance, one whose power was so great it was believed to have extended even
into the afterlife. Two scepters are crossed over his chest, further signs of
power and royalty. It is the mask of the young king, Tutankhamun, better known
as King Tut. His burial mask is so well-known that it is often the first image
that comes to mind alongside the pyramids and the sphinx when one thinks of
Egypt. The golden burial mask that bears the image of the boy king’s face, an
image of power, pride, and a hint of arrogance—that’s the image of a king.
Then there’s the engraving of the emperor Charlemagne the
Great from around the year 800 A.D. The emperor is decked out in his royal
armor, complete with golden inlays of fleur-de-lis and what looks like some
sort of wild warbird. Across his shoulders is a cape of gold and red, clasped
at his breast with a large ruby surrounded by other jewels. Atop his noble head
is a grand, bejeweled crown; in his left hand he holds a golden scepter, and in
his right hand he holds the Palatine Chapel, one of the architectural marvels
that made up Charlemagne’s grand palace in what is now Germany. With his long
hair and beard, his steady eyes, and confident expression, the armored,
gold-plated, crown-wearing, scepter wielding emperor looks every bit the image
of a king.
Then there’s the lost painting of Hans Holbein the
Younger of Henry VIII. While the actual painting itself was lost to a fire in
1698, there are copies that have helped to preserve this image of one of the
most famous British monarchs. While there’s no sign of a crown, no throne,
scepter, robes, or armor, it is plain to see that this is the image of a king.
Henry stands with his feet apart, his ringed hands by his sides, and a dagger
hanging from his belt. His clothes are clearly the clothes of the wealthy
elite, the velvet hat atop his head a sign that he belongs to such a high class
of people that he can cover his head with such luxury. Even the sleeves of his
shirt seem to be covered with rubies and gold, the kind of uncomfortable and
impractical garb that only a monarch would wear. The expression on his face is
one of stern confidence, as if he was posing for the only portrait ever worthy
of being hung on a castle wall or the altar of a cathedral. That’s the image of
a king!
Then there’s the picture painted by the scene before us in Holy
Scripture: the Roman-appointed governor in his authoritarian get-up, the
comfortable robe, over which he may have been wearing a chest plate, a pleated
kilt, and a scarlet robe. In his hands he held the power of the empire in this
backwater province of Judea. Sure, the people could rule themselves, hold their
own courts, continue worshipping their gods, just as long as they didn’t cross
the Empire, and in that region of the world, the Empire was personified in the
governor, the propraetor, the proconsul, in Pilate. To many in that time and
place, Pilate was what a king looked like, clothed in the garb of the Romans,
wielding the appointed power of the Caesar. Pilate, however, is not the one
being asked if he’s a king. No, Pilate poses the question to the ragged Jew
chained before him in the chambers of his headquarters.
"Are you
the King of the Jews?" Pilate asks Jesus. “Was he a king?” There was no sign that
his head and neck had ever been weighed down by the heft of a crown. There were
no callouses caused by the ceaseless waving of a scepter. His skin was not
fair, unburned by the sun, protected by the soft silk of a royal robe or the
gilded plates of an emperor’s armor. His hair and beard were not well-trimmed,
scented with palace perfumes; the soles of his feet were not protected from the
harsh, Judean roads by the soft leather of a Roman’s sandals, nor did it appear
he had ever been carried on a litter by his own servants. He was rough, likely
smelled of dirt and sweat, his hair and beard were unkempt, his lip busted or
his eye swollen from the blow he had taken from another the night before. He
was more than likely exhausted from a sleepless night of prayer, arrest, and
trial. He stood before the Roman governor—his political superior—and heard him
ask, “Are you the King of the Jews?”
The conversation
that follows is the most detailed version in the four gospels. Jesus answers
Pilate’s question with another question in verse
34: "Do you ask this on your own, or
did others tell you about me?" Pilate’s reply (frustratingly
enough) is yet another question followed by yet another question still: "I
am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over
to me. What have you done?" Then Jesus carries on with the
conversation, but almost as if he’s having a completely different one: "My
kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my
followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But
as it is, my kingdom is not from here." “My kingdom”?
So Jesus is admitting to being a king here, right? That’s what Pilate asks him
in verse 37:"So you are a king?" to which Jesus
answered, "You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I
came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth
listens to my voice."
Why won’t Jesus
come right out and say “Yes, Pilate, I am a king. I am THE king. I am the king
of kings and the Lord of lords. I am the Alpha and Omega, the First and the
Last, the Sho-nuff, the Always has, Always been, and Always will be”? Why
doesn’t Jesus come right out with it and demand to be set free, call for a
crown, a robe, and a ride to his palace? Why does he say all of this stuff
about having a kingdom that’s not of this world, a kingdom that doesn’t elicit
violence from his followers, a kingdom that doesn’t demand defense?
On the one hand,
I suppose it wouldn’t have done him any good. After all, Pilate may have just
laughed in his face: him, a king? Shackled and road-worn? Pilate may have cut
the conversation even shorter and had him released with a verdict of “not
guilty by reason of insanity!” Then again, it could have sent Pilate into a
panic: he was there in Judea at that time to keep the peace, to make sure
things didn’t get out of hand during the Passover festival. For there to be
some rabble rouser claiming to be the king who (at least at one time) had
thousands of followers, that would have certainly meant trouble—the kind of
trouble Pilate didn’t want. So if Jesus had just said he was a king, Pilate may
have done whatever the Sanhedrin had asked just to keep the peace during the
Passover. Then again, there may be another reason Jesus didn’t just come right
out and say he was a king…at least not before he was sure Pilate understood one
thing.
Pilate asked
Jesus if he was a king. That is to say, Pilate asked Jesus if he was a ruler,
one with the power over a kingdom of subjects, an army, a treasury, borders,
flags, traditions, the power to threaten others with power. Was Jesus a king?
Did he sport a crown, armor and a war horse? Was he the type of political power
that gave easy answers to hard questions, who was willing to uphold the
nobility at the expense of the commoner? Was he a monarch with the power to
oppress those who stood in his way, to march legions into other nations and
lands he wished to rule? Was he the kind of ruler who demanded loyalty and
admiration from those in his kingdom? Was he really a king?
You know, that’s
the kind of leader it seems so many like, isn’t it? The one in the tailored
suit, with the lapel pin, the one with the tailored answers to propped-up
questions, the one who “plays to the base,” the one who is emboldened by the
prospect of power and control, the one whose eyes are set on a throne. It no
longer matters if they’re called king, emperor, chancellor, or president, when
we think of those people who rule, those who govern, they too often fit the
description of one in power. So maybe—maybe—when Jesus doesn’t give Pilate an
answer right away, when he first explains that his kingdom is not of this
world, there’s a reason, and maybe that reason has everything to do with the
reality that Jesus doesn’t fit our expectations of a king, of an emperor, of a
president. Perhaps Jesus’ kingdom doesn’t fit our expectations of a kingdom—one
of this world, one in which the rich always seem to get richer while the poor
get poorer, one in which lines are drawn and fought over, one in which parties
are picked and differences are declared irreconcilable.
Maybe Jesus
isn’t so quick to confess his kingship to Pilate because he’s afraid we’ll over
hear him and want to jump to conclusions, conclusions about thrones, castles,
crowns, and power. That those of us who claim to be followers of Jesus, a part
of his kingdom, will want to begin drawing lines, setting the boundaries for
our own corner of the kingdom, a corner we believe we somehow deserve because
we’ve earned it. Perhaps Jesus isn’t so quick to confess his own kingship
because he knows what we’ll do with it, how we’ll mess it up, how we’ll
misunderstand it. Because when we think of kings, we think of those who wield
the power of an army to inflict pain and cause damage, not those who say “turn
the other cheek…and when someone takes your cot give them your shirt too.”
Because when we think of kings, we think of those who feast sumptuously at long
tables in grand halls, not those who dine with prostitutes, lepers, and the
poor sinners of this world. Because when we think about kings, we think of
those who seek more for themselves, to have more money, more land, more power,
not those who seek to give it all away. Because when we think of kings, we
think of those who wear crowns of gold and sit upon polished thrones, not those
whose heads are crowned with thorns and whose bodies hang upon a rugged cross.
Then again, that really is the thing about Jesus, isn’t it? We think
things are one way, and he shows us that it’s really the other way around. When
we think life is about getting what’s ours, about making ourselves comfortable,
Jesus tells us to deny ourselves. When we think life is about safety, about
surviving, Jesus tells us to take up our cross. When we think being an heir to
the kingdom means long banquet tables with reserved seating, Jesus puts a table
before us all and invites all who would to come and dine. When we think
kingdoms are about thrones, crowns, and robes, Jesus shows us a cradle, a cup,
bread, and a cross!
As we take from the King’s table set before us this morning, may we be
reminded that we worship a king whose power isn’t found in the might of his
army, the wealth of his treasury, or the vast borders of his dominion. We serve
a king whose power is found in the inside-out, upside-down, unexpected,
always-more, eternal, unending, unfailing, love for us all. We serve a king
whose kingdom is so beautifully described in the words of James Russel Lowell:
I followed where they led,
and in a hovel rude,
with naught to fence the weather from His head
the King I sought for meekly stood;
a naked hungry child
clung round His gracious knee,
and a poor hunted slave looked up and smiled
to bless the smile that set him free;
new miracles I saw His presence do,
no more I knew the hovel bare and poor,
the gathered chips into a woodpile grew
the broken morsel swelled to goodly store.
I knelt and wept: my Christ no more I seek,
His throne is with the outcast and the weak.
“His throne is with the outcast
and the weak.” Praise be to King Jesus! Amen.
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