What Kind of King is This??

Hi Friends,  

Merry Christmas season!!  We decorated our tree over the weekend and got out all our red and green … in hopes of preparing our hearts and minds for the celebration of the coming of Jesus, God incarnate, Emmanuel, God-with-us, into the world and into our lives.  How wonderful is that?!!?

Then, this coming Sunday, our church is having our Great Joy! Christmas event, with orchestra (Bryan, Joelle, and Bethany are all in the orchestra), choir, and two drama monologues.  I'm doing the monologues (my first time doing something like this!!).  I'm going to be dressed as Mary and will deliver the two monologues as her older self reflecting back.  (If you're in the Salinas area, I'll hope you'll come by -- 9am and 10:45am at Salinas Valley Community Church, 368 San Juan Grade Road).

Anyway, I thought it would be fun to share the second monologue here.  And while it's told from Mary's point of view, I think it holds questions for all of us.

As you prepare your heart for Christmas, perhaps this script (adapted from my upcoming Wrestling with Wonder book - yay!) will help you see Him in a deeper way.  I hope so!

So, here ya go:

Mary's Monologue: 

Christ was born.  Born in a barn, wrapped in rags, laid in a feeding trough.  We didn’t have a  palace, we didn’t even have a crib, let alone soft silk meant for a king.  The animals were our witnesses.  Lowly shepherds our first visitors. 

            And I thought . . . What kind of King is this?

            I held him in my arms. He nestled, and nuzzled. So normal. So real. He let out a cry, his mouth open, searching. I smiled and guided him to eat.  I gazed down at his pink cheeks, his stock of curly black hair. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his skin … this newborn son of mine.

Of God’s.

This … Messiah?

Rescuer. Deliverer. Redeemer. King … Baby.

What kind of King is this?

            He grew up, my Messiah-Son.  And was nothing like I expected.  He didn’t conquer Rome, he didn’t rule the nations, he didn’t raise an army or free Israel . . . at least not in the way I had dreamed.

            Instead, he asked me to face my deepest fear. My darkest doubt. My nightmare.

            A young man came to my door in the night. He came all disheveled and out of breath. He said, “They’ve arrested your son.” Men came—soldiers, crowds, but not only them, the priests came too, the very leaders of my people. They came by night to a garden with their clubs and torches and swords. And they took him.

            They took him to Gabbatha. The place of judgment.

            So, I went there too.  And I stood there, shaking, in a courtyard with a crowd with the sun beating down on us.  And my son, my Jesus, wavering on the platform before me.  I barely recognized him. His eye was swollen, his clothes bloody. He looked like a lamb already slaughtered.

            Oh, God, what kind of King is this?

            He did wear a purple robe, but it was to mock him. And on his head ... Oh ...  On his head was a crown, but it wasn’t a crown of gold, it was a crown made from the thorns of the akanthos bush. And blood ran down his forehead, his cheeks.

            Pilate held up his hand. “Behold … your king!” he shouted.

            But what kind of King is this?

            A king isn’t beaten.

            A king isn’t bloody.

            A king doesn’t die a criminal’s death.

            Or … or does He?

            Pilate spoke again. “What shall I do with this Jesus?”

            The question drove into me like a soul-piercing sword. What shall I do with this Jesus? What shall I do with a Son destined to die?
            What shall I do with this kind of King?