What Kind of King is This?

Hi Friends,

As we prepare our hearts for Christmas, I'm thinking of what it might have been like for Mary, Jesus' mother, to encounter Christ the King.

I wonder if she would tell us something like this:

He was born in a barn, wrapped in rags, laid in a feeding trough.  No palace, no crib, no soft silk meant for a king.  The animals were our witnesses.  Lowly shepherds our first visitors.  

            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.  He was strong, this newborn son of mine. Of God’s. This Messiah. 

I rolled the word over in my mind as I gazed down at his pink cheeks, his stock of curly black hair. His eyes were closed, his lashes dark against his skin. 

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 me in the night. He came disheveled and out of breath. Told me they had arrested my son. Men came—soldiers, crowds, but not only them, the priests came too. The leaders of my people. They came by night to a garden with clubs and torches and swords. And they took him.

            They took him to Gabbatha, the Stone Pavement. The place of judgment.   

            I went too.  I stood there, shaking, in a courtyard with a crowd. The noonday sun beat down on us, illuminating the stones, the people, the priests, Pilate, and my son, my Jesus, wavering on the platform before me. A glance stole my breath, constricted my heart. I barely recognized him. His eye was swollen, his clothes bloody. He looked like a lamb already slaughtered.

            What kind of King is this?

            He did wear a purple robe, but it was to mock him. And on his head ... Oh, ... My soul shattered.  

            On his head was not a crown of gold, but a crown made of the thorns of the akanthos bush. Blood ran down his forehead, his cheeks. 

            Akanthos, a symbol of my people’s shame ...

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

            I covered my face, peeked through my fingers.

            “Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?”

            For a moment, hope soared through me.

            And was crushed by a single word: “Barabbas!”

            Just days before the crowds welcomed him like David coming into his kingdom. They laid palm branches, they cried hosanna! They sang, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the king of Israel!” They threw down their coats so the colt’s hooves would not even touch the dirt. 

            And I believed he rode in to claim his kingdom at last.

            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 does He?

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

            The question drove into me like a soul-piercing sword. It drove through me, became my own. What shall I do with this Jesus? What shall I do with a King destined to die?

            What shall I do with this kind of King?