“Then they shouted, ‘Take him away. Take him away.’ Pilate said to them, ‘Your king, you would crucify him?’ The Chief Priests replied, ‘We do not have a king, only Caesar'” (John 9.15).
A little gruesome for these early winter days, perhaps. Just days before the little child of Joseph and Mary is born, this talk of the story’s climax is jarring, even disturbing. It conjures up images of that little, innocent baby being taken away and nailed to a cross.
We’ve spent Advent talking about kings and rulers and what it means to call Jesus the ruler of all rulers, the king of all kings. We’ve come again and again to the challenge to this world and its powers when we declare that this man with no wealth, no political capital, no authority is the ruler of rulers. And no matter how many times or ways we try to tell it, the beginning and ending of his story run into the paradox of our faith: that nothing about this man’s life says king.
Take him away, the crowd shouts. The tradition is that the voices that say these things, that cry for this man’s death are ours. This moment in the story is one that plays over and over again. We are presented with Jesus, we see at him as vulnerable and weak as a newborn, and declare to Heaven and Earth that we prefer the kings of this world to him.
After all what does he have for us? A promise of bread for today? There are Presidents and Prime Ministers who will give us overflowing shelves on which to feast. The scars of the world’s wounds? Our kings will give us the blood of our enemies. The hope for a future where love and justice reign, the first are last and the last first? We can find a king who will give us the days we remember, or imagine we do.
A child, dependent, innocent, and vulnerable? Take him away. Give us men who are strong, independent, and wise to the ways of our broken world.
But we can choose differently.
As this week comes to a close, many of us will sing familiar songs where the night is silent, angels make the birth announcement, and lowly shepherds make their pilgrimage. In the moments between sunset and sunrise, we will dare to believe that candles are enough to hold back the night and that strangers are made out of the same stuff as us.
Then, after, the days will stretch forth with bills that come due and our world stripped to January bare. That Christmas moment will seem distant, almost childlike. And we’ll find ourselves facing Caesar and Christ, and have to decide which one is our king. Will we cling to the promises of those who would rule us, or what we glimpsed in that moment when all was calm and bright?
Will we have him taken away, once again?
Christ you came to us vulnerable, with nothing but love to give. The world around us with its powers promises us all its riches, and it can be so tempting in the face of so much uncertainty. As we prepare for a new season, give us courage to kneel with forgettable shepherds and declare that your way, your reign is the desire for which our hearts truly long.