Luke 23:33-43
Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
This is an interesting time of year. Thursday is Thanksgiving, the day we give thanks for all we have, and the next day, we go into debt to show those we love just how much we love them. But today is not only the last Sunday of the liturgical year, it is also “stir up Sunday.”
What, have you never heard of Stir-up Sunday? This feast goes way back to the times when folx made a special pudding for Christmas, and this Sunday, the Sunday before Advent, was the day you started stirring your Christmas pudding. So, there is that.
It is also the last Sunday we will hear from the Gospel of Luke in any meaningful way for the next two years. Sure, there will be some signs of Luke; we hear from Luke on Christmas, for example, because his is the only Gospel that mentions Jesus’ birth. But, for the next two years, we will hear from Luke’s other friends, Matthew, Mark, and my favorite, John.
Today is also Christ the King or the Reign of Christ Sunday. This feast or commemoration is, apart from Christmas and Easter, the only feast universally celebrated on this Sunday by the entirety of the Christian world. Think about that, for one Sunday, all of Christendom comes together to commemorate the Kingship of Jesus Christ.
But this is not an ancient feast, and it is one of the feast days on the liturgical calendar created in response to a secular event. In 1925, Pope Pius XI instituted the feast of Christ the King in response to growing secularism and secular ultra-nationalism. So important was this idea, so necessary was this idea that the Church stand up in the face of what was happening in the world that Protestant and Catholic came together. The Churches laid aside their differences in the face of the evil rising in the world and declared that Christ is King!
But we can find the origins of this idea of the Kingship of Christ in the writings of 5th-century bishop Cyril of Alexandria. Cyril said of Jesus that he “has dominion over all creatures, a dominion not seized by violence nor usurped, but by his essence and by nature.”
If you were to ask most people what a king looks like, they’d probably describe someone robbed in splendor, someone important, influential, surrounded by all the signs we associate with command and authority. Kings, after all, stand above the crowd. They decide, they decree, they rule. A king is supposed to project strength.
I am a big fan of monarchy. I love the majesty, splendor, and mystery of it all. I love rituals, and what is more splendid than the ritual of crowning a king? But what must also be remembered is that, although the King is sitting on an earthly throne, that throne is in a cathedral, not a palace or other government building. And when the crown is placed on the King’s head, it is an Archbishop and not a government functionary that does it. And we say, “God save the King,” and not “government save the King.”
And then we come to the Gospel passage from Luke we just heard.
Luke, in his telling of the story in all its contrary wisdom, gives us not Jesus enthroned in glory, not Jesus walking on water, not Jesus preaching with authority. Still, Jesus was nailed to a cross, between two criminals, mocked by soldiers, and abandoned by his friends. His “crown” is made of thorns. His “throne” is a rough piece of wood. His “royal proclamation” is a sign hammered above his head: “This is the King of the Jews.”
If this is what kingship looks like, it is no wonder the world often misses him.
Luke goes on to tell us that one of the criminals hanging beside him joins in the mocking. He wants a king who will fix everything with a snap of the fingers: Save yourself, and us! That’s the King he imagines, one who exercises power on command.
I use the word criminals because that is what they are. Many translations call the two men crucified with Jesus thieves, but that is not true. Crucifixion was not an easy sentence to carry out. Crucifixion required a lot of manpower. It required a cross, nails, a hammer, ropes, ladders, and soldiers to guard those being crucified, since a lot of the time, others would rescue them. This was an involved method of putting someone to death, and in 1st-century Palestine, it was reserved for the worst criminals.
Crucifixion was reserved for the crime of sedition, for those accused of trying to usurp and overthrow the power of the government. We do not know what the other two had done, but we know Jesus’ crime was love. Jesus’ radical, inclusive love so enraged the government of his day that they killed him for it.
But the other criminal sees something different. Maybe in that moment, stripped of everything else, he sees more clearly than any of the religious leaders or the soldiers. He doesn’t ask Jesus to prove anything. He doesn’t ask for escape. He simply says, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
We do not even know the man’s name, but so much of our theology stems from this encounter at the moment of his death. It is the simplest and most honest prayer in all of scripture: Remember me.
Notice what he’s saying. He’s acknowledging that Jesus truly does have a kingdom, even if it doesn’t look like one. He’s admitting that Jesus is, in fact, a king, even if his crown is pressed into his skin. He’s acknowledging that salvation is not about spectacle but about a relationship with others and with God. Remember me. Know me. See me. Hold me in your heart.
Jesus answers him, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” Not tomorrow. Not after conditions are met. Not when he gets his life in order. Today. Grace is immediate, unearned, freely given. This is the King we follow.
And this is the heart of today’s feast. Christ is not the King who lords power over others. Could this have gone another way? Sure. Jesus did not have to die this way; he could have summoned all the heavenly host and crushed and vanquished his foes. He could have brought fire down and destroyed those trying to destroy him. God could have let this cup pass from Jesus, but that was not the plan, because God’s strength does not come from violence, anger, or domination; no, God’s power comes from love.
Christ is the King who reigns from a cross, not because he is powerless, but because he is love. And love chooses solidarity. Love chooses presence. Love chooses forgiveness even when forgiveness is undeserved. Love remembers us.
In a world obsessed with strength, success, and winning, Christ shows us a different way: the way of self-emptying compassion. In a world quick to condemn, Christ leans toward mercy; in a world that celebrates kings who dominate, Christ rules by laying down his life.
This is the kind of King who understands the brokenhearted, who knows what it feels like to be misunderstood, rejected, or in pain. This is the King who stands with the grieving, the lonely, the fearful. This is the King whose throne is planted deep in the suffering of the world so that no one suffers alone.
And this is the King that is trying to show us how to live not with power but with love. We are to bring God’s kingdom here to earth with love and compassion, feeding, clothing, welcoming, housing, and caring for one another. We do not do this by force, we do not do this through legislation, we do not even do this through power.
Through this feast today, we are called to remember that it is not power, it is not strength, it is not nationalism that God wants but love, the self-emptying love that gave birth to Jesus in Bethlehem and brought Jesus to the Cross. Remember, God could have chosen a different path, the path of power, but God chose love.
So, on this Feast of Christ the King, we are invited to reconsider what true power looks like. It looks like forgiveness. It looks like compassion. It looks like remembering the forgotten. It seems like refusing to give up on anyone, even the one who reaches out with nothing but a desperate hope.
But this day also challenges us because if this is our King, then this is our way. Not glory without sacrifice, but love that persists even when it costs something. Faithfulness that doesn’t depend on the outcome. Hope that believes God is still at work even when all we can see is a cross standing against a darkening sky.
At the end of the day, the Feast of Christ the King is not about triumphalism. It is about truth, the truth that God’s power is revealed in vulnerability, God’s reign is established not in power and domination but in mercy, justice, and wherever love breaks through.
Today, may our prayer echo the thief’s:
Jesus, remember me. Remember us in our grief, our fears, our imperfections, our longing for belonging. Remember us when we forget who we are and whose we are.
And may we hear, whispered back from the One who reigns from the Cross: Today you will be with me. Today. Here. Now. In the kingdom that is already breaking into this world through love, mercy, and grace.
Amen.
