There’s a new calendar hanging on my wall, all ready for the start of the new year on December 1^st. Yes, December 1^st. I’ve decided to try something different this year and let the calendar on my wall follow the liturgical year which begins on the first Sunday of Advent. I’m curious to see whether that extra daily reminder that my days are entwined with Christ’s will make a difference to my year.

Why this year? The simplest reason is that this is the first year I’ve learned of a wall calendar shaped around the liturgical calendar.

But the reasons go deeper, too. From a childhood in which our church celebrated Christmas and Easter, but knew nothing about Lent or Christ the King Sunday or Ordinary time, I’ve slowly come to appreciate the deep richness of a rhythm which ties our days to Christ’s, a rhythm lived by vast swathes of Christ’s body around the world and throughout the centuries.

I need to return, year after year, to let my own heart be shaped again during Advent to open a little more fully to Christ living his life in me as he did in Mary.

I need to celebrate his coming during Christmas, walk with Jesus to the cross during Lent, and live deeply the joy and victory of his resurrection during the fifty-day season of Easter.

And, this year especially, I need the final Sunday of the liturgical calendar, Christ the King Sunday, when we remember that Christ alone is King over all kings.

Empires rise and fall. Rulers claim ultimate authority. And God laughs as he reminds us all that the Son alone has been given the authority to reign forever (Ps. 2; Heb 1:8).

How I love that Christ was given that authority not in response to his assertion of rights or power, his shredding of another candidate or his ability to win over crowds, but in response to his self-emptying love and humility!

. . . Christ Jesus:

Who, being in very nature God,

            did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage;

rather, he made himself nothing

            by taking the very nature of a servant,

            being made in human likeness.

And being found in appearance as a man,

            he humbled himself

            by becoming obedient to death—

                        even death on a cross!

Therefore God exalted him to the highest place

            and gave him the name that is above every name,

that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,

            in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord,

            to the glory of God the Father (Phil 2:5-11).

The whole Christian story, and the whole liturgical calendar, is wrapped up in that Philippians song, beginning with Jesus’ willing choice to become a helpless newborn. As Stephanie Duncan Smith writes in her gorgeous new book, Even After Everything,

“The God of Advent, so bent on being near those he loves, resolved to be born as the dependent of a Palestinian teenager living under occupation. A baby—burdened with every human vulnerability: nerve endings, a startle reflex, a newborn’s stomach the size of an acorn and its accompanying bottomless hunger. The creator of the galaxies has to rediscover all he has made from scratch, starting with the basic realization that those ten wiggling toes actually belong to him” (pp. 15-16).

That was just the beginning. The Philippians song continues through Jesus’ sacrificial life and death to his forever reign, given the highest name and seated in the highest place, at the right hand of his Father.

This Kind of King

Rulers around the world are, in various ways and for diverse reasons, seeking security and greatness—often for themselves and sometimes also for their people.

Jesus, too, came to make his people great again, restoring to us our intended position as God’s heirs (Rom 8:17), crowning us again with honor and glory (Ps 8: 5-7; John 17:22; Rom 8:17; 1 Cor 2:7), and ultimately settling us to rule with him not only on earth but in heaven (Dan 7:27; 1 Cor 6:3;  Rev 2:26-27).

But he did all this not through putting up walls but tearing them down. Not through seeking power but humbly serving, even at the cost of his life. He did—and does—it by welcoming foreigners, prioritizing the poor, and overturning tables where leaders have made church about power and money.

And he calls us to follow. “Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus, who, being in very nature God. . . humbled himself. . .” (Phil 2:5-6; c.f Matt 23:11-12; Mark 9:34-35; Luke 22:24-27).

The Lion of Judah became a slain lamb, and it’s as a slain lamb, not a roaring lion tearing his enemies to pieces, that he sits on the throne (Rev 5:5-6).

He is, to be sure, still the strong Lion of Judah. But he’s the great lion Aslan who conquers the white witch through surrendering to the worst she can do. He lets himself be bound to the stone table and gives up his life—and then shatters that worst with his unexpected rising.

Let me say it even more clearly: This slain lamb is no weakling. He’s the King of kings who lives love’s almost limitless power, stronger even than death. And who humbly asks to live that strong love in and through us too.

This, then, is what I’m remembering as Christ the King Sunday approaches this weekend:

Christ—humble and gentle, filled with compassion and love, yet all-powerful—is on the throne. No earthly ruler can change that. One day every child and king and prison inmate, every president and doctor and civil servant, every teacher and grannie and prime minister, will kneel before him. And that is very, very good news. Especially for those who are already kneeling in awe and worship and love.

___________________

Photo by Luke Tanis on Unsplash