Christ the King

 

I wonder whether you are familiar with the Horrible Histories series of books—by the wonderful local northeast author Terry Deary—also turned into a children’s television show? If so, you’ll know about the Revolting Romans.

In 66 CE, the Province of Judea rebelled against Rome. The emperor, Nero, sent one of his commanders, Vespasian, to put the rebellion down, in a campaign that would last eight years. But only two years later, Nero was facing rebellion closer to home. Sentenced to death by the Senate, and deserted by the Praetorian Guard, Nero died at his own hand in the summer of 68 CE, throwing the Roman empire into civil war. Galba seized power, only to be murdered seven months later in a coup that put Otho on the throne; only to take his own life three months later, having been defeated in battle by another claimant, Vitellius. In response, the Roman legions based in Egypt and Judea proclaimed their commander, Vespasian, emperor. Leaving his son, Titus, to command the siege of Jerusalem, Vespasian turned his attention to defeating Vitellius, who was killed eight months after becoming emperor. Vespasian, whose claim was ratified by the Senate the next day, would rule for a decade and die of natural causes. Titus captured Jerusalem in 70 CE, destroying the city and its Temple, and finally defeating the last of the rebels four years later. At his father’s death, he became the first biological son to succeed his father as emperor. Two years later, he, too, died of natural causes, and was deified by the Senate. His younger brother, Domitian, became emperor of Rome and would rule for fifteen years before being assassinated by members of his own court.

Domitian was ruthless, an authoritarian ruler who used religious and cultural propaganda to build what, today, we would call a cult of personality; stripped away the powers of the Senate; and nominated himself as perpetual censor—the censor being an obsolete role, which had been served in elected terms and shared in pairs, that gave the holder absolute power over the registration of  citizens, the appointment of Senators and government officials, the defining and keeping of public morals, and the administration of the finances of the state. These actions set Domitian up as a populist ruler, in bitter opposition with the Roman elite. He would be very much at home today, among the likes of Trump and Orbán.

During Domitian’s reign (81-96 CE) an old man named John wrote a book that circulated, at first, among the Christian communities in seven cities across Asia Minor. John had been one of rabbi Jesus’ apprentices, who had lived in his company for several years leading up to his execution under the Roman governor of Judea and the astonishing claim that he had risen from the dead some days later and appeared to many witnesses over a forty-day period before ascending into heaven. From Jerusalem—since destroyed by Titus, whose brother was now emperor in Rome—the news that the God of the Jews had established this Jesus as Lord over the nations had spread and a community, made up of both Jews and gentiles, who were attracted to the hope of this message, was becoming established across the Roman world.

The genre of John’s book was apocalypse, the pulling back of the curtain to reveal what was really happening ‘behind the scenes.’ And John’s message was this: despite the authoritarian rule of Domitian over the Roman world, with its very real consequences for those who he considered his enemies, Jesus was still on the throne in heaven. And that while Roman emperors came and went, sometimes in quick succession and often having met a bloody end (Vespasian might have died of natural causes, but that cause was dysentery, so it was hardly peaceful), the kingdom of God under the rule of his co-regent divine-human Son, remained secure through all time.

This, proclaims John, is the deeper reality behind the flow of history that passes itself off as reality. And so, John encourages those who will hear his book read aloud in their midst to hold firm in their faith that—as Mother Julian of Norwich would put it, in the fourteenth century—'all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.’ And, just as Domitian would be very much at home today, so, today, we need to hear John’s tale—to see his vision afresh with our own eyes.

Like our time, the Roman age was saturated with images, especially images of powerful men. They might not have had TVs or carried smart phones, but they were confronted with images of the emperor in every public space. We even have surviving busts of emperors who only ruled for months, not years. In time, we will come to see images of Jesus and his first apprentices; but the first place where we see King Jesus—and where we see him still—is in the faces of unremarkable women and men like those gathered in this place today.

The emperors of Rome are long dead. They cannot harm you; but neither are they touched by the tyrants of today. And here is the thing: you are dead, too. We who proclaim that Jesus is Lord have died with him and are seated with him in the heavenly places. His death is our death; his reign is our reign. This is the reality behind the scenes. And because you are dead, the kings you fear—Trump, the Putin—can’t touch you: as the church-planter Paul, who knew many hardships in his body, put it, ‘No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.’