Who Will You Be?

Nov 25

Christ the King Sunday – Luke 23:33–43

Reflections from the Crossroads of Power and Vulnerability

There’s something deeply disorienting about today’s Gospel. We come to the end of the church year — a Sunday traditionally called “Christ the King” — and instead of trumpets and thrones, we’re brought to a crucifixion. No coronation, no celebration, no pageantry. Just three crosses. Blood. Mockery. A broken body.

What kind of king is this?

Maybe that’s the point.

We’ve grown up steeped in the idea that power means control, dominance, and certainty. That a true king rules by force and makes the world bend to their will. But Jesus refuses to play that game. Instead, he reveals a deeper truth: the power of kenosis — of self-emptying love. This is the Christ Mystery, made visible not in might, but in mercy.

Luke paints a scene rich in irony and human response. We meet the scoffing religious leaders, the mocking soldiers, the blaspheming criminal. We hear the silence of passive bystanders. Everyone is reacting — but only one turns toward Jesus with a simple, heart-wrenching plea: “Remember me.”

And Jesus replies, “Today, you will be with me in Paradise.”

That word — “Paradise” — isn’t code for some distant heaven. It originally meant garden. It echoes Eden, the place where humanity and the Holy walked together. The place where the Dream of God was alive. And here, even from the cross, Jesus speaks that Dream back into being.

This is a reign like no other.

A reign where crowns are made of thorns and scepters take the shape of mercy.

A realm not enforced by fear, but shaped by love.

The prophet Jeremiah envisioned a Shepherd who would gather rather than scatter, who would lead with care rather than control. And under that Shepherd’s guidance, the people would live without fear.

Because fear is the real enemy. Not doubt. Fear is what locks us behind closed doors. Fear is what shrinks our lives and numbs our hearts. Fear keeps us from loving boldly, from living fully, from becoming who we are meant to be.

And still, Christ doesn’t come to dominate us into belief. Christ comes to meet us — right where we are. In the ordinariness of our lives. In our sorrow, our hope, our questions. In the mess and the mystery.

The Dream of God isn’t something we passively await. It’s something we actively live into. Every time we choose compassion over judgment. Every time we risk vulnerability instead of hiding behind certainty. Every time we open the door, share the table, or speak a word of love — the Dream becomes flesh again.