We fought a war, once, to get rid of a king. Two hundred and twenty-two years ago Americans took up arms to win our independence from King George III of England. Some of the biggest issues were trade and taxes, sound familiar? “Fast Track” and IRS reform, 18th-century style. I suppose it’s always that way, economic issues bite hard. But the big thing wasn’t the taxes themselves. It’s that the colonials didn’t have any say in the matter. They resented being pushed around, especially by someone who wasn’t even as much of an Englishman as they were. George wasn’t one of THEM. He was a Johnny-come-lately, a parvenu, an upstart; the Hanover line was German. He didn’t have any right to tell them what to do, and they weren’t going to let him jerk them around.
It’s not that the Americans didn’t want a king. They just didn’t want THAT king. And we almost got one. There was quite a push to have George Washington crowned king, our own George the First, but he turned it down, and no one else had the prestige to be accepted by all the colonies. It’s not that the Americans didn’t want a king. They just wanted a better one. Remember back in Israel’s early days, when judges ruled the land? When Samuel got old, “...all the elders of Israel gathered together and came to Samuel at Ramah and said to him, ‘You are old, and your sons do not follow in your ways; appoint for us, then, a king to govern us, like other nations.’” Did they think that kings would be more just than judges? What did they think a king would do for them?
No people - not even Americans - are free from the desire to have a king (or a queen!). Where do you suppose that impulse comes from? I don’t think it’s just a matter of protection, either, wanting a strong arm to chase off the local bandits. People crave royalty - of some kind - for many more reasons than that. Maybe we need someone to look up to, to be part of something larger than ourselves.
Have any of you ever been to Graceland? You know, the memorial-cum-tourist attraction that used to be Elvis Presley’s home? I haven’t, and have absolutely no wish to. But I’ve seen bits on TV, and heard people talking about the pilgrimages - and I don’t use the word lightly - they have taken there. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that people worship at his shrine. How did that happen? What are people looking for? We called him the King. Why did we do that? What was it about him, that made him royalty to so many? And what was his kingdom?
Elvis was larger than life, and yet he was just a country boy, one of us. He had amazing gifts and presence, and yet he seemed real, and vulnerable. His followers gave him their hopes, asked him to fulfill their dreams for them, so that in him they too could rise above the drabness of their lives. They loaded him down with their expectations, they fed on his life, and some continue to feed on him since his death. What a terrible thing to do to another human being! The crown his fans gave him to wear was too heavy for anyone, and I think it killed him. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not equating Elvis with Jesus. But think about it. He died for his own sins, yes, but didn’t he also die, in a way, for ours? We asked too much of him, and he broke.
And what about Princess Di? What an incredible outpouring of grief, adulation, allegiance - worship, even - at her death! What made her everyone’s Princess, not just Britain’s? She was the fairy-tale princess of our childhoods’ stories, of course, but if it were only that, when the happy-ever-after turned out to be a made-for-TV movie, why didn’t her fans turn away? It didn’t happen. If anything, her popularity increased. What was her kingdom? What hopes and dreams of ours did she carry on those impeccably dressed shoulders?
I listened to a lot of commentators, after her death, trying to figure out what it was about Diana that made so many people love her. She was larger than life, of course, richer and more beautiful than the rest of us. That’s the easy part to understand. Hero - excuse me, heroine - worship - is natural. But the other piece of the puzzle is not so obvious. Because it was her wounds, her imperfections, her struggles and failures, that made Princess Di accessible to us. It became possible, because of her vulnerability, for us to identify with her and so to share in her beauty and riches. And her love of children, her compassion, her gentleness with orphans and AIDS patients alike, made it possible for us to believe that she returned our love. We invested ourselves in her. We wanted her to be happy, so that in her we too could be happy. We wanted to know everything about her, the People’s Princess, so that her life could become ours, to make up for what was missing in our own.
It was our hunger for her life that fueled the paparazzi that chased her into the tunnel where she died. She died for her own sins, yes, but also for ours. Our human hunger for royalty helped kill her.
Elvis and Diana, the King and the Princess. What an unlikely pairing. But we crowned them both, didn’t we, because we needed someone to worship. We want someone who is at the same time higher than we are, but like us, and vulnerable. Someone who understands our struggles, who wouldn’t look down on us, who would share their youth and beauty and fame and riches with us. We are hungry for a king. We long for a real Princess. But who among us can recognize the real thing?
Pontius Pilate, the governor of Judea, certainly couldn’t.
Already that morning he had a feeling that things were going to go wrong. The city of Jerusalem was packed with pilgrims from all over the world, come to celebrate the feast of Passover. The troops at the Antonia fortress were on alert. There had already been a couple of near riots, one even at the temple. Some rabble-rousing preacher from the countryside had created a disturbance in the market. Pilate had come up from the governor’s mansion in Caesaria on the coast in order to be at hand during the most dangerous period, and it was a good thing, too. The centurions had managed to lay their hands on a couple of the most notorious of the local bandits, and they’d been able to hold the hearings and pass sentence all on the same day; they’d be taken out to be crucified this afternoon. Now if he could just get through this day without a major disruption they’d be able to take a breather. The Jewish Sabbath was about to begin, and things were always quiet then.
Pilate had ordered his tribunal set up in the inner courtyard, under a canopy to protect him from the sun. He took his seat, looked around at the clumps of supplicants waiting for his attention, and started sorting through the papers for today’s cases. He looked up at the sound of a disturbance at the door between the outer and inner courts. One of his secretaries hurried over to him with a scroll.
“What now?” Pilate wondered, unrolling it, and read out loud: “Joseph Caiphas to Pontius Pilate, Peace. Our guards arrested the notorious subversive Yeshua Bar Joseph last night. The Sanhedrin has tried him and found him guilty of heresy and incitement to rebellion. We respectfully request that you countersign the order for execution which is due under Jewish law.”
“Extraordinary,” thought Pilate. “They’re in a mighty big hurry. And they’re sure taking me for granted. Do they think they can just snap their fingers and have me fall into line?" For a moment he considered making them wait until after the Sabbath to deal with their demands, but tweaking their beards just for amusement really wasn’t worth the trouble it would cause. The noise of the crowd outside was growing louder. Pilate didn’t need another confrontation with the Jews, he got in enough trouble with the Emperor Tiberius after the last riot. “All right,” he yielded, “send them in.”
“Excellency,” said his aide, “they won’t come in, they have to stay outside to avoid defilement, remember they’ll be eating their Passover feast tonight.”
Making an effort to control his temper, Pilate ordered the servants to carry the magistrate’s chair to the outer court. “It’s not enough for them to disrupt my day’s schedule and expect me to just rubberstamp their decision, but they demand I come to them to do it! Well, it’s not going to be as easy as all that,” he fumed. “I’m going to make ‘em sweat a little first.”
So Pilate took his time getting settled in the ornate chair, making sure his white patrician’s toga was arranged just so, letting the priests in their multi-layered ceremonial woolen robes bake under the morning sun while he made himself comfortable. At last he looked up. The familiar faces of Caiphas, Ananias, Zadok and the other 70 members of the Sanhedrin stared implacably back at him, determined not to lose at this game of “Who’s got the power?” Behind them the temple guards kept the crowd at bay. There were far more than he had expected. Struggling not to let his alarm show on his face, in as bored a tone as he could manage, Pilate drawled, “What charge do you bring against this man?”
The Jewish leaders looked at each other, somewhat taken aback. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Pilate was just supposed to endorse their verdict! But these words were the formal opening of a Roman trial. “He’s a criminal,” said Ananias defiantly, “that’s why we brought him to you.” “Well, get him out of here and judge him under your own law,” said Pilate, waving his hand dismissively. “We can’t do that,” admitted Caiphas. “We’re not allowed to put anybody to death.”
Pilate smiled to himself. Now it was clear who was in charge. Again he demanded, “What charge do you bring against this man?” He leaned back in his chair while they conferred with one another. “Take your time,” he thought, somewhat interested in spite of himself. After all, this Yeshua had caused no little stir around the city over the last week, even as full as it always was of cranks and fanatics. His own wife had mentioned seeing him. It might be something out of the ordinary, maybe something to put in his memoirs.
In a few minuted the leaders of the group approached Pilate. “Excellency, this man has been subverting our nation, forbidding the payment of imperial taxes, and claiming that he is a king.”
Pilate sat straight up in his chair. The first two charges were empty, he knew that much from what his own staff had reported to him. But the last! If true, that was high treason, and punishable by death under Roman law as well as under Jewish. There might be some advantage to be gotten out of this after all. “Where is the prisoner?” A pair of temple guards roughly shoved a youngish man forward.
For the first time he looked at the prisoner. “This, a king?” Pilate thought. The prisoner’s hair and beard were roughly cut, his tunic was plain country homespun, he was dirty and bruised. But he stood straight, his eyes were clear, he didn’t look either afraid or ashamed. Pilate stood abruptly and strode back into the inner court. “Send the prisoner in,” he snapped to a servant. “I want to talk to him without an audience.”
Pilate turned around. “All right, what’s going on here? Are you the king of the Jews?”
Jesus’ voice was quiet, almost amused. “Why do you ask?” he said. “Did you want to know for your own sake or are you just repeating what you’ve been told?”
“What! Am I a Jew?” Pilate was offended. How could this yokel think that a high Roman official could possibly have any personal interest in some provincial upstart? “Your own priests have handed you over to me.” Pilate began to feel a little uneasy. Shouldn’t Jesus be looking a little nervous? Shouldn’t he be more conscious of being in the presence of the very power of Rome? He’s acting as if he’s the one with the upper hand here. Better get control of the conversation. “What have you done?” Pilate asked again. "Why have they brought these charges against you? What’s your game?”
But Jesus didn’t answer the question. Instead he said, almost as if reassuring Pilate that he wasn’t being threatened, “My kingdom isn’t from this world.” Pilate shook his head. This didn’t make any sense. It almost sounded as though Jesus were admitting that he was a king. But that would be the same as pleading guilty to high treason, almost as if he were asking for a death sentence. What was Jesus trying to say?
Patiently, Jesus explained, “If my realm were of this world, my followers would be fighting for me with swords and spears like any king’s army would. But my realm isn’t of this world.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” thought Pilate. “Moonshine and mumbo-jumbo. We Romans are much too hard-headed and realistic to get caught up in this gibberish. All I want to know is, does Caesar have any thing to worry about with this guy or is it just more of these Jews’ religious infighting? I’ll ask it again.”
“So, Rabbi, what you’re telling me is, you are a king?” repeated Pilate, one eyebrow raised, ostentatiously polite.
Jesus looked at Pilate, knowing that he wasn’t getting anywhere. “King is your word. I suppose it’s as good as any. You don’t even have a concept for the kind of king I am, because your kings all get their power from weapons and money. I AM a king, but my authority comes from truth, and I have come to tell everyone - at least everyone who is interested in truth - that there is a different kind of power, and a new kind of kingdom, whose power is truth.”
“Huh?” thought Pilate. “Power is truth? Truth is power? King of truth? Well, he’s certainly no threat to Caesar, that’s for sure.” He smiled politely, humoring the prisoner as one does a harmless lunatic. “How nice. Very interesting. Whatever works for you, right? I don’t think Rome needs to lose any sleep over you. What is truth, after all?” He rose, and motioning to the prisoner to follow him he walked back out to the courtyard where Caiphas and the others awaited his verdict.
Well, we know what happened after that.
Jesus was one of us. He was vulnerable. He was kind to the sick, and gentle with sinners. Yet he was larger than life; he had amazing gifts and presence. People invested their hopes and dreams in him, they lavished him with gifts ranging from expensive perfume to a crown. They flocked to him to hear him speak, they pushed and shoved to touch his robe, they invaded his privacy and demanded attention. I’m sure if they could they would have collected photographs and autographs and paid scalpers enormous prices for tickets to one of his concerts. If they’d had paparazzi then they would have stalked him right along with the scribes and Pharisees, looking for a vulnerable moment. His picture still sells tabloids.
But this king wasn’t overwhelmed by our hunger, our demands, our unrealistic expectations. Jesus died for our sins, but he was not crushed by our neediness. He invites us to feed on him, to share his life.
People wanted so much from Elvis and Princess Di - color, excitement, love, hope, identity, something to worship. But the bubble burst when they died, and left people even hungrier than before. Elvis was King of Fantasy, Diana was Princess of Fairyland. We created them out of our own need for transcendence.
But Jesus is the King of Truth. What Jesus offers is the real thing. Real color. Real love. Real identity. Real excitement. And since Jesus offers truth, Jesus IS Truth, he can never betray or disappoint. He only died once. He will never leave us again. And we can invest ourselves in him with more than hope, with certainty. And he is OUR king. He’s one of us, he speaks our language, he’s on our side.
Are you ever tempted to worship a public idol? Why? What is the empty space in you that you are trying to fill with someone else’s life? Why worship fakery, when the real thing is there for the taking?
Worship Jesus instead, because he is a real King. Jesus is the True King.
