Let me share with you a free verse poem by Stephen Dunn that taps into the spirit of this day, I think. It’s entitled "At the Smithville Methodist Church":

Here we are, at the end of the church year, on the brink of the Advent, caught up between the shopping seasons of Thanksgiving and Christmas, kind of like Jesus, left to just hang there between two thieves. What to do, to stay this side of cynicism, that other sadness? What to do, for the sake of ourselves and the children, when we lose sight of what the real story is all about, and so we try to make up other stories, to fill in the gaps, stories that risk not being nearly as good, and thus float into the future like smoke, to wind up dissipated and gone.

December is a prime example. Driving up and down the streets, going in and out of the stores—one look into the living rooms, the office cubicles, the working places, the school lunch rooms and gymnasiums. Home for the holidays, and how many stories can you say that you actually believe are true?

The stories we tell all throughout our lives, yet how often are we willing to risk asking ourselves, "But are they good stories? Are they stories nearly as good?" Now, you may be tempted to say, "What’s the big deal? They’re just stories. What can it hurt?" But if you believe that, then think about this. Have you ever noticed, when you are around really old people, that they always seem to be stuck in their stories? And, what seemingly makes for a happy or a sad old person comes down to the stories that person learned while he or she was young? It seems to be one of those facts of life, that the stories you got when your mind starts to go are the stories you’ll be stuck with until it’s time for the rest of you to go. Now, I’m not talking about memories here. There are plenty of old folks who have good memories, but not so many good stories. The truth is that memories will take you only so far, and once they give out, it’s only the stories that are left. And that’s why it’s so important that they be good ones.

The stories we fill our children with, when they are oh, so young. The stories we pick up on as we grow older. The stories told and taught by our culture and the communities with which we associate. Ancient societies, native indigenous and tribal peoples—they didn’t have classroom teachers and college professors, per se. They didn’t have economists, social scientists, political analysts. They had story tellers, those revered and respected persons who were invested with the sacred and transcendent power of the stories. The stories, of where it is that we come from, why we’re here, where it is that we’re going, what we are created and called to be and do—the path to purpose, meaning, and direction in life, in the stories! And that’s why the stories were so important, because the difference between life and death, the difference between survival and extinction—for a whole race of people even—it could very well come down to just one story. And if that be the case, then that one story had better be a good one.

It reminds me of the time back when I was in seminary in Chicago. A classmate of mine and I were walking back to our apartments one evening, discussing what we had just covered in our class on Muhammad and the birth of Islamic religion, in which I said, "Even if we’re wrong, we still got the best story!"

Even if we’re wrong, we Christians, we still got the best story! In fact, the story is so good, that it’s not just the Jews and Muslims, the Buddhists and Hindus that have a problem with it. The story is so good that even we Christians have a hard time believing it. The story as told on the cross. Our story that is the cross—the cross as a throne, and the one who rests upon that throne—our Lord King, our Messiah, our Crucified Christ. Public theater has never played out like this before. A coronation celebration like no other. The royal procession winding it’s way here, to end up at this skull-faced palace known as Golgotha. And with a resounding chord to conclude the final act, Luke’s Gospel rings out, an undeniable image for all to see. What kind of royal court is this, filled with the mockery of political and religious leaders? What kind of king is this, who’s inner circle of advisors is taunting, torturing soldiers? A king who assumes a throne flanked by evildoers and thieves? A king who’s closest confidants are a couple of condemned criminals?

This is what it all comes down to. A crucified Messiah. An executed Savior. Is it any wonder why the world and all of its many religions just cannot seem to accept it? And for we who would call ourselves Christian, for we who would claim that this is the story we are called to lift high with our very lives? No wonder other stories sound so much more appealing. No wonder other stories are so much more tempting to tell. Because in this story, death fits our king to a "T". Shame and suffering rule the day. Sin wins, and thus Christ is crowned, not as hero, but as first among losers, the most among those for whom all is lost.

Oh, but that’s not the end of the story, you will surely claim, that the resurrection stands as the final word, where Christ is raised up in triumph, victorious over sin and death. But even so, but even so. The risen Christ does not come without the wounds of his begin crucified. Our resurrected Lord does not stand before us unless it is with lacerated hands and feet, a forehead lined with scars, a vicious gash in his side—the result of a last minute stab of a sword, to make sure he was really dead. If we are to claim this Christ as our Lord and Savior—then we have no choice but to accept him as the King who always comes with a cross, the One who conquers all the world by embracing all the things that did him in.

The truth we Christians find so difficult to embrace for ourselves, because there’s no escaping the story of a King who forever carries with him the marks of a sordid and shameful past. No wonder we’re so ready and willing to embellish such a story, to enhance it, to edit and revise it, to oh, so unwittingly weave into it all sorts of things which sound so much more magical and enchanting, so that by the time we get done with it, although the story may look good on the outside—we have actually ended up gutting it, causing it to stink of extinction, so much so that, when thumped, it ends up ringing hollow, like a cold plastic Santa out on the lawn.

But praise be to God that even this has been taken into account as well, our natural-born sin of thinking that we can tell a better story. And that is why we don’t have to wait until Christmas to celebrate and open the gift of Christ the King Sunday. The wonderful gift of this day, where we are able to gather together around the endlessly flowing font of our baptism, the bountifully supplied table of our holy communion, the timeless and ever timely Word of God’s never failing love and forgiveness, all of this to proclaim that under no uncertain circumstances, will our God in Christ Jesus ever, ever abandon or leave us.

That’s the gift. The promise, that not even death can separate us, from the God who gave us life and who loves us even more than life itself. You see? That’s why it’s the best story, for when it’s all said and done, only a King on a cross can make and keep such a promise as that. And that’s why, when it’s all said and done, there’s only one story—only one story to tell that may actually have a chance at a happy ending.

Folks, it’s as simple as that, why we at Resurrection are so uncompromising in our call to be true to the story, that the only way to say it so that it makes sense in this particular time and place—that the one and only way to tell it—is when we worship, learn, invite, encourage, and serve together, in all that we say and do, as individuals, as families, as a church. To tell the story in this way—it’s the only way that works to make the story come to life in our lives, as well as in the life of the world around us.

Here at the end of this church year, that’s the story of this Christ the King Sunday, and if we continue in our commitment to tell the story, by living the faith and lifting high the cross, then it could very well be just as Princess Giselle sings it, in the movie Enchanted:

That’s the story of my Thanksgiving vacation. What’s yours? Live the faith! Lift high the cross! Amen.

Tim Leaf, Pastor