An icon of divine kingship

Clare L. Hickman

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church

November 30, 2025—Christ the King

Colossians 1:11-20; Luke 23:33-43

I have had it up to here with words right now. Which is admittedly a rough spot for a preacher, but there it is. There are just so many words swirling around, everybody talking at each other, all at once, all at seemingly maximum volume. It’s as though the whole world has left the Caps Lock on. We’ll all be deaf soon, and maybe that’s a blessing. But even when it’s not loud, it can still feel like we’re drowning in a sea of words.

Which is what made this Colossians passage feel like a life raft to me. Sure, there are still lots of words there, sweeping us from the Creation of the World to the cross and beyond. But right there in the middle of it all is an invitation that you might have missed: an invitation (I believe) to contemplation. An invitation to mystery. An invitation, even, into incomprehension.

“He is the image of the invisible God,” it says, beckoning us with the promise that the person of Jesus will provide us a vision of God Himself. He is an icon: that’s the word the writer uses. The life of Jesus draws us a picture of the divine, an illustration that draws us deeper into truth, by illuminating and challenging us.

The Gospel then provides the picture. The gospels give us many pictures of course. But today’s picture, today’s icon of the kingship of God (the reign of God, the household of God), is … the cross. We are invited to gaze upon those broken bodies (Jesus, and the two who were hung by his side) and allow that scene to speak to our hearts and minds about Christ the King.

This is not an image of a ruler that we recognize. This, in fact, should destroy for all time the idea that any temporal leader could be more or less like Christ the King than any other leader. Because he’s not even trying to do the same job they are, despite the urging from some of his followers for him to take up that task. His followers want him to fix things, the way we want our leaders to fix things (that’s why we elect them, right? That’s what they promise to do, and that’s what success would look like: enemies vanquished, economy improved, environment protected. Whatever it is that you thought was wrong, the leaders are supposed to fix it!). But Jesus has told them, over and over, that he isn’t a king like that, and just in case they’re still holding out hope, here’s the proof:

The image of Jesus as king … the vision of God that we see in Christ … is found up here on Calvary’s hill, where we see these poor, suffering men, nailed to three crosses for crimes against the state.

The icon begins with the first man, “If you are the Messiah, save yourself and us.” Mocking … Begging … Save me, he implores. Undo what I have done. Undo what has been done to me. I am in agony. I am afraid.

We have all known fear. We have all likely known some kind of agony. Have you too longed for a savior, a king, someone who could lift you out of all that? Who could make it go away? The icon, I believe, paints truth.

It continues, and another soul spills itself across the scene. This man, in contrast, places himself at the feet of God with fear and trembling, admitting that he has been justly condemned. His heart cracks open with the knowledge: I brought myself to this, and here I must stay. All I ask is that you remember me.

We too have done wrong. We have sometimes been justly accused. Have you also known what it is to stand firm and accept the consequences of your actions? And do you know what it was you hoped for, when you longed to be remembered?

Remembered. Re-membered. Your broken self, put back together somehow, even if you can’t imagine how… or if … or when it might happen.

Today. Today, Jesus says. Right here and now, while we are dying together on these crosses. This is the moment in which God’s salvation fractures time,[i] and the kingdom is here and you are remembered; you are re-made.

Today. In the very midst of the worst of it. This is the image of Christ’s kingship, the icon of the reign of God … and it looks an awful lot like a good man willingly dying an agonizing death. It looks an awful lot like a man ready to take into himself the pains of all humanity. It looks a terrible, awful lot like a man who will keep company to the bitter end with those who are suffering the torments of hell … those two men on either side of Jesus, who carry so much of US inside them.

We gaze on this image, we enter into this image, and it is an invitation to contemplation. An invitation to mystery. An invitation, surely, into incomprehension, into the incomprehensible (the “what on earth is this all about?”) breadth and depth of the love of God. Behold the cross, my friends, and behold your King. Behold, and do not rush too fast to make sense of it with words.

[i] Patrick J. Willson, Feasting on the Word: Preaching the Revised Common Lectionary, Year C Volume 4, p.337