Aaron Franco-Ross + November 24, 2024
The Reign of Christ Sunday
As we close out the church year, Aaron Franco-Ross deconstructs the common narrative of a hero in disguise, contrasting it with the true story of Christ's Incarnation. Aaron uses the example of a king who becomes a servant (Kierkagaard's The Story of the King and the Maiden) to illustrate God's unwavering commitment to humanity. He explores the human emotions of Jesus during his trials, emphasizing that Christ's full embrace of humanity allows him to truly understand and empathize with our fears and struggles. Aaron challenges us to recognize Christ in the midst of our own vulnerability and seek authentic connection with God.
Sermon Transcript
From automatically generated captions, and lightly edited for readability by AI chatbots
First, I love that this is a sanctuary and a community that welcomes young children so richly. I love that at the end of service most Sundays, I feel like a farmer chasing chickens in the yard over here—chasing our own.
Two, I love that no one flinched when someone ran to the podium. It makes me happy. That welcome, I get excited every Sunday when Pastor Hector greets us as siblings in Christ. It reminds me of who we are to each other and who we are to God. It centers the first words that he shares.
And so, as I come today, I welcome you, siblings in Christ, as we begin this part of our worship time together—looking at scripture and trying to apply it to our lives. If I do my job well, I will point to Jesus and how that applies to our lives today. Pray with me as we start:
"Lord, may the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and our redeemer. Amen."
I will apologize as I begin. My voice is weak. Normally, it's quieter than some, but about a month ago, I had my thyroid and some things removed from my neck. It wasn't elective, but it went well. My voice, however, is still weak, and the doctors say it’ll take a while. What that means for you is that you’ll make lunch on time—my words often run out around midday. And my children, true to form, were a bit feral this morning, so I’ve used some of my words already.
As Pastor Bev was sharing, this is the end of a certain season in our church. Next Sunday, we’ll begin to turn our eyes and hearts toward Bethlehem. It’s a new start. If you wonder where Pastor Bev and Pastor Hector think of these creative names for each Sunday, let’s unveil that for a moment. As Pastor Bev was sharing, there is a liturgical calendar—a sequence of seasons and feasts that we follow. Today is the Reign of Christ Sunday, the day we begin to focus on the full circle of our story. Next week, we begin looking at the Incarnation and the story of Jesus joining us in a manger.
This Sunday marks the end of Ordinary Time in our church—the season in which we focus on the words and teachings of Jesus. For me, this is an exciting moment, turning our face toward the Nativity story. You see, for me, Easter is beautiful. The tiny rolls, the organ blares—it is a victorious Sunday. But for me and my faith, as I understand it, the Incarnation is the redemptive moment. It is the divine yes. God joins us, welcomes us, and doesn’t flinch at the humanity in which we might be embarrassed. It is the moment when the Divine and creation come together—when God joins us in that very particular space and time.
I love that the wheel of the church turns round and round in our celebrations. It gives us things to look forward to but also reminds us of the continuity of the Gospel—that we are not alone, have never been alone, and importantly for us, will never be alone.
Last Sunday, I had the privilege of teaching Sunday School to the little ones. We focused on the 23rd Psalm—how God is with us even in dark and scary places, even in valleys where we might feel nervous. We have a good shepherd who is always with us.
For me, this is one of those moments when I think of Jesus's experience—being arrested in Gethsemane, brought before the religious officials, brought before Pilate, and bouncing back and forth in sham trial after sham trial. He truly understands what it means to be human—to be alone, to be scared. I’m grateful that I have a Savior who knows what it’s like to be me.
This version aims to preserve the speaker's tone while improving readability and flow.
As we begin, I want to share with you a story. Being newer to a Lutheran church, I thought I should look to a Lutheran theologian—maybe consider what they think, see what they believe, and bring that today. Søren Kierkegaard has always been one of my favorites, so I'll share a story he told to illustrate this point.
It's called The Story of the King and the Maiden.
Imagine there was a king, powerful and renowned far and wide. His word was law in his realm. One day, as he was traveling throughout his kingdom, he saw a young maiden. She was beautiful and well-respected. The king fell in love with her.
Why he should love her was beyond explaining, but love her he did, and he could not stop loving her. One day, an anxious thought awoke in his heart: How in the world am I going to reveal my love to this girl? How could he bridge the chasm that separated the two of them? His advisers, of course, told him there was no problem—that all he had to do was command her to become his queen, to come and live with him, to love him.
After all, he was a man of immense power. Every subject feared his wrath, every foreign power trembled before him, and every courtier groveled in the dust at the sound of his voice. This poor peasant girl would have no power to resist such a compelling invitation.
But power—even unlimited power—cannot command love.
The king could force her body to be present in the palace, but he could not force her to love. For love to be present in her heart. He might gain her obedience in this way, but coerced submission was not what he wanted. He longed for intimacy of heart and oneness of spirit, and all the power in the world cannot unlock the human heart—it must be opened from within.
So, he met with his advisers again, and they suggested he try to bridge the chasm by elevating her position. He could shower her with gifts and clothing made of silk and gold. He could crown her queen and bring her to his palace. If he radiated the splendor of his magnificence over her, if she saw all the wealth, power, and privilege of his greatness, then surely she would be overwhelmed.
But how would he ever know if she loved him for himself? Would she be able to summon the confidence to never remember that he was the king and that she had been a humble maiden?
Every alternative he considered came to nothing. There was only one way.
One day, the king arose, took off his crown, and relinquished his scepter. He laid aside his royal robes and took upon himself the life of a peasant. He dressed in rags, scratched out a living in the dirt, begged for food, and dwelt in a humble hovel.
This is where it gets really fun as I read this story: he didn’t just take on the outward appearance of a servant—he became a servant. It was his actual life, his actual nature, his actual burden. He became as ragged as one of those he so loved, all so that he could be theirs forever.
It was the only way. The raggedness became the very signature of his presence.
This Creator-King left his throne, left the privilege of heaven, to join us in Bethlehem—understanding that compelled love is no love at all. Jesus joins us in the Incarnation.
Now, if you are like me and my family, we're really big Disney fans. There’s a certain story formula we tend to follow—a story where someone of high power, prestige, or privilege takes on a disguise. Maybe they want to feel what it’s like to be a disenfranchised person for a day, a moment, or even a season.
But in this story, the King sets aside his scepter and crown to go and be with his beloved.
As I hear this story, the lens through which I see this passage of scripture is clarified and enriched. My understanding of what Jesus gave to join us gives me pause.
We’re trained to look for the hero to be in disguise, to take off their cloak and reveal their truest nature in a dramatic moment—one that saves or elevates, or for some reason, brings the rescued person into privilege. Maybe they win the lottery at that moment; they get to go live with the prince in his castle.
But that’s not the story we read in scripture. That is not our gospel.
The King wasn’t trying to play a role or wear a disguise to be with this maiden. He was joining her world. In the same way, this is how I see our gospel: that God so loved you and me that God joined us, lived with us, suffered like us, and died like us. And when death seemed to win on that sad day in scripture, Jesus overcame it.
God’s love toward us—and for us—is so compelling, so powerful a force, that not even the cross Jesus would face in just a few hours could stop God’s love for us.
In the Epistle to the Romans, we read it like this:
“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
Siblings in Christ, this is no Disney story. The Lord of all creation is madly in love with us and invites us into relationship.
Julian of Norwich says it this way: Jesus wants us to understand four things.
First, that he himself is our ground—the soil from which we grow, the foundation upon which we are built.
Second, that he guards us and keeps us safe, even in the midst of sin—when our own choices allow our enemies to surround us, or when we do not even realize our own need.
Third, that he guards us with care and kindness, showing us where we have gone astray.
And fourth, that his presence is always with us. His loving gaze over us never wavers, for he wants us to return to him and become united with him in love, just as he is with us.
So, when I see this story and read the story, I flinch. It's hard to read. It isn’t how I would have written the script at all.
As I read, I begin thinking: we’ve gone past the moment of return. Why doesn’t Jesus just reveal who he is?
Of course, he refers to it in the scripture, saying, “If this were my kingdom...” For me, that underlines the point that this is not the space and time—this is not his realm. Pilate and the religious leaders are left to conclude what they never saw in front of them.
As I prepared for today, I’ve always held the view that I would never be like Pilate, and I would never be like the religious leaders. But as I read and reread, as I prayed and pondered, I realized that I am just like them.
The religious leaders are afraid of Jesus. They’re afraid of his message, of his growing renown in the area, and of the threat he poses to their tenuous, fragile relationship with Rome.
Judea was known to be a hotbed for rebellion. It was a far-flung provincial space in the empire. For the safety of the people, the leaders’ position and privilege were based on their ability to control the population and keep the peace. Rome would show no mercy if they could not keep a lid on the emotions of this ancient city. We know that their fear was well-founded. Within a generation, rebellion would erupt, and Rome would crush Jerusalem.
With Jesus standing in front of them, the religious leaders had no vision. They could not see, understand, or comprehend who was there.
Sometimes my own fear—my fear of risk, my desire to keep the status quo—gets in the way of seeing Jesus right in front of me. Sometimes, good intentions or job descriptions that outline what I should be doing—protecting, taking care of—get in the way.
Sometimes, our trauma, our histories, and our pains make way for us to do terrible things.
And as much as I would want to say, “I am not like these terrible people. I would see. I would comprehend,” I know my story.
I look at Pilate. Pilate would have left his provincial palace on the Mediterranean shortly before this to come to Jerusalem and oversee the Passover celebrations. From the Roman perspective, his job was to ensure law and order were kept.
I can’t imagine he would have wanted to be in Jerusalem at this time. What we read and see is that the Romans had a low view of these people. But Pilate came. It was his job.
We assume the city was full of out-of-towners, overcrowded. Peace would have been hard to keep. Pilate likely would have hoped for an uneventful celebration with minimal disruptions.
But an oppressed people will never allow that.
The people had welcomed yet another teacher and imposed on him their visions of divine liberation. After all, the Passover celebration was a moment for the Jews when they celebrated their emancipation from Egypt. It is a moment ripe for rebellion, for liberation, for escape.
Of course, Rome had to be there, and of course, the Roman representative would take the call of the religious leaders—no matter the hour—to make sure the issue was addressed as soon as they could.
Pilate was ready, but seemingly, he was unnerved in his meetings with Jesus.
When I read these stories, and I read the lines of Jesus, I wonder: are there two different scripts? What is happening? They’re not communicating with each other. Jesus isn’t answering his questions. Pilate is asking the wrong questions. Why can’t they have a communication coach? Why can’t they exchange some information that makes more sense to me?
But it becomes clearer that Jesus is speaking right to the heart of the question.
We don’t know what Pilate thought. We know that his wife encouraged him to have nothing to do with this man because he was innocent—that’s recorded for us. We can imagine, though. What was the tone of Pilate’s questions when he asked, “Are you the king of the Jews?” Was it looking down at Jesus? Was it looking up at Jesus? Was it honest wondering? We’ll never know.
But what we do know is that soon after that, he would condemn Jesus to die.
Fear manifests itself in so many ways. It could be indifference. It could be arrogance.
Yeah, I’ve missed Jesus standing right in front of me. We’ve had different scripts. Jesus wasn’t answering the questions I was praying about. Instead, when I turn to scripture, I’m compelled to live differently, to love differently.
I remember the story—my own story—when it was evident that I had to make a decision. I had to come out. But for me, my faith was so important, and I felt it was either/or.
I remember sitting in the office of University Baptist Church—the church I attended when I was in college—sitting with Dr. Bethoon, our pastor, sharing with him this secret that I thought was the worst thing in the world. And him sharing with me: “Aaron, God is love, and God is truth, and God wants you to be truthful to who you are. Lying about it would do no service to God or to you. Be who you are.” Fear, anxiety, judgment—those stood in the way for another decade for me.
But, gratefully and strangely, I entered a Southern Baptist seminary after college. It was in a Southern Baptist seminary that I began to study scripture more clearly, more deeply, more humbly.
I discovered a God of a generous orthodoxy, of a love that compelled me to be honest with God and with myself.
My essays, papers, and presentations began to look different. Suddenly, I got more invitations to meet with my professors one-on-one to talk about what I was writing and who I was writing about. Why were my references more often liberation theologians, feminist theologians, queer theologians?
So, I came out.
I missed Jesus for a decade—Jesus with me, encouraging me to be honest, compelling me to be honest. And I’m so grateful that I had an opportunity to see.
Finally, I wanted to share my perspective on this triad: the religious leaders, Pilate, and Jesus.
So now, I turn to Jesus.
Frankly, this part of the story gives me great anxiety. I grew up in a tradition that focused mostly on the divinity of Jesus, the sacredness of Jesus—a very high Christology, as we studied Jesus. This human Jesus didn’t seem to fit very well in that paradigm.
But then I look at Jesus, and what could be more human than feeling rejected and alone in this moment?
When I hear the story of the king and the maiden, I’m reminded that Jesus wasn’t wearing a disguise.
Jesus had joined us fully—that Jesus was both fully human and fully divine is what I believe.
So that meant that fear was part of his emotions at this point. How could it be a story of redemption—of us—by a savior who joins us, who was exempted from feeling these feelings of anxiety, of fear?
No, my Jesus knows my fear.
I believe in the incarnate Jesus—the Jesus that bridges God and humanity. That Jesus is truly God’s Emmanuel, God with us. I believe that he felt like us, grieved like us, loved like us. How could he be human, truly human, and miss those basic parts of being us?
So, Jesus is the constant character in this story. He shuttled back and forth between sham trial and sham trial, betrayed, wounded, aching from being struck, aching from being alone. This vulnerable savior finally comes to life for me in the story. It is in this moment that the humanity of Jesus is most evident.
What must I do to see the Jesus in front of me? And what can I call us to do?
As Bev was sharing earlier, when she goes into stores, it looks like it’s the day before Christmas. The shelves are ransacked. The advertisements online are insane.
Like many of you, we lost power. And when we finally got it back, we determined we can’t camp in our own house like this anymore—we should buy a generator.
So I Googled, "Buying a generator for your house." Now, all of my social media, all of my Google searches, tell me about generators—local ones. They have my number. I’m sure soon I’ll be getting some phone calls.
We can be distracted by the season. My hope and my prayer is that we will open our eyes more widely, search with our hearts, and be more clear about where Jesus is speaking, where Jesus is acting, where Jesus is moving, and where we would be compelled to join.
Just for fun, I started looking before and after the context of this chapter. The next chapter: Jesus dies. He’s buried. And soon afterward, he’s resurrected. You get more opportunities to see Jesus one-on-one with his disciples. Jesus now says the things I always wanted him to say. Jesus is back on script.
But maybe he’s just calling out to our hearts and playing for keeps.
I think of faithful Thomas, who gets a bad rap, who—even though he missed seeing Jesus—gathered with his siblings in Christ again. And when Jesus joins them, he expresses his doubt.
And again, Jesus doesn’t flinch.
Jesus joins him where he’s at, invites his doubt, invites his questions.
And when Thomas is able to express his heart, something within him is changed, and he confesses: “You are my Lord and my God.”
I believe that Jesus invites us—with our doubts, and our questions, and our smirks, and our misunderstandings—to ask those things, those deep, hard questions.
It reminds me of the story that we shared earlier—the king and the maiden. That relationship could never have grown roots without honest communication, without honest vulnerability.
I think of Mary at the tomb of Jesus, confused and scared. Someone has taken the body of her Savior, and she meets this one who she assumes might be a gardener.
“What have you done with him?”
When Jesus calls her, she recognizes who Jesus is. She sees Jesus, and she is transformed.
And for a brief moment, the gospel is carried by only her. She is the first evangelist, who runs back to share with her siblings in Christ the good news.
I think of Nicodemus, who comes to Jesus at night, wanting to know:
“What does it mean to be reborn? Clarify these things for me, Jesus.”
We don’t see him again until after the crucifixion. He petitions for the body in a very public way. Something in him has changed.
He saw Jesus.
I think of Peter—not just the Peter who denied Jesus and was later reinstated. I’m thinking of the Peter who walks on the water with Jesus. When he sees Jesus, his first impulse is to join his Savior, to be on the water with him. His first steps are not very sure, but he takes them. He sees Jesus, and he goes toward him.
I think of Saul, later Paul, on his way to Damascus to execute what he thought would be justice and his responsibility. And there, he meets a vision of Christ and is completely changed because he saw Jesus.
Today, we feel so many of these things: our own anxieties, our own fear, our own presuppositions, our own priorities, our fear of loss of privilege and power.
A challenge for us is that we turn our eyes toward Bethlehem—that nothing town where they wondered, “What good could come of it?” That we abandon our fear. That we listen to the angels’ chorus and we not be afraid anymore.
And that we look for Jesus—the humble Jesus, the Jesus who chooses to be with us, the Jesus who is the Lord and creator of all creation and still is in love with us, and whose salvation we see in the incarnation.
Amen.
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