Archetypal Royalty

Today is the Feast of Christ the King and our scripture readings provide us with three provocative symbols through which we might interpret this kingship:  Christ the Good Shepherd; the Christ crucified; and the Cosmic Christ.  These images taken together evoke a richly textured understanding of authority or rule in its personal, political, and cosmological dimensions.  It is an understanding that is quite different from the usual connotations of kingship.

Children of the American Revolution that we are, we tend to associate kings with tyranny.  Even the kings and emperors in the Bible are often depicted as corrupt, arbitrary, unjust, and merciless.  They wreak havoc and suffering, making the world a cruel and chaotic place.  Of the kings of Israel and Judah, only David, Solomon, and the lesser-known reformer, Josiah, get very good marks, and even they had their moments.  The Persian Emperor Cyrus the Great is remembered favorably for allowing the exiled Jews to return to Israel.   The rest are pretty much a disaster, from Pharaoh to Herod.  Both our democratic and biblical traditions are suspicious of kingship.   

And yet, it is precisely because of these failed kings that the hope for a different kind of king, a reliable source of authority, is continually renewed.  “Kingship” or “Royalty,” to use a more gender-neutral term, is an archetype of our longing for personal integration, political justice, and cosmic order.  This gets expressed in the hope for the Messiah, the Anointed One, a king aligned with God’s purposes in creation and in history.  This messianic hope is often projected onto various leaders, generally to our great disappointment.  

To proclaim Jesus as our King, as the fulfillment of this messianic hope, is to affirm a quite different source of authority for our lives.  Allegiance to Christ the King represents a decision for integrity, compassion, and beauty as our touchstones of authority, an authority that is internalized rather than projected on to others.   The proclamation of Christ as King is a way of claiming our own royal identity as we become conformed to the image of Christ within us.

The shepherd and the sheep is a frequent biblical metaphor for the relationship between king and people, prominently in the Psalms, Ezekiel, and in today’s passage from Jeremiah.[1]  It is a metaphor that Jesus uses in his parables; in John’s Gospel, Jesus himself becomes the parable: “I am the Good Shepherd.”  It is an image of intimacy, care and protection.  The shepherd risks his life to protect the sheep from the wolves. 

As a political metaphor, the shepherd-king cares for the whole political body, establishing justice among all the parts of the realm.   Such a king does not fleece the flock: using his authority, not for the benefit of himself, but for the common good.  The poor and vulnerable are protected from the predations of wealthy and powerful interests.  It is an image of integrity.

Such integrity extends to the personal level, to the correspondence between our actions and our values, and to the integration of all the aspects of our inner life with awareness and appreciation.  Those parts of the self that are vulnerable and marginalized, the shadow side that we would rather not acknowledge but whose energies we nevertheless often exploit unconsciously, are also given their due.   We make a place for our demons without allowing them to consume us, much as the wise shepherd respects the wolf without sacrificing his flock to it. 

On the cosmic level, the shepherd-king brings personal and political life into harmony with the creative energies of the universe in their ever- renewing pattern of life, death, and resurrection.  Integrity means participation in this sustainable pattern of life, being in the flow of it rather than trying to dominate or exploit it.    Christ the Good Shepherd is an image of royal integrity in which “all things hold together.”[2]

The Crucified Christ may seem like a strange image of royalty.  Kings are supposed to be in control.  They put other people to death, punishing the wicked.  This king is crucified in between two criminals.  He is identified with the wicked; indeed, he teaches love of enemies in imitation of God, who is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked.[3]  There is no integrity, no integration, without compassion.

Justice alone can not ensure integrity.  Justice divides between good and evil, worthy and undeserving, criminal and victim.  It may punish or compensate but it does not heal.  Only forgiveness can heal.  Only forgiveness can reconcile and make one again what has been broken apart. 

Christ crucified, the innocent victim who identifies with outcasts and criminals, reveals his royalty when he prays, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.”[4]  Here is a wisdom that sees the ignorance and blindness underlying evil, the chain of causes and conditions that give rise to suffering.  Here is a power that is greater than the coercive power of the state.  Compassion accomplishes what violence could never do: the forgiveness of sin that makes new life possible; the bringing of evil to light in such a way that it can be healed.

In the rite of Holy Baptism, we recognize the reality of evil in its personal, political and cosmic dimensions when we renounce Satan, the evil powers of this world, and the sinful desires that draw us from the love of God.  In turning instead to Christ, we choose to combat evil with a power that refuses to mirror evil’s coercive violence: the power of compassion, the willingness to become vulnerable to the suffering evil causes so that it can be redeemed by the power of reconciling love. 

Christ crucified is the icon of kingly power: the vulnerability of love that absorbs evil in the flow of compassion.  Whenever the crucified-king confronts evil in its spiritual, institutional, or psychological dimension, he transfigures it through self-giving love.   Integrity is maintained through compassion at all levels of our being; nothing is excluded.  Everything is changed.  This is the royal power of Christ crucified at work in all things – from deep ecology to restorative justice to self-acceptance. 

Such royal compassion is so large, so inclusive, that it gives rise to yet another image of kingship: the Cosmic Christ. 

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation; for in him all things in heaven and on earth were created, things visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or powers – all things have been created through him and for him.   He himself is before all things, and in him all things hold together.[5]   

The power of compassion that sustains integrity, holding all things together, is a creative power.   Integrity constitutes a universe; a creation, rather than chaos. 

Here, we can only stand in awe.  The universe is full of wonder; and it is beautiful.  The Cosmic Christ is a royal image because it evokes the aspect of kingship as display, as transcendence, as that which commands our attention: in this sense, beauty is another touchstone of archetypal royalty.  “For the soul, then, beauty is not defined as pleasantness of form but rather as the quality in things that invites absorption and contemplation.”[6] 

This is the beauty of a well-designed city that invites long walks and unplanned encounters.  This is the beauty of hearing an arresting piece of music during which time seems to stand still.  This is the beauty of the interior life, our capacity to continually be surprised – maybe even shocked and appalled – by what our soul is saying to us.    Beauty is the form that mystery takes whenever pleasure, or wonder, or even suffering has the capacity to draw us deeper into engagement with life, holding us in the present moment, moving us to imagine possibilities we might never have seen otherwise.   The power of compassion that integrates our experience, that holds all things together, is always a thing of beauty and, as such, an emblem of royalty. 

Integrity, compassion, and beauty: these are the touchstones of royalty revealed in the various images of Christ the King.  In the words of St. Paul, it is an image that mirrors Christ in us, the hope of glory.[7]  There is an archetypal royalty in which each soul participates.  We signify this in the rite of Holy Baptism when we anoint the newly baptized with oil of chrism, marking them as Christ’s own forever, as sharers in his royal identity. 

The kingship if Christ is not something that is coming in such a way that it can be observed, as if people could say it is here or there.  For the kingship of Christ is within you and among you.[8]  It already is your birthright.  The messianic hope for a different kind of king (or queen) is being fulfilled as you become conformed more and more to the image of Christ in you.[9] 

---

[1] Jeremiah 23:1-6; cf. Psalm 23 and Ezekiel 34.

[2] Colossians 1:17.

[3] Luke 6:27-36.

[4] Luke 23:34.

[5] Colossians 1:15-17.

[6] Thomas Moore, Care of the Soul, p. 279.

[7] Colossians 1:27.

[8] A play on Luke 17:20-21.

[9] Ephesians 4:15.

The Feast of Saint Francis, 2013

"Six Days of Creation" by Hildegard von Bingen

There are many reasons to honor Saint Francis of Assisi.  When explaining to journalists why he chose the name “Francis,” the newly elected Bishop of Rome said it was because he was a man of poverty, a man of peace, and a man who loved and protected creation.  Pope Francis added, “These days, we do not have a very good relationship with creation, do we?” 

The relevance of Saint Francis today is, in part, the way in which he understood the relationship between God and creation.  Although Christianity has frequently been interpreted as preoccupied with “getting to heaven” and therefore as, at best, indifferent to and, at worst, exploitative of the earth and its creatures, this point of view doesn’t comport very well with the biblical witness that shaped Francis’ life. 

Here, we do well to pay attention to the foundational premise upon which the whole biblical narrative is based: God wills and will have a faithful relationship with the earth.[1]  God will be faithful to his promise to bring the whole creation to its fulfillment.  The creation story in Genesis presents an image of God as deeply related to, and concerned with, the well being of the world.

It is important to be clear that what we have in the creation story is not a scientific history of how the world was made.  This is the error of biblical literalists.  Neither is it simply a myth, like other Near Eastern myths, describing the ordered structure of the cosmos.  This is the error of biblical rationalists. 

The creation story is neither science, nor mythology.  It is doxology, a hymn of praise, a proclamation of the creative Word of God that invites the response of the creation in freedom, trust, and gratitude.  Its purpose is not to tell us how the world was made, as if it were preoccupied with method or technique.  Its purpose is not to tell us how the world is, as if it were a fixed, closed system.  Its purpose is to give poetic expression to the relationship between the Creator and the creation; to proclaim the enduring, life-giving quality of that relationship in the face of all that is chaotic, death dealing, and unpredictable in our experience. 

The creation story is an affirmation of God’s faithfulness and graciousness, an affirmation that this graciousness is revealed precisely in the goodness and blessedness of the earth; not in some escape from the earth.  And it is a reminder that this creation is a unity: profoundly diverse, yet also one it its harmonious dynamism and complex relationships. 

While the creation story includes the images of creating and making, the dominant metaphor is that of speaking.  “God said” is the characteristic image for the relationship between God and creation:  it implies a dialogical relationship, speaking and responding.  The creation story itself, as a hymn-poem, is a response of the worshipping community to God’s creative Word, a response of praise and thanksgiving. 

In this regard, the creation story is much more akin to the Psalms than to a scientific or mythic description.   The Psalms speak of God’s graciousness manifest in creation, and the grateful response of all the members of the earth community.  “Praise him, sun and moon; praise him all you shining stars!  Praise him, you highest heavens, and you waters above the heavens!  Let them praise the name of the Lord, for he commanded and they were created.  He established them forever; he fixed their bounds, which cannot be passed.”  (Psalm 149:3-6, cf. Psalms 65, 66.)

This psalm expresses the grateful response of all the earth, not only its creatures, but the mountains and deeps, the fire and hail, all manner of trees; the entire earth community hymns God’s praise in what Derrick Jensen has described as “a language older than words.”[2]  St. Francis understood this language.  Nikos Kazantzakis tells the story of St. Francis
standing in front of an almond tree in
mid-winter.  Francis called to the tree, “Speak to me of God.”  Suddenly, the tree burst into bloom, covered with beautiful blossoms.  It is the response of the creature to the creative Word of God that brings life out of death.  It is a language we have forgotten, and desperately need to remember.

This metaphor of the relationship between God and creation as dialogical, as word and response, gives a very different texture to our usual way of thinking about divine power.  God, who speaks and invites our response, is intimately near: close enough to be heard.  But this same God is also distant, leaving space for our response.  The biblical image of God is one of closeness, but not an authoritarian or smothering control.  It is one of distance, but just enough to allow for our freedom. 

Thus, the creative Word of God is not “must be,” but rather, “let be.”  “Let there be light.”  It is not a word of command, but of permission.  Our Jewish brothers and sisters have retained a much better sense of this dialogical relationship.  God speaks a word to his people, but by way of invitation, such that we may respond with praise, or cajoling, or rage, or silence.   There is, then, a tension between God’s promise and our response, between God’s desire to bring the whole creation to its fulfillment, and our willingness to share that desire and the responsibility it entails. 

St. Francis, conversant as he was in this language that is older than words, extended the dialogical relationship between the human creature and God to include a dialogical relationship between the human creature and the rest of creation.  Sun, moon, stars, earth, wind, and water – even death – were his brothers and sisters, members of an intimate family.  He spoke lovingly of them, and to them, all.

He did so because, like the Psalmist, he perceived the graciousness of creation as a sign that “God’s steadfast love endures forever.”  (Psalm 136)  Like the authors of the creation story, he believed that God’s creation, in all its parts and as a whole, was “good” – indeed, “very good.”   This characterization as “good” has more of an aesthetic than a moral quality, and might better be translated as “lovely, pleasing, or beautiful.”  God blesses the creation and so pronounces the world itself as the vehicle of divine blessing.  We need go nowhere else to receive this blessing.  It is always, already, available.

There are many stories of St. Francis speaking with animals: with birds, fish, and, of course, the famous wolf of Gubbio:  striking a deal between the wolf and the villagers so that they could live in harmony.  He once admonished a rabbit that he freed from a trap to be more careful next time!  Mostly, he preached the good news of God’s generosity in providing them with everything they need, urging them to hymn God’s praise in their own language.   His speaking to them also implied a deep listening. 

This is a clue, I think, to the way in which St. Francis serves for us as an icon of what it means to be created in the image of God.  To be so created is to participate in the ongoing dialogue of the whole earth community with God, and with each other.  To realize our humanity in the image of God is to enter into this life giving dialogue, not speaking a word of command, but a word of permission, of “let there be.”  Like Francis, we need to see our humanity as coming to fulfillment ultimately and only as a part of a much larger and inclusive earth community.

The dominion of the human in relationship to other creatures, then, must model the dominion of God over all things.  In the words of Walter Brueggemann, “The image of God in the human person is a mandate of power and responsibility.  But it is power exercised as God exercises power.  The image images the creative use of power which invites, evokes, and permits.  There is nothing here of coercive or tyrannical power, either for God or for humankind . . . Thus the task of ‘dominion’ does not have to do with exploitation and abuse.  It has to do with securing the well-being of every other creature and bringing the promise of each to full fruition.”[3]

Saint Francis is an icon of divine power as servanthood, after the example of Jesus.  This is what is so difficult for the powerful and wise of this world to grasp.  It is the exercise of power as domination, as control, as oppression that creates such a difficult yoke, such heavy burdens, for the poor, the victims of violence, and the earth itself. 

The Cross is the sign of God’s power, God’s outpouring in self-giving love that evokes a new creation.  This new creation is not a repudiation of the initial creation, but a bringing it to its fulfillment: for God’s steadfast love endures forever.  God has spoken the creative Word.  This Word has been made flesh in Jesus, reverberating through the language older than words spoken by Saint Francis and all of the members of the earth community.  God is still speaking.  How will we respond?

---

[1] Walter Brueggemann, Genesis (Louisville:  John Knox Press, 1982), p. 24.  My reading of the creation story is entirely indebted to Brueggemann’s exegesis.

[2] Derrick Jensen, A Language Older Than Words (Chelsea Green Publishing, 2004).

[3] Brueggemann, p. 32.