Strange Kingdom

It was the Jewish Passover and Jerusalem was flooded with visitors from all over the Roman Empire. For some, who had heard the gossip, there was an air of expectation. Rumors were swirling about a miracle worker, a Galilean named Jesus. The sick had been healed. The blind could see. The lame walked. Just two miles distant from Jerusalem, in Bethany, a man named Lazarus had been raised from the dead. This feast, celebrating deliverance from an ancient taskmaster, always inflamed hope for a new emancipation. The tattle of a miracle worker raised the fever of that year’s celebration. Rebellious words were whispered. Would-be warriors quietly sharpened swords. Imaginations ran wild.

And so he came, riding on a colt (Luke 19:28 – 46; Matthew 21:1 – 11). Those lining the way shouted, “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord,” and threw their cloaks on the road before him. But what kind of kingdom was he bringing?

It was a kingdom without an army. Roman soldiers, standing here and there among the rabble lining the street, must have been amused at the spectacle of gullible Jews stripping off their ragged cloaks to cover the pavement before their homely king and his gallant donkey.

But he could have had an army if he’d wanted one. Already, he had demonstrated power over disease, nature and even death. If he could call life back from the dead, what was there for his soldiers to fear? There was no reason why Jesus could not have been more powerful than any king who has ever lived. If his kingdom had been of this world, this world would have been his kingdom. But he did not draft an army.

What kind of kingdom was this? A kingdom without wealth. He was the poorest among his subjects with no place to lay his head. Born in a barn, in less than a week he would be buried in another’s tomb. They even had to borrow the burro he rode and throw their work-worn cloaks on its back for a saddle. His triumphal entry was serenaded by the dry voices of brittle old women and the tuneless songs of tone-deaf day-laborers singing borrowed lines from a dusty old Psalm. Children with rusty elbows and dirt-stained feet danced to welcome him. King Jesus — heralded by beggars and lepers, the blind and broken, the hungry and the homeless.

But he could have had wealth if he’d wanted it. He was, after all, the one who put gold in the ground. He gave Africa her diamonds, India her emeralds, Persia her oil and the ocean her pearls. The cattle on a thousand hills were his, as were the hills in a thousand country sides. His kingdom, though, measured wealth in a different currency — an undivided heart, undiluted devotion and unbridled joy. Under his rule, the poorest of his subjects was to be accorded as much honor and respect as the richest.

What a strange kingdom; no army, no wealth and no borders. Pilate ruled Judea. Galilee and Perea belonged to Herod. Quirinius governed Syria and a different Roman prefect ruled Egypt. And Tiberius was lord over all — at least all that fell within the borders of Rome.

But when Jesus came to establish his kingdom, he did not pull out a map of the world and draw lines; he came to erase them. “Go into all the world,” he told his disciples. “You will be my witnesses to the ends of the earth.” And in his mind-bending Revelation, John said, “I saw another angel flying in midair and he had the eternal gospel to proclaim to those who live on the earth — to every nation, tribe, language and people.”

The pauper riding on a borrowed colt called no army, stored no treasure and disregarded all borders. But he was a king. He is a king. His kingdom will never end.