I met Ned only once, but his presence and passion continues to have ripple effects in my life decades later. I doubt I am the only one to feel that way.
Funny thing – I don’t remember his last name, and if I saw a photo of him now, I don’t know if I would readily identify him, to be honest. In my memory – as a 20-year-old college student just returning to the faith in a real way – I picture Ned as a barrel-chested, long-haired, flannel-wearing mountain man, standing at the ready to hunt deer in the Appalachians of Pennsylvania.
In truth, though, that’s not where he would be found.
When I encountered him, he was living on Market Street in the Allison Park section of Harrisburg, one of the capital city’s most-impoverished neighborhoods. It was here, nearly 30 years ago, that Ned was crouched amid the trash and dirt of that Harrisburg thoroughfare, planting zinnia in a tiny flower box outside the Catholic Worker House. As he saw us pull up – a van filled with college students looking to volunteer for a few hours – he chose to greet us with the words Jesus uses in today’s Gospel: “Welcome to the Kingdom not of this world.”
A few of us politely laughed, not knowing what he meant. Most remained scared and silent.
It’s a powerful statement of greeting when you get right down to it, and one that captures the heart of Christ’s mission as King of the Universe, the solemnity we celebrate this Sunday as the Church culminates her liturgical year.
Welcome to the Kingdom not of this world.
Strange words, to be sure. Words that should both comfort and challenge us; words meant to bring peace and start a revolution. A greeting that should define us as disciples and as Church.
A Kingdom not of this world.
It is always somewhat jarring to me that as we celebrate this great feast of the Lordship of our Savior, our Gospel veers off a bit – at least at surface level – from the first and second readings which speak of the dominion, power and glory of God – the Alpha and Omega – “coming on the clouds of heaven.” That’s kingship as most of us would define it.
Here, though, the evangelist John has Jesus proclaiming his Kingship as he stands bloodied and beaten before one of the most politically-powerful men in the known world at that time. Pilate could stop the crucifixion from happening; he could have stepped in with his own earthly power to keep this rabbi-carpenter-nobody from going to Calvary. But first he had to ascertain the motives of the One who stood before him.
“Are you a king?”
Pilate was only concerned, of course, with the idea that Jesus wanted to overthrow Rome; that this strangely-captivating Nazorean’s intent was to destroy the political infrastructure of the very system that kept certain men (and a certain people) fat, happy and comfortable. Pilate was worried this Jesus wanted his power and authority.
Nothing could be further from the truth. “My kingdom is not of this world,” came the reply. And that is a radical statement. Yet, not in the way we might think.
Too often, we hear this response from Christ and our thoughts automatically shift to the hereafter, where the Kingdom awaits – one that will be a kingdom of refreshment, light and peace. The Kingdom where the Father reigns. The Kingdom that has no end.
All of these statements are true. All are beautiful. But they aren’t enough.
Jesus wasn’t just pointing to a homeland not of this world; the radicalness of his statement comes in the understanding that the Kingdom of God reigns wherever and whenever His Heart, His Presence and His Mercy go to the depths of suffering and pain. His Kingdom reigns wherever and whenever Gospel truth pushes back against the very structures that oppress, destroy and chain others to sin.
The Kingdom which Jesus proclaims that Friday we call “Good” looks exactly as He did in that moment standing before earthly power: scourged, crowned with thorns and ready to pick up a Cross for the world. That’s true Kingship.
And that is exactly how our Church should look. That is what our Church – and we as her members – are called to live and proclaim with our very lives.
How often we have failed in that task.
I think back to the generations – including present-day memory – when the Church acted as corrupt as the worldly leaders we also condemn; how often the Church’s leaders led with lies and covered up truth all to protect selfish interests and keep worldly power and prestige in her grasp; how often the Church acted like Pontius Pilate: afraid, threatened and childish.
To our shame, the Church has often led from a place of sin, not redemptive love. Our Church chose comfort over the Cross. We chose a kingdom of our own making over the One that Jesus Christ asks us to live: the Kingdom found in its fullness at the foot of the Cross.
Perhaps, then, the great challenge of this Solemnity is the continual call to return to the very place where we find Christ in this Gospel moment: proclaiming the Truth in Love while entering the wounded brokenness of the world in order to bring healing, forgiveness and mercy. To embrace a Beatitude-outlook. To set captives free in every way we find others chained.
That very call isn’t just for bishops and the hierarchy, either.
Each one of us is called to fight for such a Kingdom, and I don’t use the word “fight” casually. Every King needs his army to defend and tear-down the very structures that prevent his reign from taking hold. Every King needs his loyal subjects to make straight his paths.
As we head this Church year and look forward to a new beginning, the King of kings is crying out to all of us, standing scourged before the Cross: will you join me in the fight for Truth and lasting freedom? The fight for authentic love and forgiveness? Will you welcome the stranger and give drink to the thirsty? Will you visit the imprisoned and share a table with the least?
Will you be willing to go to the very places where worldly comfort and power refuse to go? Are you willing to cross-carry for the reign of God’s Kingdom to be made known?
As we college students stood with Ned that afternoon before the Catholic Worker House on Market Street, he shared with us the many ways that the Catholic Church – only blocks from the official chancery building and majestic cathedral of downtown Harrisburg – was responding to a community and a people that most of the world would rather forget.
Yes, Ned fed the hungry. He welcomed the stranger. He lived and proclaimed the corporal and spiritual works of mercy with his life.
But to me, what stood out the most that day – what showed me what real Kingship looks like – was this passing statement Ned made as we entered the Catholic Worker House, one that Dorothy Day herself visited in the 1930s as her movement was beginning to take hold among the laity who longed to take an active role in the Church.
Ned said to us wide-eyed students: “There are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who point to themselves, and the ones who use their lives to point to others out of love. Be the second kind of person.”
Ned was exactly that for the Alison Park neighborhood that so few dare to drive through these days. He stayed. He loved. He chose to serve. He shared meals with all who came.
His life pointed to a Kingdom not of this world. His presence and his heart pointed to Christ Himself.
May the same be said of us, wherever we find ourselves. May we be willing to stand with the King of kings under the shadow of the Cross, willing to go to the very places where the world dreads to go: to the forgotten, the wounded and those held in the chains of their own sin and selfishness.
May we be “Catholic workers” in our homes, our neighborhoods and our parishes.
This coming Advent, let our lives light the way to the Kingdom God gave His very life for: … our very hearts where He longs to reign supreme.