13

CRUCIFORM KING

Nonviolence sinks its roots deep into the narrative of a cruciform God, which stretches from a garden to a manger, a manger to a cross. It’s the path we should take, because it’s the path first trudged by our crucified Creator-King.

Christ Jesus … though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. (Phil. 2:5–7)

When Jesus was born, Caesar Augustus had recently ushered in a time of unprecedented peace and prosperity that would make the Reagan years look like the Great Depression. Roads were built, robbers were kept at bay, the military was invincible, luxury was all around, and distant nations that would otherwise pose a threat kept to themselves. This was the Pax Romana—the “peace of Rome”—and Jesus was born smack dab in the middle of it.

When Jesus was around five, Augustus celebrated his twenty-fifth year as emperor, which happened to be the 750th anniversary of Rome’s foundation. By now, Augustus had risen to godlike status, and the people were eager to show their affirmation. Augustus was hailed as a savior, lord, king of kings, prince of peace, son of God, the Pontifex Maximus or High Priest of Rome, who brought gospels and glad tidings to the people of Rome.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, or among the animals, wailed a baby born out of wedlock to a teenage girl in a small village in Judea—a backwater province nestled between the Mediterranean Sea and the desert sands. No pomp or prestige, parades or accolades. The Son of God entered human history in a whisper—through the virgin womb of a young Jewish girl. Shame, scandal, and humility clothed the birth of Christ. In the flurry of power and violence, religious pride and unprecedented economic success, the Creator of the universe descended from His glorious throne and thrust Himself into a feeding trough.

And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. (Phil 2:8)

Augustus was a tough act to follow, no doubt. So when Jesus’s followers hailed Him as “Savior,” “Lord,” “King of Kings,” “Prince of Peace,” “Son of God,” and “High Priest” of Israel, who brought “gospels” and “glad tidings” to the entire world, Roman folks certainly raised an eyebrow and, if need be, a sword. It made no sense to the Roman worldview that a suffering, humiliated, crucified Jew would rule the world. But He did, and He does, and He always will. Our cruciform Creator-King reclaimed His glorious throne because He first served and suffered. And He invites us to journey with Him to Calvary.

Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. (Phil. 2:9–11)

Choosing violence over nonviolence, power over suffering, vengeance over forgiveness, or temporal justice over love, disrupts this un-Roman, counter-American, not-of-this-world narrative. The nonviolent rhythms of the cross meet the melodies of this world with dissonance.

I accept the charge of being impractical. Perhaps some will think I’m weak. Maybe critics will say I’m idealistic, naive, or too heavenly minded to be of earthly good. I’ll take that. But the one thing I never want to be accused of is diminishing the cross. The One who breathed stars into existence, who commands the sun and moon to do His bidding, chose humility and suffering as the stairway to His throne. The King of creation reigns. He ordains. He commands. He judges, and He loves. “Our God … does whatever He pleases,” sings the psalmist (Ps. 115:3 NASB). He “will accomplish all [His] purpose,” announces the prophet (Isa. 46:10). This God defeated evil—but not through violence. He raised His hands, not to strike, but to be nailed to a cross. May we pick up ours to remind the world of His. May Jesus’s cruciform narrative become more real than the blood in our veins, just as it has been for an untold multitude that has fought—and won—a cruciform victory. Like Erastus.

• • •

“Come on, Erastus. We’re going to be late. The celebration has started!”1

Fear gripped Erastus’s heart. He knew he had to do it, but his feet felt cemented into the marble floor as the warm Mediterranean breeze swept through his front door.

“Hang on, Gaius. Let me just grab my cloak.”

“And don’t forget your speech, Erastus. Remember: this is your night!”

“Oh … yes, of course,” Erastus stammered as he stuffed a piece of parchment into his cloak. “Okay. Let’s go.”

As the two rushed to the city square, the buzz of the crowd vibrated through the alleys. Intoxicated with violence, they chanted:

“Kurios Vespasian. Kurios Vespasian. Kurios Vespasian!

“They’re waiting for you, Erastus! Are you ready?”

“Um, yes. Yes, of course. I’m ready.”

Celebrations ignited across the Roman world at the news of Emperor Vespasian’s recent bloodbath in Jerusalem. The Jewish revolt had been crushed by Rome, and pride wafted through the Mediterranean air, especially in patriotic towns like Corinth, where Erastus was the city treasurer.

Kurios Vespasian! Kurios Vespasian!

“There it is, Erastus! Look, they built a stage for your speech. This is your night, Erastus. The favor of the gods is with you. And kurios Vespasian, our divine emperor, is with you. Make him proud!”

As city treasurer, Erastus was called upon by the Senate to herald the good news of Lord Vespasian’s peace-bringing victory over the revolting Jews. Putting down such threats brought salvation and security to the empire. Normally, Erastus would eagerly celebrate. The only problem was that Erastus had recently renounced his belief in the Roman gods, and he no longer believed that Vespasian was his kurios. He had joined the community of the Way, a group otherwise known as Christians. And Erastus now worshipped a new King, a Jew from Nazareth named Yeshua whom his own government had crucified. Yeshua, the crucified Jew, was his new Kurios—His divine Lord.

“Right this way, sir.” A soldier beckoned, glistening with joy. “Vespasian reigns! Make him proud, sir!”

Erastus strolled up the stage, dove into his pocket, and snatched his manuscript. He gazed over the crowd and then squinted up to the sky and whispered: “Kurios Christos, give me strength to follow You. May Your cross be mine. This night, I will be with You.”

“Citizens of Rome,” cried Erastus. “We are here to celebrate Vespasian’s recent victory over the Jews in Palestine. Many people have been killed, both Romans and Jews. And Rome has reclaimed Palestine for the empire.”

“Kurios Vespasian!” shouted the crowd. “Salvation and peace belong to Rome!”

“However,” continued Erastus. “I’m here to tell you about another empire. Another Kurios. A better salvation and true peace.”

The crowd froze.

“I stand before you as a herald of the good news that Yeshua, a Jew from the town of Nazareth in Palestine, is the true Kurios, the Lord of the earth. His kingdom rules over Rome, and its boundaries reach to the ends of the earth. I am a servant of this King, this Lord. He is my Kurios. He is your Kurios. I have submitted to His rule, and I can therefore not celebrate this war with you. Many innocent lives have been shed to maintain Rome’s peace. But true peace is found in Yeshua.”

Anger whipped through those in the agitated crowd as they gnashed their teeth. Several men rushed the stage. Soldiers drew their swords.

“Citizens of Rome. People of Corinth. I declare to you this evening that God has highly exalted Yeshua and bestowed on Him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Yeshua every knee in this city square should bow and every tongue confess that Yeshua the Messiah is Kurios, to the glory of the God of heaven, our Father.”

A sword slashed across Erastus’s face, and he crumpled to the floor. Blood gushed out and filled the platform. Another sword hacked at his ribs, boots trampled his limbs, and soon Erastus was with his Kurios.

And thus Satan was dealt another blow. Erastus, citizen of Christ, had suffered—and conquered.

And they have conquered him by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony, for they loved not their lives even unto death. (Rev. 12:11)

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Thank you!
—Preston Sprinkle

NOTES

1. This story is based on Rom. 16:23 and the book of Revelation. It’s not historical, but it very well could have been.