St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL

1 Samuel 16:1-3, 6-13
1 Samuel 17:1a, 4, 32-37, 40, 44-49
Matthew 25:31-46

This sermon was part of The Year of the Bible—a yearlong initiative in which all sermons, classes, and formation for all ages followed a parish-wide journey through the entire Bible. With the bishop’s permission, we used a custom lectionary: two readings drawn from that week’s section of Scripture, plus a psalm and the regularly appointed gospel of the day.

Today is Christ the King Sunday.
It is one of those holy days
that is easy to miss—
always tucked in right before Thanksgiving,
just before Advent begins.

It is a threshold,
a bridge between what has been
and what is to come.

And on this day,
we stop to remind ourselves
that before we are anything else—
before we are Tallahasseeans
or Floridians
or Americans,
before we are Democrats or Republicans,
Episcopalians, Baptists, or Catholics—
we are citizens of the kingdom of God.

So who is this King of glory?
And what kind of King shall we call him?

* * *

Let us name right off the bat
that “king” is not a word
that exhilarates everyone.
And with good reason.

When I was in seminary,
I served a parish in Bethesda, Maryland
filled with brilliant people—
many connected to the NIH
or the policy world around D.C.

One day in small group
we were discussing the Lord’s Prayer
when someone asked,
“Why do we have to say, ‘thy kingdom come’?
Can’t we say, ‘thy commonwealth come’
or ‘thy democracy come’?”

And I got it.
I understood.

The answer, of course, is no.
The realm of God is not a democracy.
We do not vote on who our God is.

But I understood his concern.
Because kings—
real kings, historical kings—
have often been corrupt,
selfish,
and abusive.
They’ve used power to dominate
rather than serve.
They have been poster children
for toxic masculinity.

There are reasons
why we bristle at calling Jesus “King.”
And yet—
this King of ours is like no other.

* * *

We already know this King.
He has shown us who he is.

In just one month,
on Christmas Eve,
we will remember
how we first met him—
a poor peasant,
lying in a manger.

Later, we will look for him
robed in glory, seated on a throne—
and instead, we will find him
naked, dying on a tree.

When God sent us a king,
some would say
we got less than we bargained for.
But I would say
we got far more.

The world wanted a strongman,
a demigod,
a mighty messiah
to conquer fear and enemies.

But what we got
was one who healed the sick,
loved the poor,
and could barely speak
before the court of Pontius Pilate.

This is our King.
His power is not bluster.
His triumph is not fear.

* * *

And in today’s world—
with tension in our own country,
turmoil in places like Israel, Gaza, Ukraine—
it is easy to join the chorus of those who say:
“What we need is someone strong.
What we need is protection.
What we need is someone to keep us safe.”

But this is nothing new.
People have always cried out
for a king to keep them safe.

And time after time,
the kings of this world
let us down.

King Saul? Disaster.
King David? Started well—then fell.

Time after time,
the kings of this world fail.
Until the true king comes.

The King we call Jesus.
The one who wore not a crown of gold
but a crown of thorns.
The one whose strength is in weakness,
whose power is in love,
whose protection is found
in grace and forgiveness.

* * *

So here we are
on this rainy Christ the King Sunday,
standing at the edge of Advent,
peering toward the horizon.

And I want to tell you a story.

It is the story of a man
named James Hampton.
You’ve probably never heard of him.
Few people had.

James Hampton was a quiet, unassuming man—
a night janitor
in a government building in D.C.
in the 1950s.

Every night,
he cleaned offices.
Then, early in the morning,
he would walk across town
to a little garage he had rented,
lock himself inside,
and work for hours.

No one knew what he was doing.
For 14 years—
day after day after day—
he kept that garage locked.

Then, in 1964,
Hampton died of stomach cancer.
The landlord broke the lock.
And what he found
was astonishing.

Inside, shimmering in the sunlight
through a dusty window,
was a throne.

A full throne room,
surrounded by lecterns,
crowns,
tablets,
altars,
180 pieces in all.

James Hampton
had been building
a throne
for the return
of Christ the King.

And he had built it
entirely out of trash.

Aluminum foil.
Gold candy wrappers.
Old light bulbs.
Cardboard.
Air conditioner parts.
Thumbtacks.
Glue and gum.

Out of the garbage of life,
James Hampton made way
for the coming of the King.

He called it:
“The Throne of the Third Heaven
of the Nations’ Millennium General Assembly.”

It is now on display
in the Smithsonian American Art Museum.

If you have never seen it,
Google it when you get home:
James Hampton Throne.
It is something else.

But here is what gets me:
above the throne,
at the very top,
crafted out of foil and glue,
James Hampton inscribed two simple words:

“FEAR NOT.”

For 14 years,
no one knew what James Hampton was up to.
But God did.
And Hampton was not afraid.
He was possessed—
soul possessed—
by a vision
of a King who would return.

And in the end,
he was right.

Because when our King returns,
he does not come
to demand riches
or to rule from on high.

He comes to sit
on the throne
of the trash of our lives.

Because that is what we have—
and it is exactly where he wants to be.

Among us.
With us.
Loving us.
Saving us.
Reigning in justice and mercy,
as no other king ever has,
ever can,
or ever will.

Because our King
is not just a king of love.
Our King is love.

* * *

So, my friends,
on this rainy day
and every day,
you know who you are:

You are citizens
of the Kingdom.

You belong
to the King.

Christ has died.
Christ is risen.
And you better believe—
Christ will come again.

Fear not.

Amen.