The Royal Splendor of the Cross

Christ the King | Luke 23:32-43

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

The prophet Jeremiah spoke during one of the darkest moments of Israel’s history. The kings who were supposed to shepherd God’s people had scattered the flock, and the nation was collapsing under their failure. But into that darkness God gave a promise:

“Behold, the days are coming, says the LORD, when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch, and he shall reign as king and deal wisely, and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land. In his days Judah will be saved, and Israel will dwell securely” (Jer 23:5–6, RSV).

A King was coming—one who would rule rightly, restore what was broken, and bring God’s righteousness to His people. When you think of a king, what comes to mind? Strength. Authority. Majesty. A throne, a crown, a realm at peace. A king who makes things right, who drives away enemies, who looks like a king.

Today, as the church year draws to a close, we celebrate Christ the King Sunday. And the natural question is: What does it mean that Jesus is our King? What does His reign look like? Where do we see His royal splendor? The Gospel Luke today provides the answer—but not the one we expect. The church year does not end with Jesus seated on a visible throne or crowned in glory. It ends with Him hanging on a cross between criminals. And Luke says: There—right there—is your King.

 I. The Crucified King (vv. 32–33, 34b)

Luke begins by showing us a King who does not look like a king. Jesus is “led away” with two criminals, as though He were just one more rebel to be put down (Lk 23:32, RSV). He dies the death of insurrectionists, not of the righteous Son of God. The place is called The Skull—Golgotha—death, defeat, and shame (v. 33). Yet this becomes His throne room. Here the King of the Jews is nailed to a rough-hewn piece of wood.

Luke is sparse in his language: “there they crucified him” (v. 33, RSV). No details, no gore—simply the fact. The Lord’s Anointed hangs between criminals, one on His right and one on His left. Then comes the almost throwaway line: “They cast lots to divide his garments” (v. 34b). The royal robes of the King are gambled away like loot. The One who clothes creation is stripped bare. From the outside, this looks like the collapse of Jeremiah’s promise. The righteous Branch who was to reign wisely now hangs powerless. Here is your King, Israel. Here is your King, world. 

But this is precisely how He reigns. The King sent to redeem by His blood now sheds that blood. The King of righteousness bears the curse. The King of life submits to death so that death will lose its power forever. His royal splendor is hidden under suffering and shame. And we struggle with this kind of King. We want feasts, victory, visible glory—but without the cross. We want a Christ who fixes our circumstances. We prefer a Jesus who stands above our pain, not One who hangs helpless in it. When the church looks weak or our own lives feel like failure—when prayers go unanswered and suffering lingers—we are tempted to say, “This cannot be the King.” Quiet despair settles in: “If He were really King, why would He let this happen?”

And when God does not intervene the way we expect, we whisper: “Where is God in this? Why won’t He do something?” Our hearts echo the assumptions the rulers will shout next—that a true King proves Himself by avoiding suffering, not entering it. But this is the King the world needs. Here is your King, taking the rebel’s death that should have been yours; hanging where you should hang; counted among the criminals so that you might be counted among the righteous.

And when your life feels more like Golgotha than glory—hospital rooms, hospice beds, broken relationships—this is where your King meets you. He does not promise to lift you out of every sorrow now, but He joins you in it and carries you through it. His splendor is that in your suffering, He has already gone deeper and claimed it as His own. You are not abandoned. You have a Crucified King.

 II. The Mocked King (vv. 35–38)

Luke began by showing us a Crucified King. Now he shows us how this King is treated—He is a mocked King. The scene shifts from the act of crucifixion to the response of those standing around, “the people stood by, watching” (Lk 23:35, RSV). They do not confess Him, nor do they believe Him. They watch. They keep their distance. They will not risk being associated with Him. 

Jeremiah had promised a King who would save Judah and Israel. But as the rulers look at Jesus hanging there, they mock the very promises they claim to believe. “He saved others; let him save himself, if he is the Christ of God, his Chosen One!” (v. 35, RSV). The soldiers join in. They offer Him vinegar, sour wine, a cheap soldier’s drink. They lift the sponge as if they were cupbearers attending their king, but it’s meant to be a joke. “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” (vv. 36–37, RSV). The King is mocked and scorned.

And over His head is the sign: “This is the King of the Jews” (v. 38, RSV). Think about those words. This man is King? This beaten man? This crucified nobody? Here again we are confronted with the question: What kind of King is this? A King who is publicly rejected. A King whose crown is thorns and whose throne is a cross. 

Mockery in this passage is not only historical—it’s present. The world still looks at the Church’s weakness and mocks: small congregations, fading influence, stumbling sinners, unimpressive pastors. A crucified King must have a crucified Church, and the world laughs at both. And if we’re honest, those voices get into our own hearts. We begin to think the same way. We assume that if Christ were truly reigning among us, the pews would be full, the ministries thriving, the culture receptive, the future secure. We expect a Church that looks victorious, strong, and successful. And when what we actually see is weakness, fragility, or decline, we begin to wonder whether Christ is really King at all. We want a kingdom marked by glory, not by a cross.

But Luke brings us to the foot of the cross and asks us to see what is truly happening. The Church may look weak, but so did her King. In the midst of derision, Jesus is not powerless—He is saving. The insults become a creed. “He saved others”—yes, and this is how. He does save others—precisely by refusing to save Himself. The rulers assume that the Messiah must prove His identity through visible power and glory. But the true Messiah proves His identity through weakness and self-sacrifice. Because He is the King, He will not come down. “This is the King of the Jews”—yes, this One, mocked and crucified, is the King of kings. And just as His kingship was hidden under weakness, so His kingdom is often hidden under what looks like failure. But do not be deceived. God’s grace works through weakness. When the Church’s frailty—or your own—tempts you to doubt His reign, look to the mocked King. He refuses to save Himself because He is busy saving you.

III. The Forgiving King (vv. 34a, 39–43)

Luke began by showing us a Crucified King. Then he showed us a mocked King. Now he shows us what this King does while He hangs there—He is a forgiving King.

Before a single voice mocks Him—Jesus says, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do” (Lk 23:34a, RSV). Nails pierce His hands, soldiers gamble for His clothing, blood runs down His face, and His first royal act is to pray for the men killing Him. The world curses its enemies; kings defend themselves; victims cry for justice. But this King intercedes. He pleads for mercy for the very ones who brought Him to this place.

Then Luke takes us to the two criminals who hang beside Him. Both are equally close to Jesus. But they do not see Him the same way. One criminal hurls insults: “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” (v. 39, RSV). He wants a king who serves him, a king who exists to get him off the cross, rescue without repentance, a Savior without a cross.

The other criminal has been brought to a different place. “Do you not fear God,” he says, “since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? And we indeed justly… but this man has done nothing wrong” (vv. 40–41, RSV). He confesses what we are so slow to admit: “I deserve this. My sin has brought me here.” Then comes one of the most beautiful prayers in Scripture: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” (v. 42, RSV). He does not ask to be taken down from the cross. He asks only to be remembered. He sees no crown, no majesty, no visible sign of kingship. He sees a dying man—and yet he trusts that this dying man will one day rule as King.

And the King answers with a royal decree: “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise” (v. 43, RSV). Not “someday,” not “if you prove yourself,” not “after a long wait.” Today. The thief will die, but he will be with Christ in paradise, awaiting the resurrection. So what kind of King is this? He is the King who forgives His enemies. He is the King who hears the prayer of a dying sinner. He is the King who speaks life into death. He is the King who turns a cross into a throne and a criminal into a citizen of Paradise.

Dear saints, this mercy is not limited to that one hill outside of Jerusalem. When Jesus prays, “Father, forgive them” He is praying for you. Your sins—known and unknown, deliberate and ignorant—have been gathered into that intercession. He has carried them, and He prays over you still. His word to the thief is His word to every penitent sinner. In Baptism, He united you to this death and resurrection. In the Supper, He gives you His very body and blood—the same body nailed to the cross, the same blood shed for your forgiveness—with the same promise of Paradise. In the Absolution, He speaks forgiveness as surely as He spoke it on the Cross.

Notice what faith asks. It does not ask, “Lord, take away every sorrow.” It asks, “Jesus, remember me.” That prayer is enough. It’s enough for a church that looks weak. It is enough for hospice rooms and hospital beds, for gravesides and sleepless nights, for the days when your heart is broken and you are not sure you can take another step. The King has heard that prayer before, and He delights to answer it.

Until the Last Day, this is how we see Him—grace in the midst of pain, forgiveness in the midst of suffering, Paradise promised in the shadow of death. This is how He saves now: from the cross, through His Word, in His Sacraments, drawing sinners like us into His kingdom.

And so on Christ the King Sunday, the Church does not simply say, “He will reign.”
We confess, “He reigns now.” He reigns as the Crucified King.  He reigns as the Mocked King. He reigns as the Forgiving King. That’s my King. That’s your King. Long live Christ, the King. Amen.

May the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus, your king. Amen.