Author: Robin.Kyd

Active Hope in the Darkness
By Revd George Mwaura

We gather on this First Sunday of Advent, not to escape the darkness, but to name it, and to proclaim that our waiting is not a passive resignation, but purposeful resistance. The world laments. Wars rage in Ukraine, Gaza, Sudan. Hunger stalks its victims in Gaza, Afghanistan, Yemen and the Horn of Africa. Climate catastrophe displaces millions as we have witnessed this week in Indonesia and other south-east Asia countries. The darkness is not metaphorical; it is the cold reality of children sleeping in rubble, of mothers watching their infants starve, of entire peoples erased from their lands. And into this darkness, Advent whispers: Wait.

But this is not the waiting of helplessness. The Hebrew prophets knew no such passivity. Isaiah’s vision of swords beaten into ploughshares was not wishful thinking, it was a revolutionary manifesto. When he cried, ‘Prepare the way of the Lord,’ he was calling for an active preparation: straightening the crooked systems, levelling the mountains of injustice, filling the valleys of inequality. Understand this: Christian hope, properly understood, is not optimism. Oh, no! Optimism is the privilege of those insulated from suffering. Hope, on the other hand, is something far more dangerous: it is the defiant conviction that darkness does not have the final word, coupled with the willingness to act as if the Kingdom were already breaking in.

Jürgen Moltmann taught us that Christian hope is not about the future as mere tomorrow, but about God’s future invading our present. We wait in darkness, yes, but we wait as light-bearers. We do not idle in despair; we labour in anticipation. This Advent, our hope must be embodied: in advocacy for the displaced, in solidarity with the suffering, in resistance to the powers that profit from war and environmental destruction. We light candles therefore, not to prettify the darkness, but to defy it! To say that even the smallest flame is an act of theological rebellion.

The Incarnation we await is God’s descent not into gilded comfort, but into the raw heart of crisis. Jesus was born in a stable, in a country under occupation, and threatened by imperial violence from his first breath. As you can see, our hope is in a God who does not transcend suffering but transforms it from within. So, we wait. But we wait awake – eyes open to injustice, hands extended in mercy, voices raised in prophetic witness. We wait as those who know the end of the story and therefore cannot be silent in the middle chapters. Today we proclaim, come, Lord Jesus. And until you do, make us your coming.

Amen!

By Revd Nigel Adkinson

[Bible reading: Luke 23: 33–43]

Grace to you and peace from the Crucified and Risen King.

Amen

Christ the King Sunday is supposed to sound triumphant. We expect trumpets, crowns, and glory. But Luke gives us a very different picture. Instead of a throne, Jesus hangs on a cross. Instead of royal robes, he is stripped. Instead of a crown of gold, he wears thorns.  Instead of supporters, he is surrounded by mockers.

Above him a sign reads: ‘This is the King of the Jews.’ It is meant as a joke – yet it tells the deepest truth in the universe.

From the beginning, Jesus’ kingship was unlike any other. He came not to dominate, but to heal. Not to demand service, but to serve. Not to take life, but to give it.

And on the cross, we see the full revelation of what God’s power actually looks like: self-giving love that refuses to stop loving, even when it is rejected.

The world says kings must be strong, victorious, untouchable. But Christ shows us that true kingship is found in humility, vulnerability, and sacrificial love.

On either side of Jesus are two criminals. They look at the same crucified man and see two very different things. One joins the mockers: ‘Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!’ His vision of a king is the same as the world’s: a king should fix everything with force; a king should escape suffering; a king should use power to avoid weakness.

But the other criminal sees something deeper. He sees a king whose love remains even in agony. He sees a kingdom that can reach into a place as dark as Golgotha. And he says the most honest prayer in Scripture:

‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.’

He is the first person in the Gospel to recognise that Jesus’ kingdom is revealed on the cross, not apart from it.

Jesus answers him: ‘Today you will be with me in paradise.’

Not tomorrow. Not someday. Not if you get your life together. Today.

In the middle of betrayal, cruelty, injustice, and suffering, Jesus still gives mercy. In the darkest moment in human history, Jesus still opens the door of his kingdom.

This is what it means for Christ to be King: No one is beyond the reach of his mercy. Not the guilty. Not the broken. Not the fearful. Not the ones who feel they have nothing to offer.

This criminal has no good works to point to, no future to devote to God. He has only a plea—and that is enough for Jesus.
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