These letters often appear above the head of Jesus on the Cross. They are initials for the Latin phrase Iesus Nazorenus Rex Iudeaorum or “Jesus the Nazorean, King of the Jews.” St. John alludes to this in more detail in his Gospel (John 19:20-22):
This inscription, in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek, was read by many of the Jews, since the place where Jesus was crucified was near the city. The chief priests of the Jews tried to tell Pilate, “You should not have written, ‘The King of the Jews.’ Write instead, ‘This man claimed to be King of the Jews.’ Pilate answered, ‘What I have written, I have written.”
Pilate’s phrase carries two meanings. On the surface, it is an assertion of his authority as a Roman official and likely his frustration with his role in this difficult job of managing the religious fervor of Jerusalem. But underneath is the fatalism of saying: “I can’t and I won’t change what I have done. It is final.”
The irony for St. John is that is precisely the sacrifice of the Cross that overcomes that fatalism of human history by the presence of divine grace. Mercy cannot change the past, but it does redeem it. Forgiveness does not erase what we have said or done – or written – but it can give us a new future of hope. Christ, the King, has this power to heal, to restore, to redirect our lives into better paths.
Many commented about the account I wrote of my accident – fortunately not serious – and the opportunity it provided to talk about faith in the most unexpected of places. I want to share another connected chapter that happened later.
The vehicle was towed to the body shop, and I spoke with the estimator. We looked over the damage and I answered some questions. In the course of the conversation, I commented that if it had been five seconds sooner or five seconds later, this would not have happened. He then told me this story. He had moved to Minnesota recently from New York. He was a volunteer firefighter, as was his father and his uncle. His brother was also home from services in the Marines. During his visit, the Twin Towers were struck by those planes. It was September 11, 2001. His uncle called to say, “Get your gear, we’re going.” This man and his family spent 30 days at Ground Zero. We did not talk about what he experienced there – no need to, as his voice and quiet bravery and humility said it all. His coincidence of time and place led him to serve with remarkable generosity, and he spoke with gratitude and esteem for his many colleagues who did the same. Things happen, people need help, other people respond.
What are the chances that a fender-bender would lead to an encounter like this? It’s the kind of thing God does, and I continue to be amazed at the Lord’s ways.
The connection with Christ the King? Two things come to mind.
First, that “what I have written, I have written” also has a positive meaning. The sacrifices we make, the good we do, the kindness we show remain, “inscribed in the Book of Life” as the Book of Revelation puts it. God does not forget. We are assured: “God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him by your service, past and present, to his holy people” (Hebrews 6:10).
Second, this feast always helps us reflect on who or what is truly sovereign in our lives. Whose voice do we follow? What light is our guide? Who effectively influences the practical decisions we make, day by day?
What do we want to be read about our lives when we say: “What I have written, I have written?”
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