Christ the King Sunday

From birth until age twenty-four, 

I celebrated Thanksgiving in Saratoga Springs, NY

with my grandparents and the rest of my father's family.

The same from year to year to year,

it became ordinary, nearly boring.

The memories blur.

Light snow.

The smell of turkey.

The sounds of football.

Great Aunt Alice’s cackle.

After Eight mints.

Heavy eyelids.

Talk of the weather.

I come from a small family of sturdy stock.

For nearly twenty years, no one was born and no one died.

An illusion of eternity.

Thanksgivings processing by like floats in the Macy's parade.

And suddenly it was 2006.

Grandpa was 92 and had been battling pancreatic cancer since summer.

Grandma called to say that he might not be able to join us at the dinner table.

We arrived to find a hospice bed in the living room.

Grandpa couldn't reach the already used Kleenex 

that lay mere inches beyond his fingers.

And yet it was a surprisingly ordinary Thanksgiving.

We did what we knew.

Ate turkey.

Got drowsy.

Talked about the weather.

Grandma felt bad that she'd forgotten to call – 

had wanted to warn us about the freezing rain in the forecast.

It upset me for a long time – 

that no one had said anything,

that we'd had the most normal Thanksgiving while he died,

that we'd quietly listened to NPR on the drive home.

Much later it dawned on me

that I was upset with myself.

I'd been given eight years with a driver's license, a car, 

and a living grandfather,

and never once visited him without my family.

He'd never spoken a word that only I heard.

I'd never spoken a word that only he heard.

We'd never sat alone together, just two Michael E. Sweeneys.

I wasn't surprised by his death.

He was ninety-two with terminal cancer.

But I'd done precious little to prepare for it.

The church year mirrors our lives.

We spend much of it in Ordinary Time.

Sometimes it seems like it will never end.

Life will be normal forever.

No birth, no death, no re-birth.

Just the everyday miracles of fishes and loaves, water and wine.

Twenty-six weeks after Pentecost, 

today is the last Sunday of Ordinary Time.

Suddenly, Christ the King Sunday has arrived and Pilate is back,

asking questions that we know will lead to death on the cross.

Questions that have already led to death on the cross.

Time seems to collapse here.

Past, present, and future,

incarnation, crucifixion, and resurrection

are all now.

When I was twenty-seven years into this life, grandma ninety-four, 

and grandpa three years into the next,

I finally started to visit Saratoga Springs on my own.

I discovered audio interviews and handwritten letters.

I heard his voice answer questions that I’d never thought to ask.

I saw words written by a young man serving his country and missing his wife.

Grandpa came to life in a new way,

giving me just a glimpse of the eternal kingdom

hidden inside this seemingly ordinary one.

I know how often I am like Pilate,

seeing merely the surface of things

and missing the Kingdom.

As we enter this time of deep darkness and dazzling lights,

as the surfaces of things become brighter and more adorned,

I pray that Christ’s words might cut through the noise:

“My Kingdom is not from here.”