We are walking through a deserted kingdom. Great stone stairs descend into empty courtyards, where towering stone fountains now stand still, the gargoyles looking off into nothingness. There is a majesty to it, but also a sadness – as if a living scene, full of noise and color, and packed with people so busy existing . . . has now become a painting, still beautiful to look at, but silent, frozen. And without the people, not even images. We proceed into an underground hall. More whispers of past grandeur. Complex frescoes line the walls, and the ceilings are woven with intricate patterns. Perhaps this was once a place of dancing, filled with music and light and, again, people. But now it too is empty. I am lost in the story of this place. My mind swarms with visions of its past - what happened to this place? What spell caused the golden realm to be locked in the still spell of winter? And I long for its renewal, for a king to return and restore the grandeur that now is seen only in hints and shadows.
And then we step out of Central Park and into the turmoil of the city. We stumble through icy puddles and piles of leaden snow and slush. Horns and flashing lights everywhere, and pulsating colors on high screaming “Buy! Buy! Buy!” And the story is lost – it was just my imagination – there was no deserted kingdom, just a city park where cold rain had driven away the visitors. This is real – the gray and silver buildings, and flashes of yellow as the cabs dart by. But why does the story grab me so deeply? Why do I ache for it to be true, for there really to be a mystic realm now fallen from some great height? Why do I grab onto all such stories, all the fantasies of great heroes and hidden kingdoms?
This attachment to story is what Tim Keller spoke on in this morning’s sermon. We have legends of great past kings who will one day return, of epic battles between good and evil. The stories carry common threads – the land locked in some evil spell; the presence of something beyond what we can see; and the need for a sacrificial love to save us. And these stories continue to resonate with us, no matter what the literary critics say. But why? The Gospel claims to hold the reality that all the legends point to – Jesus, the true king of old, returning to take his dominion and restore the world. “But you, O Bethlehem Ephratha . . . from you shall come forth for me one who is to be ruler in Israel, whose coming forth is from of old, from ancient days.” The true “once and future king” has invaded earth, preparing for the day when words of Psalm 96 will at last be fulfilled: “Then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy before the LORD, for he comes.”
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