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In a world obsessed with winning, power, and control, we're confronted with a radical paradox: the King of Kings hanging on a cross, dying between criminals, mocked by crowds, and seemingly defeated by the very forces He came to overcome. Yet in this moment of apparent weakness lies the most profound demonstration of power the world has ever known.

The Problem with Our Definition of Power

Remember the "Be Like Mike" campaign from the 90s? Everyone wanted to emulate Michael Jordan's incredible achievements—his undefeated finals record, his scoring prowess, his championship legacy. The statistics were undeniable, the accolades impressive, the influence global. Who wouldn't want to be like the greatest of all time?

But here's the uncomfortable truth: even the greatest among us have moments when their lives reveal that earthly power and achievement don't tell the whole story. We all have chapters we'd rather not project on a screen for the world to see.

This brings us face-to-face with a different kind of king—one whose power looks nothing like what we expect.

A King Who Doesn't Look Like a King

At Golgotha, the place of the skull, both Roman authority and religious leadership agreed on one thing: Jesus didn't look like a king. Soldiers mocked Him. Religious leaders sneered. A sign above His head turned His title into cruel irony: "This is the King of the Jews."

In our understanding, power means the ability to win, crush, and control. A crucified king appears to be a failed messiah—someone who couldn't even save himself, let alone anyone else.

One of the criminals crucified beside Jesus captured this sentiment perfectly: "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!" It's the cry of a heart that wants a king who performs for survival, not a savior who gives himself away.

The deeper problem isn't just that Jesus was rejected. It's that the human heart struggles to recognize kingship shaped like a cross. Throughout Luke's gospel, we see announcements of a kingdom of reversal—lifting the lowly, scattering the proud, bringing good news to the poor, and proclaiming release for captives. But on that hill, the powers of the world insisted that violence, humiliation, and domination were the final truth.

The Contemporary Challenge

Today, this same problem persists. Power is still measured in the language of winning—winning elections, winning culture wars, winning arguments online. The loudest voice, the strongest platform, and the toughest brand are treated as royalty.

Our communities remain polarized by fear, mistrust, racial and economic injustice, and the constant temptation to seek safety by finding an enemy to blame. The desire for a savior who will defeat our opponents and confirm our tribe is alive and well.

In this climate, a crucified king who prays "Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing" feels not only strange but offensive. The cross confronts all of us—regardless of political affiliation, economic status, or religious background—with uncomfortable questions:

Do we really want a king who forgives those we want punished?

Do we really want a king who welcomes those we'd rather exclude?

Do we really want a king who calls us to love even our enemies?

The Scandalous Good News

Into this problem speaks a word of amazing grace. From the cross, Jesus says to a dying criminal: "Today you will be with me in paradise."

Consider the context. One criminal hurls abuse. The other confesses, "We indeed have been condemned justly," and then prays the simplest of prayers: "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."

Jesus doesn't ask for proof of goodness. He doesn't require a long record of service or even perfect theology. He simply gives a promise.

This is pure gospel—justification by grace through faith, apart from works of the law. The man is guilty, condemned, near death, with nothing to offer but a desperate plea. Yet he receives the fullness of Christ's kingdom.

He doesn't need a pedigree or an impressive resume. This truth confronts us with the reality of our sin, our complicity, and our inability to save ourselves. But it also reveals a deeper truth: nothing—not even our worst failures or the chaos of our world—can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

A Kingdom Not of This World

The heart of the universe is pleased to give us a new world. Jesus opens this new world precisely for those who have no power, no status, no future of their own. The King takes His throne on a cross so that no one can say, "Someone like me is too far gone."

When Jesus said, "My kingdom is not of this world," He didn't mean His reign is unreal. He meant His reign doesn't operate by the usual scripts of domination and revenge.

For a world exhausted by violence, anxiety, and endless striving, a king whose glory is forgiveness and whose power is mercy isn't just good news—it's the only news that can break the cycle. It's the only news that can heal cynical and broken hearts, shine a light so strong that lives are changed, and reimagine hope itself.

Living Under a Different King

This good news isn't meant to stay in our hearts as a comforting thought. It's meant to transform how we live in a polarized, traumatized world.

When the news makes our hearts race, we can say: "I still want to be like Christ."

When culture tells the church to save itself by grabbing more power, influence, or control, the answer is: "I still want to be like Christ—the one who refused to come down, refused to retaliate, refused to stop forgiving."

When neighbors are divided by race, class, or any other barrier, we declare: "I still want to be like Christ—the one who made a condemned criminal the first citizen of His kingdom."

Jesus said, "Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me." This isn't a call to misery. It's an invitation into a different kind of power—the power of love stronger than death, mercy deeper than sin, and hope louder than the mockery of this age.

The Final Word

In Psalm 46, we're reminded that God is our refuge and fortress, a very present help in trouble. Though the earth should change and mountains shake, though the waters roar and foam, God speaks: "Be still and know that I am God."

The earth of our politics is shaking. The mountains of our institutions are quaking. The waters of our public life are roaring. But into this chaos, grace gets the last word.

The kingdom of the crucified king is not of this world, yet it claims this world through costly, concrete obedience. We're called to live under the rule of this king so the world can see the difference His reign makes in our lives.

With the cross before our eyes and the thief's prayer on our lips—"Jesus, remember me"—we confess: I still want to be like Christ, the king who forgives, the king who remembers, the king who reigns from a cross, the king who shows compassion, the king who stands in humility, the king who says "today you will be with me in paradise," the king who welcomes all to the table, the king who keeps reaching out even when we turn away.

That's the king worth following. That's the power worth pursuing. That's the life worth living.