One of my earliest memories, shortly after my fourth birthday, was being mad that my favorite cartoons were not on TV one Saturday morning. Instead, there were black and white images of a horse-drawn caisson, with a sober voice saying, “President Kennedy’s body is now being transferred to the Capitol Rotunda, where he will lie in state…”  It was the first assassination of a president since William McKinley, in 1901.

I remember the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the rioting that followed. Bobby Kennedy was assassinated two and half months later. I remember hearing Andy Williams sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” during his funeral service. In 1968, it felt like the world was coming apart.

I saw the footage of the assassination attempt of George Wallace in 1972. Later, when I was in college, I met Governor Wallace. He was oddly diminished and frail in his wheelchair, his life forever altered by Arthur Bremer.

I was in high school when there were two attempts on President Gerald Ford’s life, both in San Francisco. Both shooters missed and it felt like the nation escaped another tragedy.

I was on the balcony of my college dorm when I heard the news that Ronald Reagan had been shot. When he was wheeled into the operating room, he said to the team of doctors, “I hope you are Republicans.”  The chief surgeon replied, “Today, Mr. President, we are all Republicans.”  We all prayed for his recovery.

When I saw George W. Bush ducking the shoe thrown at him at a press conference, I was amazed. I thought how easily that could have been a bomb. When Barack Obama was elected, I was sure there would be some attempt on his life; thankfully, if there was one, it never succeeded.

I was troubled when I heard about the assassination attempt on former President Trump. When the news first broke, I wondered if it was a “fake” news story. It turned out to be horrifyingly real. Tragically, one man at the rally was killed, as was the shooter. Two others were critically wounded. A last-minute turn of his head caused a bullet to miss President Trump’s head and instead, merely nick his ear.  It was a miracle of millimeters.

Political assassinations are nothing new. Of the forty-two kings of Israel and Judah in the Old Testament, fifteen were assassinated. That’s about 35%.  It was a dangerous job. People back then (and today) were willing to kill to gain power, change the arc of history, and get rich. Politics was dangerous in the Bible. If you were caught on the wrong side of a regime change, you might be killed along with the former king.

Jesus was born into this brutal environment. Though not an emperor, Julius Caesar was assassinated by his friend Brutus (“Et tu, Brute?”).  Caesar Augustus was rumored to have been poisoned. Of the 77 emperors of the powerful Roman Empire, 37 were murdered.  It was the most dangerous job in the world. These kings were all killed because someone wanted their power or their position. Being the most powerful person in the world did not save them.

When Jesus came into the world, he did not seek political power. He refused the temptation when Satan offered him the kingdoms of the world. When the people came to make him king, he went up to the mountains to pray. When Pilate asked him, “Are you a King?” Jesus did not deny it. He said, “You say I that I am a king. For this, I was born and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who hears my voice belongs to the truth.”   The Bible does not say this, but I have a feeling at this point, Pilate said to himself, “Huh?”

Jesus declared he was a different kind of King, a King who deals in truth, not in political power, a King not of this world, but of a Kingdom that was and is above all kingdoms that have ever been or ever will be. The deepest truth about our world and about ourselves is we are deeply broken, and we can’t fix ourselves, or our problems. The truth we sometimes hate to admit is we need a Savior. We need a different kind of King, and we need to live in a different kind of kingdom.

So, Jesus, this King of truth, who one day will be known as the King of Kings, allows himself to be assassinated – or crucified. Secret Service agents did not come to his rescue, though, as the old hymn proclaims, “He could have called Ten Thousand Angels.”  He willingly offered himself.

C.S. Lewis, in The Chronicles of Narnia, called this the deep and ancient magic. It was his way of trying to explain the deep work of God, to begin the unraveling of evil’s grip on his creation. The price required was the death of God’s own son, but the power of God thunders up in resurrection.

All the assassinations have not yet stopped, but we who follow Jesus believe that one day, one glorious day, the King of Kings will return to set right all that is wrong. On that day, every knee will bow, and every tongue confess that Jesus, the Christ, the King of Kings, is Lord, leader of all.

Until that day, we pray against the violence, we work for peace, and we live forward in hope.