They Shout ‘No Kings,’ We Bow to One
A man hoists a wrinkled cardboard sign above his head. The edges curl with sweat. The words scream across the grain in thick strokes of black marker:
NO KINGS.
BY RICH BITTERMAN
The street pulses. Feet slap the asphalt. Voices surge like surf pounding a broken seawall.
Rhythmic. Fierce. Almost liturgical in its fury.
Fists jab the sky. Flags ripple like battle standards. A teenage girl screams with eyes shut tight, as if the sound itself could unmake the world. Smoke bites at throats. Drums crack like rifle shots.
Some chant. Some laugh.
Some swallow the noise like communion.
And somewhere, not so far from the march or the madness, a different gathering unfolds.
Old hands folded. Young knees bent. One quiet confession humming through the room like a sacred pulse:
We do serve a King.
Who Is This?
The question is as old as the wind on Galilee.
It was whispered on the edges of crowded villages. It was shouted by startled fishermen in a storm-tossed boat. It hummed through temple courts when a carpenter from Nazareth began to speak as if heaven had sent Him.
Who is this?
The prostitute asked it with salt on her cheeks.
The priests hissed it between clenched jaws.
The sea knew the answer. So did the demons.
He walked into history without a title, without wealth, without a throne made by human hands. He wrote no book, built no palace, commanded no earthly army. Yet His shadow fell across empires like an unmovable mountain. If He is not what He claimed to be, the Christian Gospel collapses into ash. But if He is, then every soul must reckon with Him.
The Claims That Shook the Earth
Open the Gospels. Let your fingers feel the weight of paper soaked with centuries of questions. He did not speak as a teacher pointing to truth. He spoke as Truth itself.
Buddha pointed toward a path. Jesus said, “I am the way.”
Confucius offered wisdom. Jesus said, “I am the truth.”
Philosophers built systems. Jesus stood in the center and said, “I am the life.”
He called Himself the door through which all must pass. The bread without which no one lives. The light of a world swallowed by night. The true vine with life running through His veins like fire through dry timber.
In the synagogue of His childhood, He unrolled the scroll of Isaiah. A promise filled the room like heavy incense. A deliverer was coming, one who would open blind eyes and set captives free. Then He looked up. His voice did not tremble.
“Today this Scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”
Before Abraham existed, He said He was. Moses wrote of Him. Every page of Scripture pointed to Him. He claimed equality with the Father. He welcomed the worship of those who fell at His feet. He forgave sins with the authority of the One who was sinned against.
These were not metaphors meant to inspire. These were claims that either shake the universe or collapse into madness.
The Character That Confirms It
Men have claimed to be gods before. Their names fill asylum records and footnotes in history books. Their eyes reveal fracture. Their words rot quickly. Their lives collapse under the weight of their own lies.
But Jesus walked through thirty-three years of hunger, betrayal, and blood, and no accusation of corruption ever took root.
When a woman caught in adultery stood before Him, trembling beneath the law, He invited her accusers to throw the first stone if they were without sin. Stones slipped from fingers. One by one, they walked away. He remained. The only sinless One standing in the dust.
When enemies pressed Him, He asked, “Which of you convicts Me of sin?” Silence answered.
His friends saw Him in sweat and fatigue, in hunger and prayer. They saw His eyes in the early hours before the sun burned the mist from the Galilean hills. They shared bread with Him, watched Him sleep on stone, and heard His voice soften at the sight of the broken. They testified with a quiet certainty: holy, blameless, unstained.
There is no diary entry of guilt. No prayer of confession. No moment where He stumbled. Only steady obedience, steady love, steady righteousness.
And when nails tore through His hands, He did not curse.
He prayed.
“Father, forgive them.”
The weight of that moment still bends history.
The Resurrection That Sealed It
The tomb could not hold Him. It split the silence of death like a blade through canvas.
He told them it would happen. He named the cross. He named the grave. He named the rising. No one believed Him. Not the women who carried the spices. Not the men who hid behind locked doors.
But the stone was rolled aside. The grave clothes were folded like a chrysalis split open. The air inside that tomb was not empty. It was electric with absence. Soldiers who had faced war fell like cut grass. And everything changed.
Mary heard her name. Peter ran with fire in his chest. Thomas touched the scars that ended his doubt. Bread broke in Emmaus and eyes opened.
The disciples who once cowered stood in the streets where He had bled. They spoke His name to the same city that had crucified Him. They had nothing to gain. No power. No protection. Only scars and songs.
They went to their deaths carrying the same confession.
They saw Him.
They touched Him.
He lives.
The Shout and the Whisper
Let the crowds chant “No kings.” Let their slogans rise like smoke from a fire they cannot control. Let their fists shake at a heaven they pretend not to believe in.
Their rebellion echoes Psalm 2. “Let us break their bonds apart.” But there is a throne that does not tremble. A crown that never dulls. A King who does not campaign for allegiance.
His robe carries the marks of His own blood. His hands bear wounds earned for traitors. His eyes see through the shouting into the ache beneath it.
Jesus Christ. Crucified. Risen. Reigning.
While their chants fill the streets, another sound rises from quiet rooms and country churches. Knees touch the floor. Heads bow low. Words rise like incense into the night:
My King. My Lord. My God.
The Decision No One Escapes
The claims of Christ do not invite neutrality. He declared Himself the Son of God. He lived without sin. He conquered the grave. These are not gentle invitations. They are lines drawn across eternity.
You can call Him a liar.
You can call Him a lunatic.
Or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord.
The Scriptures declare that one day every knee will bow. Crowds with signs. Leaders with power. Skeptics with clever words. The Judge will sit, and the Book will open. The silence that follows will either be terror or glory.
This King offers mercy now.
His cross still stands. His invitation still echoes through protests and pews alike. He calls to every heart:
Come. Believe. Follow. Live.
A Final Word
On this day, when voices shout “No kings” through the streets of our nation, the Church whispers a different creed. It rises from the soil of forgotten places, from small sanctuaries and quiet homes.
We do not serve an idea. We serve a King.
A living King.
A ruling King.
A returning King.
Every crown will fall. Every kingdom will fade. Every chant will break against the unshakable throne of Jesus Christ.
And in the end, there will not be silence. There will be song.
“Worthy is the Lamb who was slain.”
ABOVE CONTENT BY PASTOR RICH BITTERMAN FOUND AT Christ Is King: A Bold Response to the “No Kings in America” Protest
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I’m Pastor Rich Bitterman, a country preacher from the Ozarks. Guy Howard, the old Walking Preacher, once wore out his boots traveling from church to church, meeting strangers and sharing the gospel. I’m doing the same today on digital roads. Each post is a visit. Each verse is a step. Let’s walk the Word together.
