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Year C – November 23, 2025
Today the Church brings the liturgical year to a dramatic close with the Solemnity of Christ the King. It is not a feast of earthly triumph — crowns of gold, legions of soldiers, or palaces of marble — but of a kingship forged on a cross, sealed in blood, and radiating from an empty tomb.
The readings for Year C lay this paradox before us with startling clarity.
First Reading – 2 Samuel 5:1-3
The tribes of Israel come to David at Hebron and say, “Here we are, your bone and your flesh.” They anoint him king over a united people. It is a moment of national harmony, yet even here the seeds of future division are already present. David’s kingdom, for all its glory, will fracture, fall, and pass away. It points beyond itself to the one true King who will gather not only twelve tribes but every nation, tongue, and people — notily and forever.
Responsorial Psalm – Psalm 122
“I rejoiced when they said to me, ‘Let us go to the house of the Lord.’” The psalm sings of Jerusalem, the city of peace where the tribes go up to give thanks. Yet the Jerusalem of Jesus’ day will reject and crucify its King. The true city of peace is not built with stones that soldiers can destroy; it is the New Jerusalem whose king is the Lamb once slain (Rev 21).
Second Reading – Colossians 1:12-20
Here St. Paul gives us the most exalted hymn to Christ’s kingship in the entire New Testament:
“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation…
He is the head of the body, the church…
For in him all the fullness was pleased to dwell,
and through him to reconcile all things for him,
making peace by the blood of his cross.”
This is cosmic sovereignty. Every power, every throne, every dominion — visible and invisible — was created through him and for him. And the instrument of his universal reign is not a sword but a cross. The throne from which he governs the universe is made of wood and nails.
Gospel – Luke 23:35-43
We stand beneath the cross on Calvary. The leaders sneer, the soldiers mock, one thief blasphemes. Yet over the head of the dying Jesus hangs the ironic inscription: “This is the King of the Jews.”
And then the good thief speaks the most perfect act of faith in all four Gospels:
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”
He does not ask for healing, or escape, or even forgiveness in the first instance. He asks only to be remembered by this crucified criminal whom he somehow recognizes as King.
And Jesus, in the final royal decree uttered while dying, proclaims:
“Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
This is the coronation moment. No crown but thorns. No robe but nakedness and blood. No scepter but the wood on which he hangs. Yet from this throne he opens the gates of Paradise — not after a military victory, not after centuries of earthly rule, but today.
Christ’s kingdom is not of this world, yet it is decisively for this world. It does not crush its enemies beneath an iron fist; it converts them with outstretched arms. It does not enter history with the noise of trumpets and chariots; it enters with the silence of a condemned man breathing his last.
On this last Sunday of the year, the Church holds up the crucifix and says: Behold your King.
Will we join the mockery of the crowd, the indifference of the soldiers, the despair of the unrepentant thief?
Or will we, like Dismas, lift our eyes to the One who is even now reigning from the tree and whisper, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom”?
The liturgical year ends where the life of every disciple must begin: at the foot of the cross, acknowledging that the only King who can save us is the one who died for us.
Come, Lord Jesus.
Thy kingdom come — a kingdom of truth and life, a kingdom of holiness and grace, a kingdom of justice, love, and peace.
Maranatha. Come, King Jesus. Reign in us today.
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