Today is the final Sunday of the Church’s year,
and the Church doesn’t end with a whisper — she ends with a crown.
We proclaim again what the world never quite understands:
Jesus Christ is King.

Not an idea, not a symbol, not just a teacher —
but King of Kings and Lord of Lords,
the One to whom every power, every nation, every human heart will answer.

And yet, the Gospel the Church gives us today isn’t a coronation scene.
There’s no palace, no golden throne.
Instead — a hill called Calvary, a crown of thorns,
and a sign that reads: “This is the King of the Jews.”

It’s as if God wants to tell us once more:
You won’t find My Kingdom by looking for power — only by looking for love.

The kingship of Christ begins not in conquest, but in crucifixion.
He reigns from a cross, not from a chair.
His sceptre is a nail, His robe is blood, His crown is pain.

And yet, this is the most powerful moment in human history.
Because here, the real enemy — sin — is defeated.
The true tyrant — death — is dethroned.

Earthly kings sit above their people;
our King hangs among them.
He doesn’t demand our suffering — He joins it.
He doesn’t rule by fear — He reigns by mercy.

When you kneel before the crucifix,
you are looking at the most perfect definition of kingship ever revealed.

“This is the King of the Jews.”
The world meant it as mockery;
God meant it as revelation.

In that moment of agony, the Gospel gives us a glimpse of the Kingdom:
two thieves on either side — one curses, one believes.

The second, the so-called “Good Thief,” prays a nine-word prayer:

“Jesus, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.”

And the dying King replies:

“Today you will be with Me in paradise.”

That’s the Gospel in miniature.
A sinner asks for mercy; a Saviour grants it instantly.
He doesn’t say, “When you’ve proved yourself,” or “After purgation.”
He says, “Today.”

That’s what happens when you crown Christ as King —
He doesn’t wait to love you.
He doesn’t delay forgiveness.
He rules by remembering mercy.

The world forgets its failures; God forgives them.

In the first reading, all the tribes of Israel come to David and say:

“Here we are, your bone and your flesh.”
They anoint him king over Israel.

That moment foreshadows what Christ does for us in the Church.
We too are bone of His bone, flesh of His flesh.
We are not subjects under His boot; we are members of His Body.
That’s the miracle of Baptism —
we share His life, His mission, His victory.

But this King doesn’t rule by coercion — He rules by communion.
Every Eucharist is a royal banquet —
not a memorial for a dead hero, but a meal with a living King.
At every Mass, Christ sits at the centre,
offering not tax or tribute, but His very self.

His Kingdom is not built on money, votes, or weapons.
It’s built on grace —
and grace cannot be overthrown.

The world loves kings — as long as they don’t reign.
It loves the idea of Christ as “nice teacher,”
but not as Lord of life, truth, and morality.

We see it everywhere:
the desire for spirituality without obedience,
for forgiveness without conversion,
for heaven without a cross.

But the Church still dares to say:
Jesus is Lord.
He has the right to rule our choices, our morals, our politics, our bodies, our hearts.
Because He created them.

When Pilate asked, “Are you a king?”
Jesus didn’t flinch.
He said, “My Kingdom is not of this world.”
Meaning — it’s not built on force, but it still claims everything.

To say “Christ is King” isn’t a slogan.
It’s a surrender.
It means the Gospel isn’t one opinion among many — it’s the truth that judges them all.

The Church doesn’t preach democracy; she preaches divinity.
The Kingdom of God isn’t a republic of compromise —
it’s a monarchy of mercy.

St Paul, in the second reading, gives us one of the most breathtaking descriptions of Christ in all Scripture:

“He is the image of the invisible God,
the firstborn of all creation.
In Him all things hold together.”

That’s the reality.
Every heartbeat, every atom, every galaxy holds together in Christ.
Without Him, it all falls apart.

So when you live by the Gospel, you are not losing freedom —
you are returning to order.
Christ is not a rival to your freedom; He is its foundation.
He doesn’t crush individuality — He perfects it.
Because the will of God is the peace of man.

When conscience and Christ align, the soul becomes whole.
That’s why the saints are the most free people who ever lived.
They bowed to no earthly power because they already belonged to a heavenly one.

Think of the martyrs who died whispering His name —
the missionaries who carried His banner to the ends of the earth —
the hidden saints who reigned through prayer and patience.
All of them discovered what the Good Thief did:
that when you lose everything for Christ,
you gain everything that lasts.

The Kingdom of Christ isn’t waiting in the clouds.
It’s here — wherever truth is loved,
wherever mercy triumphs,
wherever a heart says, “Jesus, remember me.”

Every saint’s life is a small reflection of His crown.
That’s why this feast is also the Church’s last word each year:
the end of history is not chaos — it’s Christ.
The King will come again, not in weakness but in glory,
and every knee shall bow.

So the only question today is:
Which thief am I?

We are all hanging on our own crosses —
our suffering, our sin, our struggles.
We can curse Christ, or we can call to Him.
We can say, “Save Yourself and us,”
or “Remember me when You come into Your Kingdom.”

The difference between heaven and hell
is nine words and a humble heart.

The Good Thief did not have time to fix his life,
but he had time to fix his gaze.
And that was enough.

So today, before this altar — this throne of the Lamb —
we declare again what the world has forgotten:
Jesus Christ is King.

Not someday, not in heaven only —
but here, now, in this parish, in this heart.

And if we let Him reign,
He will turn our guilt into grace,
our wounds into witness,
and our death into life.

“Today you will be with Me in paradise.”

That promise still echoes at every Mass.
Here the Crucified King reigns — body broken, blood poured out —
and we kneel not in defeat, but in victory.

So lift up your hearts.
Bow before the King.
And go out to live His Kingdom —
where mercy rules, truth reigns, and love never ends.

Vivat Christus Rex — Long live Christ the King!