Christ the King

 

There’s something about the Solemnity of Christ the King that hits differently for me now. Maybe it’s the timing — right at the end of the liturgical year, like a deep breath before Advent begins. Or maybe it’s because, in this season of my life, the kingship of Christ feels less like a doctrine and more like an anchor I cling to. What surprises me is that this feast, which feels so personal and intimate, actually began as a bold, public declaration.

The Feast of Christ the King — or Christ the King Sunday, depending on the tradition — was instituted in 1925 by Pope Pius XI. The world had just crawled out of the trauma of the First World War, and four major European monarchies had collapsed. Secularism and atheism were rising, and people were questioning authority, identity, and purpose. In the midst of that uncertainty, the Church stood up and reminded everyone: Christ is King — not kings made by crowns or parliaments, but the King whose reign is eternal, whose authority does not crumble when the world does.

The more I learned about this, the more it touched me. Because honestly… haven’t I been going through my own kind of upheaval too? The world in 1925 wasn’t the only thing feeling shaken. My life has had its own collapses — grief that comes in waves, responsibilities that stretch me thin, relationships that demand more love and patience than I sometimes feel I have left to give. And just like the faithful then, I needed a reminder of where real strength comes from.

The feast was later moved in 1970 to the last Sunday of Ordinary Time — the final moment before Advent begins. Many Protestant traditions, like the Anglican, Methodist, Presbyterian, Moravian, Lutheran, and Reformed Churches, also celebrate it, sometimes within their season of Kingdomtide. Even some Western Rite Orthodox communities mark it on the same day. Somehow, that unity across denominations comforts me. It feels like the whole Christian world pausing together, remembering who leads us.

And the patristic roots go even deeper. Cyril of Alexandria wrote that Christ’s dominion wasn’t seized or forced — it was His by nature. Because of the hypostatic union — Jesus being fully God and fully man — everything in creation is under His care. Not in a tyrannical way, but in a way that invites both angels and humanity to adore Him freely. When I read that, I felt something shift. Because I realised: this isn’t the kingship of dominance. It’s the kingship of love.

That’s the kind of King I need — not one who rules with fear, but one who rules with mercy. A King who washes feet. A King who forgives even when betrayed. A King who chooses the cross over a throne because love meant more than power.

And in my own tiredness, my frustrations, my quiet battles… His kingship feels personal. It feels like rest. It feels like a reminder that when everything feels out of control, He is still steady. His kingdom is not shaken by my exhaustion, nor diminished by my weaknesses.

The Feast of Christ the King isn’t just a historical marking of the end of Ordinary Time. For me, it’s the moment I whisper a truth I forget too easily: Christ is King — not of distant realms, but of my heart, my chaos, my healing, my becoming.

And as the liturgical year comes to its close, I find myself choosing — again — to belong to a King whose crown is made of love.