CHRIST THE KING: 2 Sm 5:1-3; Col 1:12-20; Lk 23:35-43.

 A month ago, under the rallying cry of No Kings, opposition groups demonstrated in cities across the United States. Their protest revealed a deep unease with authority, casting the president—whose election some refused to recognize— as a would-be monarch, an “unelected king.” Yet, these same voices often attach themselves to the latest cultural authorities: influencers, trends, ideologies. This paradox reminds us that, in truth, everyone serves something. The essential question is: Who—or what—sits on the throne of your heart?

There is an authority none of us can vote in or out: Christ the King. Unlike earthly rulers, Jesus’ kingship does not rest on force or popularity. His throne is the cross, his crown fashioned from thorns, his courtiers absconders and betrayers. Soldiers mocked rather than defended him, and his reign was publicly scorned. The Gospel scene we have just heard presents this radical contrast—the King who retains nothing, who gives everything, including his life. We proclaim him “King of Kings,” yet his power is displayed not in might, but in sacrificial love.

The Church’s recognition of this paradox is relatively recent. The Solemnity of Christ the King was instituted by Pope Pius XI in 1925, during a century threatened by political ideologies that sought to erase God and diminish the Church. In countries like Mexico, Christians went to their deaths crying Viva Cristo Rey—Long live Christ the King! Yet the confession of Christ’s kingship, as old as Christianity itself, echoes in the earliest creed: Jesus is Lord. This title proclaims Christ’s reign not as tyranny, but as a rescue—his power exercised through self-emptying, restoring humanity to the fullness of life in God.

Sunday’s Gospel puts us at the foot of the cross, the throne of this King. As Jesus was crucified, an inscription read, “This is the King of the Jews,” meant to justify his condemnation but, in God’s eyes, declaring his sovereignty. The bystanders mocked Jesus, challenging him to prove his royalty with spectacular signs. He answered instead with mercy, the penitent thief’s plea— “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom”—met with: “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Here, kingship is revealed not by command, but by forgiveness.

This raises a deeply personal challenge: Does Christ reign in us? The Solemnity’s prayers have shifted—from dreams of a world conquered for Christ, to longing for hearts set free from sin. The central question is not whether nations recognize Christ as King, but whether he is enthroned in our heart and life.

The encounter between Christ and the good thief offers profound hope. The thief recognized his own wrongdoing— “We are paying for what we did”—yet trusted in the mercy radiating from Christ’s broken body. Many of us, if honest, must admit we have failed and fallen short. But awareness of sin, seen in the light of Christ’s kingship, does not mean despair. We are invited, like the good thief, to turn to the Lord with trust: “Jesus, remember me...” Every time we make such a prayer from a place of our own weakness, we encounter the same promise—communion with Christ that begins now, not someday far off.

Saint Paul, in the letter to the Colossians, presents Jesus’ kingship in cosmic terms. He is the image of the invisible God, creator of all things, the head of the Church, the reconciler of all things on earth and in heaven. This reading concludes that Jesus reconciled humanity with God, bringing peace by the Blood of His cross.

The Romans placed a mocking sign above Jesus’ head, “King of the Jews,” but true proclamation came from a repentant criminal. In his response— “Today you will be with me in Paradise”—Jesus revealed the depths of his mercy and the inclusivity of his reign.

What is the nature of this kingdom? Today’s preface declares it a realm of truth and life, holiness and grace, justice, love, and peace. Our participation as citizens means surrendering control—placing the keys of our lives in the King’s hands. We are called to imitate Christ at his most regal, which is also his moment of greatest vulnerability: reigning from the cross, reconciling, forgiving. Genuine sacrifice, the pouring out of oneself for others, echoes Christ’s own self-giving. Jesus set no limit to his sacrifice, nor to his forgiveness—even for those who betrayed him.

As this Church year ends, the feast of Christ the King sums up the Christian mystery: Jesus lived, died, rose, and will come again. He invited us to resist materialism, to extend compassion, and to keep His presence alive by our witness and love. To be a Christian is to bear Christ’s name—and to have the courage to be faithful in a world full of competing kings and authorities.

Jesus announced that God’s kingdom was breaking into the world—a kingdom unlike any that preceded it. Worldly rulers exercised power by domination and prestige. Jesus clarified to his disciples that, “whoever wishes to become great among you must be your servant,” and modeled this in his own ministry: serving, not being served, and giving his life for many. When his disciples sought places of honor, he re-directed them to a radical form of service—true greatness in his kingdom meant humility, service, and love.

Jesus’ kingdom, then, is marked by the power of self-giving love, not by the trappings of royalty. He was mocked, dismissed, even derided as he died. Yet, from that place of acute weakness, God’s power was most fully revealed—a power not to oppress, but to reconcile the world to Himself.

Our liturgy today holds up two images: Christ exalted in the Colossians reading, and Christ humiliated on the cross in the Gospel. We tend to associate kingship with glory, but on the cross, Christ’s lordship is exercised through ultimate service. The circumstance of his death, so far from “pomp and circumstance,” shows that Christ reigns by submission to the Father’s will and by his total gift of self.

As King, Christ is also our judge, a task given by the Father and first displayed at Calvary when he commended the good thief to paradise. As we celebrate this feast, let us rejoice in the hope and challenge that Christ’s kingship brings. May his reign grow ever stronger in our hearts, leading us to lives of justice, love, and peace—radiating from the cross into every corner of the world and every moment of our lives.

 

 

 OT:XXXIII:(C): Malachi 3:19-20a; 2 Thes 3:7-12; Lk 21:5-19

As we approach the end of the liturgical year, today’s Gospel presents us with the classic text on the “end times.” Throughout history, there have always been voices ready to stoke anxiety by interpreting these words with fear and doom. But the Christian response is not panic—it is calm trust in God’s providence.

Just listen to the reassurance embedded within the Gospel itself: “But of that day or hour, no one knows, neither the angels in heaven nor the Son, but only the Father.” If Christ Himself, in His humanity, does not reveal the day or the hour, can any preacher, sect, or doomsayer claim to know more? Jesus assures us of the certainty of His return and the gathering of His chosen, but the colorful imagery—sun darkening, stars falling—is the language of symbol and prophecy, not an apocalyptic weather forecast.

It helps to remember that when Scripture speaks of the end of the world, it often refers to the end of a particular world—the world of a generation or a people—rather than the absolute end of all things. Jesus’ words, “This generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place,” were fulfilled in the passing of the world known to His hearers: the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 A.D. Similar events throughout history—from the fall of Rome to the tragedies of our own era—have seemed like world-ending disasters, but each marks the close of one chapter and the opening of another in salvation history.

Yet none of this lessens the seriousness of Christ’s call. His words are not meant for speculation, but for conversion. We do not know when our personal end will come. For each of us, it could be this very night. That is why Jesus urges us to remain vigilant. To live each day ready to meet Him—not out of fear, but out of hope.

The “end times”—so often reduced to a date on a calendar or an era of catastrophe—are, more deeply, about a Person: our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of history. According to Christian belief, we have been living in the “end times” since the Incarnation, when God entered history and began the final era of salvation. This period stretches from Christ’s first coming until His return in glory. Every age experiences suffering, upheaval, and renewal, but these are not omens for calculation—they are invitations to repent, to grow in fidelity and holiness.

When disaster, hardship, or persecution arise, Christians are strengthened by Christ’s promise: “By your endurance, you will gain your lives.” Endurance—not anxiety or despair—is our call.

Too often, talk of the world’s end presents a warped image of God—as an angry judge eager to punish. But Scripture tells us otherwise: “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love…for He knows how we are formed, He remembers we are dust” (Psalm 103:8-14). The God we await is not quick to wrath, but rich in mercy.

So, what is the true meaning of the world’s end? It is not terror before cosmic destruction, but the Christian’s confident hope in the ultimate triumph of Jesus Christ. In the end, Christ will return in glory, bodily resurrection will take place, and perfect justice and mercy will be revealed. Until then, we are called—not to obsessive worry—but to live in a state of grace, anchored by the sacraments, guided by the Word, and sustained by the virtues of faith, hope, and love.

There is no need to fear the end, for we belong to a Church that already knows how the story concludes: Christ is victorious, “as He was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

 

XXXII: Dedication of the Lateran Basilica: Ez:47;1-2, 8-9, 12; 1 Cor 3:9c-11,16-17; Jn 2:13-22

The 1,700th anniversary of the dedication of the Basilica of St. Johns Lateran, observed on November 9, stands as a milestone not just for Rome but for the entire Catholic Church. The Lateran Basilica, though often overshadowed by the grander and more famous St. Peter’s in the Vatican, is actually the Cathedral Church of Rome, the original seat (cathedra) of the bishop of Rome—the Pope. It bears the title “Mother and Head of all the Churches of Rome and the World,” a status rooted in its unique history and its role as the Pope’s episcopal seat.

A Sacred Heritage:

The basilica’s name reflects its origins: the property once belonged to the noble Laterani family, prominent in imperial Roman service. In the early days of Christianity, when the faith was illegal in the Roman Empire, Christians had no formal structures. This changed dramatically with Emperor Constantine, who in the fourth century first legalized Christianity and then, showing remarkable favor, donated the Lateran Palace to the Church. In 313, shortly after the Edict of Milan, Constantine gave the Lateran Palace to Pope Miltiades (and later to Sylvester I), who established it as the official cathedral of the Bishop of Rome in 324—an act commemorated by this anniversary. This was the first Christian basilica in Rome, and its dedication marked the legal, visible birth of Christ’s Church in the city that had persecuted it for centuries.

Unlike St. Peter’s, which dominates Catholic imagination as the Pope’s home church, St. John Lateran is the true cathedral of the Pope, giving it a unique spiritual and administrative primacy. The basilica’s full formal name—Papal Archbasilica of the Most Holy Savior and Saints John the Baptist and the Evangelist at the Lateran—tells of its primary dedication to Christ “the Savior.” Later, in the 10th and 12th centuries, further dedications were made to St. John the Baptist and St. John the Evangelist, serving as reminders of the Church’s biblical roots and the great saints who prepared and witnessed to Christ.

The Life of the Early Church

Reflecting on the story of the Lateran basilica means contemplating more than ancient stones. The basilica symbolizes the structure, dignity, and mission of the living Church—God’s people called together. When Emperor Constantine granted Christians freedom and the Lateran Palace, a new era dawned: no longer persecuted, the Church could build holy spaces, organize public worship, and deepen theological reflection. The great ecumenical councils, soon to include the Council of Nicaea in 325, codified Christian doctrine and unity. The Lateran itself became the home of five Lateran Councils (from the 12th to 16th centuries), each contributing profoundly to Church governance and identity.

For nearly a thousand years, the popes lived and governed from the Lateran, until fires and the Avignon papacy in the 14th century encouraged the move to the Vatican. Since that time, the Lateran has remained the “mother church,” even as St. Peter’s took on a more prominent public role. The Lateran Treaty of 1929, which established the Vatican City State, was signed here—yet another reminder of the basilica’s central place in Church and world history.

More Than a Building: A Spiritual Sign

The biblical readings assigned to the Feast of the Lateran’s Dedication illuminate its meaning. In Ezekiel’s vision, a life-giving river flows from the Temple, bringing renewal and fruitfulness wherever it goes (Ezekiel 47:1-2, 8-9, 12). St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians, teaches, “You are God’s building … Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:9c-11, 16-17). The Gospel dramatically recounts Jesus driving the merchants from the Jerusalem Temple (John 2:13-22), a vivid sign that God’s dwelling is meant for worship, not commerce or self-interest.

These readings refocus our attention on the true temple of God—Jesus Christ, who through his death and resurrection fulfills all that the Temple promised. In Christ, the dwelling of God is no longer restricted to stone buildings but is present in every person baptized in his name. Each parish community, each believer, is a “living temple.” The Lateran Basilica is a symbol of the whole Church, the “temple of living stones” constructed from the lives, prayers, sacrifices, and service of Christ’s faithful people across history.

Liturgical and Spiritual Dimensions

The universal importance of the Lateran’s dedication is reflected in the liturgy. The anniversary of every cathedral’s dedication is a special feast for its own diocese. Since the Lateran is the cathedral of the Pope, it is celebrated as a feast day by the universal Church. When the feast falls on a Sunday, as it next will, it takes precedence even over the ordinary Sunday celebration, a rare liturgical honor.

This day is a call to spiritual renewal: it is not just about the anniversary of a building’s dedication, but about rededicating ourselves, God’s living temples, to lives of holiness, reverence, and service. The “business mentality” that Jesus challenged in the Temple warns us not to approach worship as a mere transaction, but as the essential relationship between God and his children. Every act of genuine worship, every prayer, every sacrifice grounded in faith, builds up the living Church.

This feast challenges us to reflect on our role as “living temples.” Because the Spirit dwells in us, we must strive to root out every form of impurity, division, or pride—fostering instead holiness, charity, and reconciliation.

On this feast of Saint John Lateran, let us rededicate not just this ancient basilica, but the living temples of our hearts and parish. May God’s river of grace flow through us, healing, nourishing, and transforming the Church and the world.

 

 All Souls Day: Wisdom 3:19; John 6:37-40.

Each of us, at some point in our lives, has known the pain of losing someone we love. This universal truth cuts across every culture and every time. In her wisdom, the Church brings us back to this place each November—setting aside an entire month for remembrance of our beloved faithful departed, and especially drawing our hearts together on All Souls’ Day. On this day, we’re called not simply to mourn, but to remember in hope and to pray for those who have gone before us.

Praying for the dead is a profound act that connects us across the boundaries of this world. It is a tradition rooted in both love and faith. It keeps us linked with family and friends who, in a mysterious but real sense, are even closer to us now in Christ than they were in life. More than just a feeling or ritual, praying for the dead is also one of the spiritual works of mercy. Our prayers become channels of grace, offered so that those who have died may enter fully into the light and joy of Christ.

Today, we take comfort from the words of the Book of Wisdom: “The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them.” These words touch the deepest place in our hearts. They affirm that those we cherish, though separated from us physically, are not lost but held securely in God’s loving embrace. Their lives do not end in the darkness of oblivion but continue in God—safe from any harm, beyond the reach of suffering or decay.

Our world often wants to measure life with what can be seen, touched, or counted. Death, through these eyes, looks like defeat or destruction. The Scripture tells us, “They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead.” But faith always sees further. Faith reveals that what appears as an end is, in fact, the threshold of eternal life—a transformation, not an annihilation. The souls of the just are not lost; they are found, cherished, and living in God.

The reading goes on to speak of life’s trials: “God tried them and found them worthy of himself. As gold in the furnace, he proved them.” This is an enormous comfort. The struggles, pain, sorrow, or doubt endured by our loved ones were not wasted or meaningless. In the fire of life’s challenges, their souls were purified, their love for God was deepened, and their hope was molded into something everlasting. When we saw only struggle or frailty, God saw fidelity and loving offering. Now, God calls them to Himself, finishing what He began in them.

This vision is not only beautiful for the dead, but strengthening for the living. We, too, face our own tests of faith and courage. Each patient endurance, every act of love, every quiet prayer, is drawing us closer to that same peace and to the likeness of Christ. We are all in the process of being refined—like gold in the furnace—so that, in the end, we too may be found worthy of the promise God makes to us in Christ.

In the gospel Jesus tells us that God’s great desire is that no one entrusted to His Son be lost, but that all are raised up on the last day. The words of Jesus assure us, “I shall not lose anything of what he gave me.” This tells us that our loved ones are not lost in darkness. The bonds God formed in love cannot be broken by death. They remain in the watchful care of the Good Shepherd.

All Souls’ Day is not only about those who have gone before us—it is also about hope for us who remain. Christ’s promise—“I shall raise him on the last day”—belongs to us, too. The pain of separation does not have the final word. The final word belongs to the One who conquered death and invites us to trust in His promise of eternal life for all who believe.

What we do today—praying for the faithful departed—is truly an act of love and faith. Love, because love always seeks the very best for those it treasures; faith, because faith confidently entrusts everything and everyone to the Lord’s infinite mercy. The Holy Mass, above all, is the greatest prayer for the dead. There is a story of an Irish saint, St. Malachy, who had lost contact with his sister before she died. After her death, he heard a mysterious voice say she was still hungry, not having “eaten for thirty days.” He realized it had been thirty days since he had offered Mass for her. He began again, and in a vision saw her at the church door, first in darkness, then each time in lighter garments, until finally she was radiant in white, surrounded by blessed spirits. This vision of St. Malachy beautifully shows the power of prayer—especially the Mass—for our loved ones who have died. St. Monica told her son Augustine, “When I die, bury me anywhere you like, but remember to pray for me at the altar.”

Therefore, today, as we remember our parents, grandparents, siblings, children, friends, and all the faithful departed, let us return to the words of Jesus: “Everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal life.” This is the bedrock of our Christian hope. Even in our grief, we give thanks for the promise that Christ will raise us up and reunite us in His eternal peace, one unbroken embrace of the living and the dead in the heart of God. Let this knowledge comfort us and give us strength until the promised day when we, too, will be gathered into His unending light.