Christ the King: The Capstone of the Liturgical Year

November 23, 2025November 24, 2025 / chicoinematt

Every year, just as the trees go bare and the culture rushes toward Black Friday, the Church places a very different celebration before us: The Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe. The title is long, but the meaning is simple. Before we begin Advent and once again wait for His coming, we pause to proclaim that Christ already reigns.

For many Catholics who aren’t familiar with the details of the liturgical calendar, this feast can feel like a quiet “bonus Sunday” before Advent. Yet the Church is doing something intentional here. She is reminding us that whatever chaos or confusion we see in the world, Christ is still King. Not metaphorically or symbolically, but truly.

And the more I’ve prayed with this feast (often while my kids ask if the celebration means donuts after Mass), the more I’ve realized it is one of the most needed solemnities of our time.

The King Who Comes in Clouds, Not Castles

The first reading for the feast is striking. Daniel 7:13 describes a mysterious figure, “one like a Son of Man, coming on the clouds of heaven,” who receives dominion, glory, and kingship from the Ancient of Days. His kingdom never fades, never fractures, and never collapses like the kingdoms of Babylon, Rome, or any modern political system we place our hopes in.

Revelation echoes this vision and calls Christ the “faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and ruler of the kings of the earth.” This King does not need a golden throne. His throne is the Cross. He does not rule by force. He rules by love that conquers sin, death, and everything that harms the human heart.

In the Gospel we meet Pilate, the representative of Roman power. On paper, Pilate is in control and Jesus is the prisoner. Yet the roles feel reversed. Pilate wavers. Jesus remains steady. Pilate asks questions. Jesus offers clarity. Then we hear the line from John 18:36 that shapes the entire feast:

“My kingdom does not belong to this world.”

If this were the only verse we remembered from the feast, it would still be enough. Christ’s kingship is not a political program or a party platform. It is not concerned with borders or budgets. His kingdom is one of truth, life, holiness, grace, justice, love, and peace, as the Preface of the Mass proclaims.

And yet His kingdom quietly transforms everything in this world.

A Feast Born in a Time of Crisis

Although the feast uses royal imagery, it is not medieval in origin. It is less than a century old. Pope Pius XI established it in 1925 through his encyclical Quas Primas.

Why did he do this?

Because the early 20th century was a time of upheaval. The trauma of World War I still weighed heavily on the world. Secularism was spreading quickly. Communism had taken hold in Russia. Fascist movements were gaining momentum. Many people felt pressured to set their faith aside and give the State their highest loyalty.

New “kings” were rising, and none resembled Christ.

Pius XI saw the danger clearly. When societies forget God, they do not become neutral. They become unjust. When people forget God, they do not gain freedom. They lose direction. So he created the Feast of Christ the King to remind Catholics each year that Christ must reign in our minds, wills, and hearts.

Originally, the feast fell on the last Sunday of October. In 1969, Pope Paul VI moved it to the final Sunday of the liturgical year to emphasize its meaning even more clearly. Christ the King now stands as the Church’s way of saying, “Before we begin Advent, remember Who this whole story has been about.”

He is the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the One who is, who was, and who is to come.

What Kind of King Is This?

If you lined up kings throughout history—pharaohs, emperors, monarchs—and then placed Jesus beside them, He would not fit the mold. There are no palaces, no military parades, and no glittering robes. Only a carpenter who washed feet, welcomed sinners, and preached forgiveness without limit.

This is precisely what makes His kingship so powerful.

We are used to power that dominates. Christ exercises power that heals.
We are used to rulers who demand allegiance. Christ asks for faith grounded in love.
We are used to leadership that benefits the strong. Christ lifts up the weak.

In Quas Primas, Pius XI explains that Christ must reign in:

The mind, through truth
The will, through obedience to God’s commands
The heart, through love for God above all things

This does not pull us away from the world. It sends us back into the world with renewed clarity and purpose. When Christ reigns in us, we become people who care for the poor, defend the vulnerable, and work for justice and peace.

Pope Francis often reflected that Christ wears a crown of thorns because His kingship is rooted in mercy. He restores, forgives, and embraces the lost. A King like that does not intimidate. He invites.

Where Does Christ Reign in Us?

For many Catholics, this feast becomes a gentle examination of conscience. Not a moment for guilt, but for honesty.

Does Christ reign in my schedule?
In my habits?
In my entertainment choices?
In the way I treat coworkers, neighbors, and family members?

Or do I try to hold on to certain “little kingdoms” of my own?

When we pray “Thy kingdom come,” we are not asking for a distant event. We are inviting Christ to reshape our daily lives. One simple measure of that transformation appears in the Gospel for Cycle C: Matthew 25, the parable of the sheep and the goats.

Did I feed the hungry?
Did I clothe the poor?
Have I welcomed the stranger?
Will I visit the sick and imprisoned?

Christ reigns wherever charity takes root.

The feast reminds us that His dominion is cosmic and eternal, but it also reminds us that He desires to rule within our ordinary routines and relationships. This King does not impose fear. He brings freedom.

Eight Fun Facts About the Feast of Christ the King

It is less than 100 years old.
Instituted in 1925, first celebrated in 1926.
The first celebration took place on Halloween.
October 31, 1926, purely due to the calendar.
It once had a different date and name.
Pope Paul VI gave the feast its current title and placement in 1969.
It was created to counter rising secularism, atheism, and communism.
Pius XI wanted Christians to proclaim Christ publicly in an age that was hostile to faith.
Many Protestants celebrate it too.
Anglicans, Lutherans, Methodists, and Presbyterians include it in their liturgical calendars.
In Sweden, the day is called “The Sunday of Doom.”
The focus is strongly on Christ’s Second Coming and the Last Judgment.
Some Anglican traditions call it “Stir-up Sunday.”
The collect begins with “Stir up,” and the day was traditionally used to begin stirring Christmas puddings.
One of the world’s largest statues of Jesus honors this title.
The Christ the King statue in Poland stands 33 meters tall, one meter for each year of Christ’s earthly life.

A Final Reflection: Let His Kingdom Come

As the liturgical year draws to a close, the Feast of Christ the King invites us to imagine a world shaped by truth, mercy, justice, and sacrificial love. Christ reigns not through intimidation but by transforming hearts. Not through violence but through the Cross. Not through dominance but through humility.

And His kingdom grows each time we allow His grace to shape our thoughts, habits, relationships, and choices.

Before Advent invites us to wait for Christ’s coming, this feast invites us to welcome Christ’s reign. The King of the Universe desires something incredibly personal.

He wants to reign in your heart.

The Power of the Eucharist: Together and in Silence

March 25, 2025March 18, 2025 / chicoinematt

Processing with the Lord

The sun beat down on the street. I walked alongside hundreds of others, following the golden monstrance that caught the light in brilliant flashes. A canopy of white silk moved ahead of us, sheltering the Blessed Sacrament.

Incense rose in visible waves, mingling with the summer air. The priest’s vestments gleamed white and gold. Children scattered flower petals on the pavement. An elderly man beside me sang the Pange Lingua with a voice that trembled but did not waver.

The procession stretched for blocks. People watched from windows and sidewalks. Some knelt as we passed. Others stared, confused. A few snapped photos with their phones.

“What’s happening?” a woman asked her companion.

“Some kind of Catholic thing,” he replied, watching us wind through the streets.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. My knees ached from the concrete.

“The Eucharist is not merely symbolic, but a profound reality where we encounter Jesus Himself,” the priest had said before we began. “Today, we process with Him through our streets as a public testimony of our faith.”

The bells rang out, marking our progress through the neighborhood. Someone handed me a Holy card. The procession paused at a makeshift altar on the Church steps. People knelt on the hard pavement.

A Public Witness

I closed my eyes in the bright sunlight.

“We aren’t just walking,” a young mother had told her confused child. “We’re following Jesus.”

The child had nodded solemnly, clutching a small paper banner.

Three days later, I sat alone in the parish adoration chapel. The same monstrance stood on the altar, but without the canopy, without the crowd.

The wooden kneeler creaked under my weight. My breath sounded loud in the silence. A clock ticked somewhere behind me. The single candle flame didn’t waver.

An air conditioner hummed briefly, then quieted. For twenty minutes, nothing moved except the slight rise and fall of my chest.

I checked my watch.

St. Mother Teresa once said, “When you look at the crucifix, you understand how much Jesus loved you then. When you look at the Sacred Host, you understand how much Jesus loves you now.”

Now. Present tense.

My mind wandered to Sunday’s grocery list. I pulled it back.

The silence grew heavier. More substantial. The golden rays of the monstrance caught the light once, then didn’t again. My knees hurt in a different way than they had during the procession.

The Chapel’s Stillness

Photo courtesy of Damian Chlanda. See more of his photography at coffeewithdamian.com

I shifted on the kneeler.

During Sunday’s procession, the priest had proclaimed, “Christ goes out to meet His people!” His voice had carried over the crowd, amplified by speakers. Here, in the chapel, no voice spoke. The same Christ waited, but in silence.

Saint Alphonsus Liguori wrote, “Of all devotions, that of adoring Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament is the greatest after the sacraments, the one dearest to God and the one most helpful to us.”

My breathing slowed.

During the procession, we had moved through space, covering blocks of the city. Here, in adoration, I moved through something else. Not faster or slower—different.

The digital clock on the wall blinked silently: 3:47 PM.

“Know that I am with you always, until the end of the age,” Christ had promised. In the procession, we had demonstrated this truth publicly. Here, in this empty chapel, I experienced it privately.

I closed my eyes, then opened them.

The Host remained unchanged, white against gold. Minutes stretched. A car passed outside, then nothing.

Pope Benedict XVI once emphasized, “In the Eucharist, Christ is always coming to meet us.” During Sunday’s procession, we had walked with Him through the streets. Here, in adoration, He walked through the landscape of my thoughts.

Two Encounters, One Presence

The chair beneath me felt hard after forty minutes.

In the procession, we had been many voices, many steps, moving as one body. Here, I was one voice, silent. One body, still.

I bowed my head.

The same Christ was present in both spaces—under the silken canopy surrounded by hundreds, and here, in an empty chapel on a Wednesday afternoon. The miracle didn’t change. Only the context.

I looked up at the monstrance.

“It is you who have come to me,” a line from St. Elizabeth of the Trinity surfaced in my memory. “I didn’t go looking for you.”

The chapel door opened. A woman entered quietly, genuflected, and took a seat in the back row.

During the procession, our public witness had been powerful—Catholics united, moving through the secular world with our Eucharistic Lord. Here, two strangers sat in silence, united by the same Presence.

I stood to leave.

The mystery remained intact. The same God who had processed through streets now waited in stillness. The same Jesus who had drawn crowds now drew individual hearts, one by one.

I genuflected before the monstrance.

In the procession, we had shown the world our Faith. In Adoration, our Faith showed us the world as it truly was—a place where God waits, where time changes, where silence speaks.

I opened the chapel door.

The woman remained kneeling, her head bowed. The candle flame flickered once, then steadied.

I stepped outside. The chapel door closed behind me with a soft click.

Additional Writings about Eucharistic Adoration

Eucharistic Adoration: He Waits for You in the Silence

7 Reasons You Should Go to Eucharistic Adoration

Reflections on the National Eucharistic Congress: Faith, Healing, and Revival

Thank you for sharing!

Christmas D̶a̶y̶ Season— Experience the Joy of the Incarnation

December 26, 2024 / chicoinematt

Secular society hits us with commercialization of Christmas and makes the world weary after December 25th.

The day after the celebration is often spent returning gifts to stores.

Where is the joy in that act?

Shouldn’t we spend the days after the birth of our Savior still reveling in awe of the Incarnation (God becoming man when truly reflected upon brings one to tears, I was leaking joy from my eyes earlier this week).

But Christmas is not a day it’s actually a season.

Jesus saved us from sin and day. The very least we can do is to leave up our Christmas tree for the 12 days of Christmas.

How do you celebrate Christmas as a season?

🎄⭐✝️❤️🙏