Christ the King Sunday
READING: Luke 23:33–43

Christ the King: A Kingdom Shaped Like a Cross

Christ the King Sunday arrives at the very end of the church year. You would expect a feast with this title to bring us a triumphant scene – a crown, a throne, a king processing through crowds of cheering supporters. But instead, the lectionary leads us to a bare hill outside Jerusalem and places us before a crucifixion. It is jarring, unexpected, and entirely intentional. If we want to understand the kind of king Jesus is, we must begin at the Cross, not the palace.

In the bible reading today St Luke emphasises this by drawing our attention to the sign nailed above Jesus’ head: “This is the King of the Jews.” Rome intended this as mockery, a warning to anyone foolish enough to challenge imperial power. Yet Luke invites us to listen more closely. The sign that was meant to humiliate Jesus actually reveals a hidden truth. Kingship is being redefined before our eyes. Jesus rules not from a safely guarded throne but from a place of vulnerability, exposed to the violence of the world he loves.

Around him the voices rise in scorn. The rulers laugh, “He saved others; let him save himself.” The soldiers, jaded by years of brutality, echo the same taunt: “If you’re the King, save yourself!” And one of the criminals crucified beside him shouts, “Save yourself – and us.” All three groups assume the same thing: real power means self-protection, escape, control, and victory at any cost. They cannot imagine that a king might choose to stay where the pain is.

Yet this is the first great paradox of Christ the King: Jesus reigns not by overpowering the world but by being with the world in its suffering. He refuses to come down from the cross because his kingship is not built on domination but on self-giving love. A writer called Moltmann  captured this beautifully when he wrote that God’s power is revealed most clearly “not in high places but in the depth of human abandonment.” The crucified Christ is not a defeated king; he is a king who rules through solidarity…by coming alongside the most vulnerable.

This truth becomes even clearer when Jesus speaks his first words from the cross: “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” Luke is the only Gospel writer to include this prayer. Notice that Jesus does not say, “I forgive you” – instead he turns toward the Father. It is a profoundly pastoral gesture. Jesus knows that some wounds are too deep for instant forgiveness. Trauma cannot be tidied up with a quick spiritual response. Instead, Jesus entrusts the work of forgiveness to God. He shows us that when forgiveness feels impossible, prayer remains possible. We can say, “God, hold this pain for me until I am ready.”

Many of us know what it feels like to carry a wound that will not heal quickly. Consider the woman who finally finds the courage to report years of workplace bullying, only to be told she should “move on.” Or the man whose family refused to speak of the addiction that shaped his childhood, leaving him alone with the ache of years. For people carrying such burdens, Jesus’ prayer on the Cross is a lifeline. It tells them they are not weak for struggling to forgive. Christ himself creates the space where forgiveness can be handed to God when we cannot yet bear it ourselves.

The kingship of Christ is gentle like that: not the gentleness of softness, but the gentleness of one who steps into the hardest places and says, “I will hold this with you.”

Then Luke offers us one of the most moving conversations in the whole Bible. Two criminals hang alongside Jesus. One joins the mockery, still imagining that power looks like escape. But the other sees something different. He acknowledges his own guilt, recognises Jesus’ innocence, and simply says, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” No speeches. No doctrinal formula. No heroic deeds. Just a raw, honest plea for relationship: remember me.

And Jesus replies with extraordinary tenderness:

“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

Here is the second great paradox of Christ the King: salvation is not a transaction; it is a relationship. It is not achieved by impressing God but by turning toward Christ in trust. The dying man has nothing to offer and no time to change his life, yet Jesus grants him the fullness of grace and love . The kingdom of God is not earned; it is received.

And Jesus adds that remarkable word: today.

In Luke’s Gospel, “today” is a heartbeat of our relationship with God. “Today a Saviour is born.” “Today this scripture is fulfilled.” “Today salvation has come to this house.” Now Jesus says it once more: “Today you will be with me.” Grace and love  is not delayed. It is immediate. God’s kingdom is breaking into the present moment, even in the midst of agony.

Consider a modern example. A man in his late seventies, estranged from his sons for decades, lies in a hospital bed. One son arrives reluctantly after years of silence. Their conversation begins awkwardly, painfully –  but something softens. A memory is shared. A hand is held. No perfect resolution is achieved, but a small, holy reconnection is made. It is not everything, but it is something –  and it is today. The kingdom of God often arrives in these small, unexpected openings, where reconciliation seems impossible yet grace breaks through.

Christ the King Sunday is not an ancient feast. It was established in 1925 when Europe was scarred by nationalism, militarism, and rising fascism. The Church needed to proclaim loudly that true authority does not lie with dictators or empires but with the crucified Christ –  the king who rejects violence and chooses love that gives itself away.

So at the end of the church year, we stand before the Cross and hear again the truth of God’s kingdom: when earthly powers crumble, when human pride collapses, when the world finally sees what domination produces – the one who still reigns is the one who forgave, the one who stood with the suffering, the one who welcomed a dying stranger home.

This is the King we follow: a king whose power is love, whose throne is a cross, and whose kingdom begins not tomorrow but today.

Photo Credit: Jonas Allert (Unsplash.com)