November 23, 2025 – The Reign of Christ

Today we come to the final Sunday of the Church’s liturgical year—a day known by several names: The Reign of Christ, Christ the King, and historically The Feast of Our Lord Jesus Christ the King. For a feast that feels so timeless and deeply embedded in our worship, its origins are surprisingly modern. It was established a century ago, in 1925, by Pope Pius XI, and was later embraced across Christian traditions, including Anglicanism. It was created not for nostalgic reasons, nor simply to cap off the liturgical year with a flourish, but as a theological response to the shape of the world.

The 1920s, much like our own era, were marked by rising nationalism, authoritarian movements, deepening social fractures, and the trauma still lingering from the First World War. Pius XI saw political leaders demanding ultimate allegiance, nations drawing hard borders around identity and worth, and societies forgetting that power is meant to serve the common good. And so, he proclaimed a feast to remind Christians—and the world—that no earthly kingdom, no ideology, no nation-state, and no ruler is ultimate. Only Christ reigns. Only the kingdom of God endures. Only the shepherd-king who rules in mercy, justice, and peace deserves our whole allegiance.

As we gather on this feast day a century later, the landscape of our world is different in detail but not in spirit. We continue to witness authoritarianism rising in many corners of the globe. We continue to see the devastation of armed conflicts—in Ukraine, in the Middle East, in parts of Africa and Asia, and in so many places rarely mentioned in headlines yet deeply scarred by violence. Millions of people remain displaced from their homes. Innocent civilians, women and children, bear the brunt of war’s cruelty. In such a world, it is not difficult to resonate with the prophetic anguish we hear in today’s first reading from Jeremiah 23.

“Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep.”

Jeremiah is speaking to a nation whose leaders have failed them. The kings, priests, and prophets of Judah were meant to shepherd the people—to guide, protect, and nurture them in God’s ways. Instead, they pursued their own power, their own comfort, their own policies of fear and violence. Their failures left the people scattered, vulnerable, and heading toward catastrophe.

Jeremiah’s cry could well echo through our world today. For the suffering we see—from Gaza to eastern Ukraine, from Sudan to Haiti, and in refugee camps, in famine zones, and in places where the powerful exploit the powerless—is not simply the product of circumstances. It is often the result of failed leadership. Failed shepherds. Leaders who place their own ambitions above the welfare of the people. Leaders who cultivate fear of the other rather than solidarity with the neighbour. Leaders who treat human life as expendable in the pursuit of security, ideology, or gain.

Into that world Jeremiah speaks a word that is both judgment and hope. Judgment upon the shepherds who destroy and scatter. Hope in the promise that God will raise up a new and righteous shepherd, one who will gather rather than scatter, heal rather than harm, and bring true justice and peace.

“The days are surely coming,” says the Lord,
“when I will raise up for David a righteous Branch…
and he shall reign as king and deal wisely,
and shall execute justice and righteousness in the land.”

This promise looks forward to one who will not rule by fear, coercion, or violence, but by wisdom, compassion, and truth. And for Christians, we see that promise fulfilled in Jesus Christ—yet not in the way anyone expected.

If the reading from Jeremiah shows us God’s promise, the Gospel from Luke 23 shows us its startling fulfillment. Luke takes us not to a throne room, but to Golgotha. Not to a coronation, but to a crucifixion. Not to a king wearing royal robes, but to one stripped, beaten, and nailed to a cross between criminals.

Here, in the least “kingly” scene imaginable, the Church proclaims the kingship of Christ.

The inscription above his head—“This is the King of the Jews”—was meant as mockery. The soldiers taunt him: If you are a king, save yourself! The religious authorities sneer. Even one of the criminals joins in. But another sees what others cannot. He sees that Christ’s authority is not based on power but on mercy. That his rule is not enforced by violence but revealed in forgiveness. And so, he prays one of the simplest and most profound prayers ever spoken:

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

This is faith in its purest form. Faith that Christ’s kingdom is not defeated by suffering. Faith that God’s reign is not extinguished by human cruelty. Faith that love is stronger than fear, mercy stronger than judgment, and life stronger than death.

And Jesus replies: “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

The kingship of Christ is revealed not despite the cross but through it. God’s power is revealed not by domination but by self-giving love. God’s authority is revealed not in crushing enemies but in forgiving them.

On this Reign of Christ Sunday, we proclaim a king whose throne is a cross, whose crown is made of thorns, whose royal decree is forgiveness, and whose victory is won through love.

This feast was created for times like ours. Times when people fear the future. Times when nations rise against nations. Times when the innocent suffer. Times when leaders fail. Times when violence tries to have the final word. Against all this, the Church dares to proclaim:

Christ is King.

Christ reigns.

And Christ has the last word.

Not the tyrants.

Not the terrorists.

Not the warmakers.

Not the forces of hatred or despair.

Neither presidents nor princes.

Christ alone has the last word.

And what is that word? Not vengeance, not destruction, not abandonment.

The last word of God spoken in Christ is mercy, justice, peace, reconciliation, and life.

And yet we know—painfully—that Christ’s reign is not fully realized in our world. We live in the tension between the promise and the fulfillment. Between “Christ reigns” and “Thy kingdom come.” Between the cross and the resurrection. Between a world of suffering and the hope of a world made new.

This is why the Reign of Christ stands as a bridge into Advent.

Next Sunday we will step into the season of waiting, longing, and watching. Advent reminds us that God’s kingdom is both already and not yet. In a world where wars still rage and refugees still wander, Advent is the Church’s season of stubborn hope. It is the season when we dare to light candles in the darkness and say: the light shines, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Today, as we close the liturgical year, we proclaim that the future belongs not to the empires of this world, but to the crucified and risen Christ. We proclaim that history is not spiralling into chaos, but being gathered and redeemed by God. We proclaim that even in times of violence, despair, and death, God is still God. Christ is still King. And love will have the last word.

We are called to live as citizens of Christ’s kingdom here and now. To practice the values of the kingdom in a world that does not yet reflect them. To embody hope in a world that easily slips into despair.

When we choose forgiveness over retaliation, we witness to Christ’s reign.

When we welcome the stranger and support the refugee, we witness to Christ’s reign.

When we advocate for the vulnerable, the displaced, and the oppressed, we witness to Christ’s reign.

When we pray for peace and work for justice, we witness to Christ’s reign.

When we refuse to believe that violence is inevitable, that conflict is endless, or that evil is victorious, we witness to Christ’s reign.

For Christ reigns wherever mercy triumphs over cruelty.
Christ reigns wherever hope breaks through despair.
Christ reigns wherever ordinary people choose compassion over indifference, generosity over fear, truth over lies, and peace over violence.

Jeremiah gives us the longing for a righteous shepherd.
Luke gives us the revelation of the shepherd who lays down his life.
The Feast of the Reign of Christ gives us the assurance that God’s kingdom will come.
Advent will give us the courage to watch and wait and work for its coming.

And so, as we come to the end of this year and prepare to begin again, let us hold tightly to the hope that has sustained Christians across the centuries. Let us hold tightly to the promise that even now, in a fractured and weary world, Christ reigns.

In the face of war—Christ reigns.

In the face of suffering—Christ reigns.

In the face of displacement and despair—Christ reigns.

In the face of death—Christ reigns.

And the one who reigns from the cross, the one who forgives his executioners, the one who welcomes a dying criminal into Paradise, is the one who will restore all things in the end.

Thanks be to God, who in Christ has the first word and the last word—and that word is love.

Amen.