Today’s reflection is from Jim McDermott, who is a freelance writer in New York.

Today’s liturgical readings for the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe can be found by clicking here.

I never know what to do with the feast of Christ the King. I get it; it’s the end of the liturgical year, the “big finish” before we head into Advent. But it sounds like a big hype session for Jesus, created by someone who didn’t know the guy. 

We can debate many of the historical details of Jesus’ life, even what he actually said and didn’t say. But one thing that seems pretty clear is that he did not strut around calling himself “the king of the universe.” (What does that even mean? Seriously, it has the flouncy patina of absurdity one might hear while watching wrestling, or, God help us, recent presidential addresses.)

At first glance, the liturgical readings themselves seem to offer more than blowhard-ing triumphalism. In fact the Gospel is a story from the passion, the moment in Jesus’ life that most challenges social notions of what divine power and kingship look like.

But digging into the passage, it turns out instead of leaning into that profound contradiction, we are indeed being offered a kind of triumphalist narrative. This isn’t the “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” Jesus, struggling to understand what is happening, or the yearning, reaching Jesus of “I thirst.” No, this Jesus speaks only when addressed by someone who treats him as a king: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom,” says the so-called Good Thief.

And, though Jesus has been beaten nearly to death, then nailed to a cross, and is now slowly suffocating, Luke imagines him like a royal on a throne, offering a boon to this petitioner: “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

 I know I’m supposed to appreciate the profound paradox of Christ’s throne being a cross, or a divinity marked by sacrifice and mercy, but I can’t get past the fact that it all sounds so clearly staged by Luke to make Jesus’s kingship clear. Rather than confident or merciful it reads to me as anxious, an attempt to reassure or prove what the author wants in the face of the seemingly-damning reality of the crucifixion. Particularly in our era where so much “truth” is being manufactured, usually through the insistence of its exact opposite, such stories ring terribly hollow.

Here in the Northern Hemisphere, the feast of Christ the King falls in a time of deepening darkness, a period of the year historically when the future feels less certain, rather than more, and the nature of faith more real. As Hebrews 11 puts it: “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

Believing in Jesus at the end of the year isn’t about being force-fed proof of his kingship. It isn’t about fireworks displays or chest-beating bravado. It’s about taking time to listen for the little voice of God, the voice that quietly reassures us and invites us forward. 

It’s a voice and an experience that queer people know better than most. We are who we are only because we have been courageous enough, or perhaps helpless enough, that we listened, like Jesus himself did, and finally stepped out into the dark. And as we end this liturgical year, perhaps it’s a time to re-collect the graces that we have gained along the way, and let them, let God nourish us once again.

—Jim McDermott, November 23, 2025