How to Become King
Simone Riva - Today, the liturgy celebrates Christ the King. The true King is history's "Great Endurer." In Him, our hope does not disappoint because He has triumphed from the very beginning.
When all is silent, when the sky grows dark, when words no longer hold sway, when plots have reached their end, when friends have fled, and when life pulses with its last energies—that is the time for kingship. The bold contradiction of today's feast is always surprising: the Church recognizes the summit of glory at the point of greatest weakness. St. Cyril of Alexandria synthesized this perfectly: "You see him crucified and you call him king. You believe that he who endures mockery and suffering will attain divine glory" (Commentary on Luke, Homily 153).
The title "Christ the King of the Universe" might seem like a relic from another era; in reality, it holds a precious method for living. I saw this in action a few days ago at school. In one of my classes, there is a very boisterous boy who is often acting out, concerned with being noticed, and very skilled at disrupting the lesson. He is one of those students whose name you learn within the first hour of the school year.
The other day, while I was outside the classroom waiting for the bell to ring, he suddenly came out and approached me. Cutting to the chase, he said, "Sir, I need to come and talk to you at the parish."
Surprised by the unpredictability of the moment, I replied, "Why me?"
His blunt answer: "I have no one else to talk to about my problems."
I have never seen his face so true to himself—so joyful and liberated—as in the moment he uttered those words. In that moment of weakness, the royalty of his heart was revealed. This is royalty defined as the ability to give voice to one's need without keeping it at bay by pretending that everything is fine.
The ancient origin of the word "king" is linked to the Sanskrit raj, which means "to shine." We become kings when our faces shine with the truth of what we are experiencing. We become like Christ on the cross, who crossed the entire chasm of human loneliness, unveiling the unique presence of the Father. Perhaps this is also why He wanted to retain the signs of that original royalty on His risen body—signs that await our own.
Today, the liturgy celebrates Christ the King. The true King is history's "Great Endurer." In Him, our hope does not disappoint because He has triumphed from the very beginning.
When all is silent, when the sky grows dark, when words no longer hold sway, when plots have reached their end, when friends have fled, and when life pulses with its last energies—that is the time for kingship. The bold contradiction of today's feast is always surprising: the Church recognizes the summit of glory at the point of greatest weakness. St. Cyril of Alexandria synthesized this perfectly: "You see him crucified and you call him king. You believe that he who endures mockery and suffering will attain divine glory" (Commentary on Luke, Homily 153).
The title "Christ the King of the Universe" might seem like a relic from another era; in reality, it holds a precious method for living. I saw this in action a few days ago at school. In one of my classes, there is a very boisterous boy who is often acting out, concerned with being noticed, and very skilled at disrupting the lesson. He is one of those students whose name you learn within the first hour of the school year.
The other day, while I was outside the classroom waiting for the bell to ring, he suddenly came out and approached me. Cutting to the chase, he said, "Sir, I need to come and talk to you at the parish."
Surprised by the unpredictability of the moment, I replied, "Why me?"
His blunt answer: "I have no one else to talk to about my problems."
I have never seen his face so true to himself—so joyful and liberated—as in the moment he uttered those words. In that moment of weakness, the royalty of his heart was revealed. This is royalty defined as the ability to give voice to one's need without keeping it at bay by pretending that everything is fine.
The ancient origin of the word "king" is linked to the Sanskrit raj, which means "to shine." We become kings when our faces shine with the truth of what we are experiencing. We become like Christ on the cross, who crossed the entire chasm of human loneliness, unveiling the unique presence of the Father. Perhaps this is also why He wanted to retain the signs of that original royalty on His risen body—signs that await our own.
What a difference this is from when we play God—pretending to be masters, powerful and strong—trying to replace the attractiveness we lack with a sense of duty that only creates slaves. It is a stark contrast to when we improvise as "hotshots," concerned with conquering others without starting from what has conquered us.
Only God gives birth to children: men and women who are not afraid to be present with all their humanity in the varied circumstances that await them at the threshold. For this reason, Christ's kingship does not require conquests, battles, or trials of strength to finally impose itself on history. It is already given at the beginning, founded in the depths of man, where the demand for truth and loyalty to one's own nature is urgent. There, at its truest source, it waits to be recognized and preferred over all those other ridiculous forms of power we turn to, even though we know them to be insufficient and disappointing.
Looking at Christ's method, and noting the disproportion compared to ours, some questions arise: "Why does he do nothing to guarantee his success, to ingratiate himself with the powerful, to obtain support for his program? Why doesn't he do it? How can he think of changing things as a 'loser'? In reality, Jesus behaves this way because he rejects all logic of power (cf. Mk 10:42-45). Jesus is free from all this!" (Pope Francis, Homily of November 24, 2024).
The true King is the Great Endurer of history, and this is our hope. He does not tire, He does not give up, and He does not give in. Because He has already won, He already reigns, and He waits to encounter our free "yes"—that "yes" that makes our faces shine when everything falls apart, yet the joy of a life given remains.
