On this feast of Christ the King, the Church places before us not a throne, not a crown of gold, not an image of triumph, but the cross. The Gospel is stark: Jesus hangs in agony, mocked by leaders and soldiers, suffering beside two criminals. And in the midst of this scene, we hear one of the most moving prayers in all of Scripture: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” It is the final prayer of a man with nothing left except hope in the mercy of Christ.

Memory might seem an unusual point for reflection for this feast, yet it is right at the heart of today’s Gospel. Memory may be something many of us struggle with. We forget appointments. We lose keys. We climb the stairs with purpose and reach the top with confusion. As the years pass, the gaps seem to grow. And yet, even with all those lapses, some things remain unforgettable. We may forget dates, but we do not forget the people we love. We may forget errands, but we do not forget compassion. Memory is strengthened by love.

This is why the Good Thief’s plea is so powerful. He does not ask for immediate rescue. He does not try to justify himself. He simply places his life into the mercy of Christ. And Jesus replies with royal authority, “Today you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43, ESV). The King whose reign we honour today exercises his power through mercy.

Saint John Paul II, whose great Jubilee of Mercy shaped so much of the Church’s recent life, once said that the throne of Christ the King is the Cross. His point was simple: Christ reigns not by domination, but by self-giving love. And that love always remembers the person in front of him, no matter how broken, late, or lost they appear.

Think of the lives of the saints who understood this mercy. Saint Catherine Labouré, whose day is on 28th November, heard Our Lady say that grace is poured out on those who ask with trust. She spent her life quietly tending the poor, remembering each person by name, seeing Christ in them, and showing them mercy. She knew that remembering someone is never just recalling facts – it is an act of love.

Our own lives speak of this as well. We know how deeply it touches us when someone remembers a kindness we offered, or recalls a story we once shared, or calls us by name with warmth. In those moments we glimpse something of the mercy of God, who remembers not our sins, but our dignity, our hopes, and our need.

At every Mass we proclaim the great act of remembering: “Do this in remembrance of me.” It is not simply an instruction to recall the Last Supper. It is a command to allow love to shape our memory and our lives. When we remember Christ, we remember his mercy, his sacrifice, his presence among the poor, the forgotten, and the guilty. When Christ remembers us, he remembers us into new life.

That is why today’s feast calls us to trust. Christ our King remembers us. He remembers our struggles, our efforts to love, our failures as well. And he holds all of this within the mercy of his heart. We do not need to impress him. We need only turn towards him, as the Good Thief did, and say, “Jesus, remember me.” And we can be certain of the reply: mercy, today and always.

Christ reigns through mercy, not might. He rules through compassion, not coercion. His kingdom is built not by force, but by love that remembers every child of God. On this feast we ask him to remember us, our families, our parish, and all who long for peace.

Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.