Published: August 22, 2026
Today the Church celebrates the Memorial of the Queenship of the Blessed Virgin Mary, a feast that crowns the octave of the Assumption and invites us to consider what it truly means to reign. It is no accident that the gospel appointed for this day, taken from Matthew's twenty-third chapter, addresses precisely this question, though from the opposite direction. Where Mary's queenship flows from her total self-emptying and obedience to God, the religious leaders Jesus describes in this passage have turned authority into a display of status. The contrast between these two models of greatness gives today's liturgy its quiet but piercing unity.
In the passage, Jesus speaks to the crowds and to his disciples about the scribes and the Pharisees, who occupy the chair of Moses and therefore teach with real authority. Jesus does not dismiss their teaching office; he tells his listeners to do and observe what these leaders say. His concern is not with the content of their instruction but with the gap between their words and their lives. They impose heavy burdens on others while doing nothing themselves to ease that weight. They perform their religious observances so that others will notice them, widening the visible signs of piety and seeking the seats of honor at banquets and in synagogues. They enjoy being greeted with respect in public and being addressed by honorific titles. Jesus is describing a religion that has become theater, where the outward gesture has replaced the inward disposition it was meant to express.
This is a sobering diagnosis, and it would be a mistake to read it only as a critique of first-century religious leaders long since gone. The temptation Jesus names is perennial and touches every believer who has ever wanted to look holy rather than simply be holy. It is possible to pray loudly and love quietly, or worse, to pray loudly and not love at all. It is possible to hold a position of trust in a parish, a family, or a community and to use that position to elevate oneself rather than to serve those placed in one's care. The scribes and Pharisees in this gospel are not caricatures of villainy; they are recognizable in anyone who has ever confused the appearance of virtue with virtue itself.
Jesus' remedy is not the abolition of teaching authority or public roles within the community. Instead, he redirects the entire framework by which greatness is measured. He tells the crowds not to be called rabbi, for they have one teacher, and all of them are brothers and sisters. He tells them to call no one on earth father, for they have one Father in heaven. He tells them not to be called master, for they have one master, the Christ. These are startling words, not because Jesus forbids ordinary courtesy or legitimate structures of authority within the Church, but because he insists that every human title and every human role must remain subordinate to the one true source of fatherhood, teaching, and lordship, which is God alone. No human being, however gifted or however trusted, stands at the center. Every leader, teacher, and parent within the community of faith exercises a derived and provisional authority, always pointing beyond themselves.
The gospel closes with the sentence that gives the whole passage its hinge: whoever is greatest among you will be your servant, and whoever exalts himself will be humbled, while whoever humbles himself will be exalted. This is not merely a moral maxim about being nice or modest. It is a description of how the kingdom of God actually operates, which is upside down by the standards of worldly ambition. In the kingdom, greatness is measured by service rendered rather than honor received. The washing of feet, not the wearing of wide phylacteries, is the true insignia of Christian leadership.
This is where the feast of Mary's queenship illuminates the gospel so beautifully. Mary never sought a throne. She described herself, at the moment the angel announced she would bear the Son of God, as the handmaid of the Lord, a servant awaiting instruction. She magnified the Lord, not herself, in her canticle of praise. She stood at the foot of the cross not as a woman clinging to status but as a mother sharing in her son's abandonment and suffering. Her queenship, which the Church honors today, was not something she pursued; it was given to her because she had already, in a life of hidden and total service, embodied the very truth Jesus proclaims in the gospel. She is exalted because she first humbled herself completely. She is called Queen of Heaven precisely because on earth she asked for no titles, no places of honor, and no public recognition. Her greatness has always been a greatness of service.
For those of us trying to live the Christian life today, this pairing of readings offers a practical examination of conscience. We might ask ourselves where we have let the trappings of religious or professional life substitute for its substance. We might ask whether the roles we occupy, whether as parents, teachers, coworkers, or parish volunteers, are exercised as service to those around us or as platforms for our own recognition. We might ask whether we have quietly begun to enjoy being deferred to more than we care about the good of the people we are meant to serve.
The invitation of this feast and this gospel together is not to abandon responsibility or leadership but to hold it the way Mary held her calling, with open hands and a heart oriented entirely toward God and neighbor. True greatness, as Jesus describes it and as Mary lived it, does not announce itself. It kneels down, picks up whatever needs carrying, and gets on with the quiet work of love. That is the throne worth seeking, and it is the only one Christ promises to exalt.