Scandalous

Apparently Jesus had been flogged earlier, as part of his interrogation. Immediately after sentence of crucifixion was passed, Jesus was flogged again (v.26).

This was standard procedure; it was customary to flog prisoners before taking them out to be crucified. But what takes place in verses 27 to 31 is not standard procedure. It is more like barracks-room humour.

The governor’s soldiers gather around, strip Jesus of his clothes, and drape some sort of scarlet robe on him, pretending he is a royal figure. Then they wind together some strands of vine thorns, the spikes of which are 15-20 cm long. They crunch this down on his head to make a cruel crown of thorns. They put a staff into his hand and pretend it is a sceptre. Alternately bowing before Jesus in mock reverence and hitting him in brutal cruelty, they cry, ‘Hail, king of the Jews!’—and complete the acclamation by spitting in his face and hitting him again and again with the mock sceptre. Raucous, mocking laughter keeps the room alive until the soldiers tire of their sport. They have finished laughing at him as the king of the Jews. Now they put his own clothes back on him and lead him away to be crucified.

In case we’ve missed it

But Matthew knows, and the readers know, and God knows, that Jesus is the king of the Jews. In case we’ve missed the theme, Matthew reminds us of it twice more in the following verses: the titulus, the charge against Jesus, is nailed to the cross above his head: ‘This is Jesus, the king of the Jews’ (v.37).

The mockers are still dismissing him as the king of Israel in verse 42. More importantly, Matthew has already made the theme clear throughout his Gospel. His very first verse reads, ‘This is of the genealogy of Jesus Christ the son of David, the son of Abraham’ (1.1). The ensuing genealogy is broken up somewhat artificially into three 14s, the central 14 covering the years in which the Davidic dynasty reigned in Jerusalem. Even the number 14 is a code for the name ‘David’. All the Old Testament promises that look forward to the coming Davidic king spring from 2 Samuel 7, anchored in David’s life about 1,000 BC. Almost 300 years later, the prophet Isaiah anticipates one who will sit on the throne of his father David, but who would also be called ‘Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace’ (Isaiah 9.6).

The King of the Jews

Matthew’s opening chapter picks up on this Old Testament anticipation. In the second chapter, the Magi ask, ‘Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews?’ (2.2). As he begins his public ministry, Jesus talks constantly about the kingdom — its nature, dawning, promise and consummation. In some of the so-called ‘parables of the kingdom’, the stories Jesus tells sometimes make Jesus himself out to be the king.

The same theme is raised in the trial before Pilate. In 27.11, Pilate, the governor, asks Jesus, ‘Are you the king of the Jews?’ ‘Yes, it is as you say’, Jesus replies, yet the form of his response, while affirmative, depicts a gentle hesitation, because Jesus knows full well he is not a king in any way that Pilate fears. His reign does not spell out military threat to Caesar. Pilate himself soon discerns that even if Jesus claims to be the king of the Jews, he poses no immediate political threat, and he seeks to have him released. Still, the confession is there, and Jesus stands condemned on the capital charge of treason.

And while the soldiers mock Jesus as the king of the Jews, transparently Matthew knows, and his readers know, and God knows, that Jesus is the king of the Jews.

Two layers of irony

Indeed, look closely and you will see two layers of irony. The mockery of the soldiers was meant to be ironic. When they exclaim, ‘Hail, king of the Jews!’ what they mean is the exact opposite: Jesus is not the king but a rather pathetic criminal. Doubtless the soldiers think their humour is deliciously ironic. But Matthew sees an even deeper irony; in fact, while the soldiers demean Jesus as a pathetic criminal, the words they use actually tell the truth, the opposite of what they mean: Jesus really is the king. That is the point of this paragraph: the man who is mocked as king—is the king (vv.27Ð31).

Those who know their Bibles well know that Jesus is more than king of the Jews: he is king over all, he is Lord over all. Matthew himself makes this clear in his closing verses. This side of the resurrection, Jesus declares that all authority in heaven and on earth is his (28.18); his authority is none less than the authority of God. He is king of the universe. He is king over the soldiers who mock him. He is king over you and me. And one day, Paul assures us, every knee will bow, and every tongue will confess that Jesus is Lord. The man who is mocked as king—is the king.

What kind of king?

But we must probe a little further. With what conception of kingship is Jesus operating? In the first century, no one entertained the notion of a constitutional monarchy, like that of Great Britain, where the monarch has almost no real authority apart from moral suasion. In the ancient world, kings reigned. That’s what kings did; that’s how they operated. Indeed, that is the notion of kingship until fairly recent times. Louis XIV was not a constitutional monarch in the current British sense. What kind of king, then, is Jesus, in Matthew’s mind, if Jesus is going to death on a cross? Is he a failed king?

Once again, Matthew has already given us some insight into the reality of Jesus’s kingship.

We must scan the interesting exchange in Matthew 20.20Ð28. The mother of the apostles James and John approaches Jesus, along with her two sons, requesting a favour. ‘What is it you want?’ he asks. She replies, ‘Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom’ (v.21). Clearly they anticipated that Jesus would sit as king in a quite normal, historical, physical sense, and make his apostles the members of his cabinet, and they were hoping that James and John would get the two top jobs — secretary of state and secretary of defence, perhaps.

Jesus tells them, in effect, that they have no idea what they are asking for: ‘Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?’ he asks, referring, of course, to his impending suffering. With supreme overconfidence and massive ignorance, they reply, ‘We can’ (v.22). You can almost imagine Jesus smiling inwardly: well, yes, in one sense, they will participate in his cup, his cup of suffering: one of the two brothers, James, would become the first apostolic martyr, and the other would die as an exile on Patmos. Still, it is not Jesus’s role to dispense the right to sit on his left or his right: that role the Father has reserved for himself.

When the ten other apostles hear of the request of James and John and their mother, they are incensed — not, of course, because of the arrogance and impertinence of their request, but because the ten did not get their requests in first. So Jesus calls the Twelve together, and gives us one of the most important insights into the nature of the kingdom. He says: ‘You know that the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them, and their high officials exercise authority over them. Not so with you. Instead, whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant, and whoever wants to be first must be your slave — just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many’ (vv.25Ð28). This profound utterance must not be misunderstood. Jesus does not mean that there is no sense in which he exercises authority. Transparently, that is not the case — and in the closing verses Matthew reminds us, as we have seen, that Jesus claims all authority in heaven and on earth.

The good of his subjects

What he means, rather, is something like this. The kings and rulers and presidents of this fallen world order exercise their authority out of a deep sense of self-promotion, out of a deep sense of wanting to be number one, out of a deep sense of self-preservation, even out of a deep sense of entitlement. By contrast, Jesus exercises his authority in such a way as to seek the good of his subjects, and that takes him, finally, to the cross. He did not come to be served, as if that were an end in itself; even in his sovereign mission he comes to serve — to give his life a ransom for many. Those who exercise any authority at any level in the kingdom in which Jesus is king must serve the same way — not with implicit demands of self-promotion, confidence in their right to rule, or a desire to sit at Jesus’s right hand or his left hand, but with a passion to serve.

Small wonder, then, that Pilate could not figure Jesus out. Jesus claimed to be king, but he had none of the pretensions of the monarchs of this world. Small wonder that for the next 300 years, Christians would speak, with profound irony, of Jesus reigning from the cross.

So here is the first irony in Matthew’s presentation of Jesus’s crucifixion: the man who is mocked as king — is the king.

This article is an extract from Don Carson’s new book Scandalous published by IVP, and is used with permission.

An extract from Don Carson's new book

In case we’ve missed it

The King of the Jews

Two layers of irony

What kind of king?

The good of his subjects

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