“It was the day of preparation for the Passover, around the sixth hour and [Pilate] said to those gathered, ‘See, this is your king'” (John 19.14).
Bloodied, weary, humiliated, Jesus stands next to Pilate. This, Pilate says, is your king. It’s what you do with the leader of a defeated army. Hands tied, stripped of any signs of office, you hold the losing ruler up before those who followed them, showing them that their defeat is your defeat. Their humiliation is your humiliation. You have been beaten by a greater force.
This is our king.
Pilate’s words are mocking, ironic. He is just one of the powers of this world with the wealth of empires at their disposal, the might of legions at their command. Pilate is not even a king. He is a governor, an appointed figure whose continued employment depends upon how well he keeps the Pax Romana and deals quickly with any uprisings in this troubled part of the world. But there he stands with this king, this nobody out of nowhere. Jesus’ life lies in his hands.
And, yet, choirs sing Handel’s oratorio with all the gusto they can muster declaring this Jesus king of kings, ruler of rulers. Children and adults sing of astrologers travelling miles and miles to bring gifts and pay homage to this king. Wondering and wandering beneath the December sky, we determine the story makes sense because this Jesus was the king. Without a trace of irony.
It should be comedic. Every politician, every CEO, every board member should drive past churches and point at nativity scenes laughing. This is not power. This is defeat. Those who follow this man—the imprisoned, tried, and executed man that baby will become—are fools. They are self-defeated men and women who must take pleasure in being humiliated. Because that’s not power. No one who understands true power would call this man a king.
But that’s exactly what we do; because, we do understand.
We understand that Jesus is the most powerful figure in the scene. That defeated, broken, powerless man under the thumb of the earthly rulers, emperors, and kings, is the one who rules them all. And why? Because, without title, notoriety, lineage, or decree he is the only one daring enough to place himself in the hands of these earthly powers. He raises no defense, calls upon no army or security. He almost dares them to do what they will. And they do. They do to him what they most fear anyone might do to them: strip them naked, force them to show every lash, every cut, every wound of their defeat.
But these gashes and scars get turned inside-out and upside-down. Instead of being marks of defeat, Jesus transforms these scars of their attempts. He holds out his hands voluntarily, showing their wounds not as signs of weakness and humility, but as proof of power and authority. Etched into his skin, no worldly power can undo what they say, how they repeat Pilates very true decree:
See, this is our king.
Jesus, you dared the powers of this world to do their worst. You put up no defense as they tried to prove your defeat, your subjection to the rule of empires and administrations. And you transformed it all into the reminder why love is more powerful than all of them. You turned everything we knew about power on its head. And you give us hope even as the nights grow long.