Read John 19:1–5
ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“He was despised and rejected—a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief…” (Isaiah 53:3 NLT)
Symbols carry memory and meaning far beyond words. The Church has always leaned on them—sometimes hidden in plain sight, sometimes dismissed or distorted. Yet the most powerful symbols are those that subvert the world’s expectations and draw us back to the radical heart of the Gospel. In this series, we’ll look closer at the sacred signs that shock, unsettle, and ultimately call us deeper into Christ.
Part 17: Crown of Thorns. Few symbols cut as deep as this one. A ring of thorns twisted into mockery, pressed into flesh, drawing blood. To Rome, it was a joke—a parody of kingship, meant to humiliate a would-be Messiah. Yet what the empire meant as ridicule, God transformed into revelation.
In Rome’s world, crowns were signs of victory and divinity. Laurel wreaths crowned emperors, athletes, and generals—the reward for strength and triumph. But Jesus’ crown inverted the script: thorns instead of laurels, pain instead of prestige. The so-called “King of the Jews” wore the empire’s cruelty on his brow. The instrument of mockery became the measure of mercy.
There is an older echo here. After Eden, the ground bears “thorns and thistles” (the sign of curse and sweat). On Good Friday, those thorns move from soil to skin. The curse is taken up into Christ’s own body so that, by resurrection, the ground of our lives might be healed. The crown is not an accessory to the Passion; it is theology in miniature—sin’s lacerations gathered into God’s redeeming love.
The Crown of Thorns turns triumphalism inside out—it’s the empire’s joke that God refused to erase. We see it easily when it wears uniforms and medals: Rome parading prisoners, dictators saluting from balconies, crowds chanting for Caesar or party or nation. We see the violence of empire in their crowns of conquest.
But Revelation refuses to leave it there. In Revelation 19:12, Christ is described as wearing many crowns—a reclamation of every false claim to power. Yet God’s reign still bears the mark of suffering love. The thorns that pierced Christ’s brow unmask the violence hidden behind every earthly throne.
And here’s the twist: that throne is not only out there. The Church, too, has learned to love its crowns. We’ve adorned altars with gold while ignoring the hungry at the door. We’ve preached resurrection while wielding respectability. We’ve mistaken influence for faithfulness, and applause for anointing. And when prophets rise to remind us who we follow, we silence them to keep the morally bankrupt content—protecting the institution while crucifying the conviction.
The Crown of Thorns exposes us all. It declares that love endures pain rather than inflicts it—and that true authority bleeds for others instead of demanding their blood. It wraps itself around the head of every believer until we remember: what was meant for mockery became the coronation of compassion—and it still pierces any gospel grown too comfortable with power.
Where does this land this week? It looks like telling the truth when a polite lie would be safer. It looks like slowing down to listen to the person everyone steps around. It looks like choosing a costly mercy over a clever clap-back. It looks like a church budget that prioritizes neighbors over nostalgia, mission over mirrors. It looks like leaders who would rather lose status than lose their souls. The crown that drew blood from Christ now draws us away from the seductions of platform, partisanship, and performative piety.
Today, we still chase crowns—titles, influence, prestige—often forgetting that Christ wore his in pain, not pride. Our culture crowns success and polish; Jesus crowns humility and presence. Even in ministry, the temptation to be admired or right can overshadow the call to simply love. The “Crown of Thorns” still asks whether we are building kingdoms of comfort or bearing witness to the kingdom of God.
The crown meant to humiliate became the symbol of divine courage. The glory of God shines not from gold but from grace. The King of Love reigns not by escaping pain, but by transforming it. And when we wear that way of the cross—quietly, steadily, without theatrics—the world encounters a different kind of power: a sovereignty that serves.
THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The only crown that endures is love—and love still wears thorns.PRAYER
Christ of the Thorns, strip from us the crowns we make for ourselves—titles, comforts, and the applause we mistake for faith. Take the thorns of our world into your mercy and teach us the courage to love when it costs something real. Let compassion be our coronation, humility our glory, and service our song. Amen.
Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).