© 2026 Evan D. Garner
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We have a king, and his
name is Jesus, but he’s the king whom nobody wants.
The religious leaders had always been suspicious of him. During most of his ministry, Jesus sparred with the Pharisees—that strictly observant group of faithful Jews who were prominent figures in synagogues throughout Palestine. When Jesus spoke with authority on religious matters like fasting, sabbath observance, keeping kosher, and ritual purity, the Pharisees took note, and they didn’t like what they heard.
But the confrontation in Jerusalem that led to Jesus’ death wasn’t with the Pharisees. It was with the chief priests and the elders—Matthew’s way of denoting the Sanhedrin or religious council that was responsible for overseeing the religious, political, economic, and social life of the Jewish people. While Pharisees held cultural esteem throughout the Jewish provinces, including Galilee, where Jesus was from, the council was focused on Jerusalem and what took place in the capital city. Jesus might have gotten under the skin of the religious leaders where he came from, but his popularity and anti-establishment rhetoric represented a real threat to the stakeholders in Jerusalem.
If the Roman authorities believed that Jesus of Nazareth was leading a revolt that had started to take hold in the capital city, they would crack down on everyone in Jerusalem with the full force of the empire. The chief priests and elders had worked hard to negotiate a détente with Rome. They were allowed to keep to themselves. They could skip out on imperial religious ceremonies and govern themselves outside of the Roman judicial system. They were exempt from mandatory military service. They could celebrate their Jewish religious festivals in the Jerusalem temple.
The swell of pilgrims in the city for the Passover had already made the Roman authorities nervous. If the throng of visitors who supported Jesus’ claim to the throne of David got out of hand, everything that the council had fought to preserve would be lost. The temple might even be destroyed. Yes, the chief priests and elders would rejoice to see their imperial overlords defeated, but they knew that this poor, irreligious, outcast-loving, establishment-challenging rabbi wasn’t the one to do it. So they turned against him rather than let him ruin the status quo they had established.
In a way, Judas Iscariot made an unlikely partner for the Jewish council because, as one of Jesus’ twelve disciples, he likely shared Jesus’ disdain for the temple elite. But his name Iscariot likely indicates that he was from the village of Kerioth—a town south of Hebron in Judea. Thus, as the only non-Galilean disciple, Judas may have become disenchanted with Jesus and his particular brand of messianic identity. Perhaps, when Judas realized that Jesus did not intend to claim David’s throne and lead a rebellion against Roman occupation, he offered to betray his master to the Judean religious leaders. Thirty pieces of silver was only a month’s wages, so Judas was probably more interested in preventing Roman backlash against a misguided rebellion than keeping the money for himself. In the end, his motives aligned with those of the Sanhedrin. Both realized that Jesus wasn’t the one to defeat the enemies of God’s people, and the deal was struck.
What about the crowd that called for Pilate to release Jesus Barabbas instead of Jesus the Christ? How were they so easily persuaded by the chief priests and elders? Likely, the people that had hailed Jesus as “the Son of David” when he entered the holy city were pilgrims from up north, where Jesus had become a famous teacher and healer. They were impressed by him and wanted him to succeed. But the crowd that showed up at Pilate’s headquarters early in the morning were probably locals whom the religious leaders had encouraged to gather to secure Barabbas’ release. As residents of the capital city, they weren’t interested in what a hick from Galilee might do. They were more impressed by Barabbas, who had already proven himself as the leader of an insurrection. He was a hero to the local Jewish community, and all the chief priests and elders had to do was remind the people who the real hero was.
Finally, we come to the other disciples, who scattered like the wind as soon as Jesus was handed over to the religious authorities. At their last meal with Jesus, all of them had agreed with Peter, who had insisted that he would rather die than desert his master. Yet three times, when asked if he had been with Jesus, Peter denied it until the sound of the cockcrow filled him with remorse. Initially, one of them had drawn a sword, prepared to fight for Jesus’ freedom, but Jesus rebuked him and told him to put his sword back into its sheath. “All who take the sword will perish by the sword,” Jesus proclaimed, and, with those words of resignation, all the disciples deserted him and fled. Perhaps they were ready to fight and die with Jesus, but to accept death and the defeat that it represented without resorting to violence was not something they knew how to do. So they ran away. Powerlessness can be scary like that.
“Are you the King of the Jews?” Pilate asked Jesus, confirming the charges that had been brought against him. “Hail, King of the Jews!” the soldiers said as a way to mock their powerless prisoner. “This is Jesus, the King of the Jews,” the sign upon the cross proclaimed as a warning to any who would think of rebelling against Rome. “He is the King of Israel,” said the chief priests, elders, and scribes in a mocking tone. “Let him come down from the cross now, and we will believe in him”—because they knew that, if he were God’s real king, he would not have been defeated by the godless kingdoms of the world.
Jesus is the king whom nobody wanted yet exactly the king whom everyone needs. Only in his death is he able to give life to the world. Only on the cross is he able to reconcile humanity to one another and to God. He is the power of God and the wisdom of God (1 Corinthians 2:24). In him, God gave himself to humankind for humankind, and, in his shameful death and defeat, God saves humankind.
To believe in a God whose power is manifest in utter powerlessness and whose victory is won in stunning defeat is risky and scary because it requires us to give up everything we know about winning, about success, about power, and about God. The cross is not the means through which the kingship of Christ is established. It is the kingship of Christ, and that isn’t what most of us want to hear.
Are we, like the religious council, so satisfied with our status quo that we would rather deny the kingship of Christ than risk declaring our allegiance to someone who promises to disrupt everything we hold dear? Are we, like Judas, tired of believing in a Jesus who tells us to pray for our enemies and to love them rather than one who comes and smites them with a sword? Have we been fooled, like the Judean crowd, into thinking that God’s anointed king hails from a place we know well and has already proven himself by standing up against our foes? Are we, like the disciples, unwilling to stand up with Jesus if it means losing the philosophical battles, losing the political campaigns, and losing the respect of like-minded members of the community?
We have a king, and his name is Jesus, but he’s the king whom nobody wants. We will accept him as the king we need most of all?
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