The Thorn-Crowned King
He chose to wear it and so should I
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
—Shakespeare, King Henry IV, Part 2, III:1:31
Royalty.
I never thought that would apply to me.
Sure, thanks to some hyper-dedicated genealogists on both sides of the family, I know my great times whatever it is grandfather was King John of England—a dubious honor, to be sure, and mostly meaningless. But nobody (bar actual royalty, presumably) really thinks of themselves as royalty.
And yet, I am.
Not in some remote, generations-back way, either, but in two very real and immediate ways.
My oldest daughter knows full well she’s my princess. My youngest will, too, but she’s only gotten as far as chanting ADADADADADADADA, so I’m considering her princess self-identity as a work in progress. Anyway, one day, she comes to me and reasons out the implications of her being a princess: Momma is a queen, and I’m “King Daddy.”
She’s right, of course. There is some element of rulership that goes along with being a husband and father. Not in a domineering way, but as a servant-leader. My wife is my queen—she’s my co-pilot, if you will, perfectly capable of flying the plane, but willingly allowing me to be the lead. She trusts me with that. It’s a gift, and a massive responsibility, and I can’t take it lightly.
It’s on me to lead my family to holiness and virtue, kindness and love. It’s on me to defend my family and to teach my children to pray. That’s my responsibility as “King Daddy.”
Uneasy lies the head, indeed. It’s almost overwhelming sometimes, until I remember my second crown. The older and deeper one, the crown of my Baptism.
The logic is simple: if, through our Baptism, we become children of God “and if children, then heirs, heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ” (Rom. 8:17), then we become part of God’s royal family.
Through Baptism, I wear a heavenly crown. I’m a son of the most high God, a brother of Jesus Christ, King of the Universe.
What crown does that King wear?
Thorns.
I’ve sometimes wondered why that episode of the Gospels happened. The Roman soldiers mock this pretender, and the narrative moves on. But Jesus’s passion, death, and resurrection all unfolded according to God’s plan, and the crowning with thorns is worth reflecting on in particular.
Jesus’s dialogue with Pilate beforehand, and Pilate’s response afterwards show that the nature of Christ’s kingship is the central question of His identity at His trial, the thing that leads to His death. Jesus makes it clear leading up to his passion that he willingly chooses to undergo all that is happening to him … including, we have to conclude, wearing this crown.
The crown of thorns is the only crown Jesus chose to wear, and it’s worth paying attention to.
It’s not a flashy crown. It doesn’t draw attention to itself. Even in artistic depictions of the crucifixion or the way of the cross, once the crown is placed on Jesus’s head, it sort of fades into the background. When we imagine Jesus on the cross, the crown isn’t front and center, and I think that’s intended.
It’s a crown of humility. It’s a painful crown. One the world looks at and says “no thank you” to. It’s a crown that leaves a mark on its wearer. It can’t be laid aside easily, taken on and off as convenience dictates—He can’t cast it aside when it lies uneasy on His head.
As a husband, I’m supposed to love my wife “even as Christ loved the Church” (Eph. 5:25). The crown I wear as “King Daddy” is and should be a crown of thorns. The world looks at it and says “no thank you.” I can never cast it aside when it lies uneasy. But I can wear and bear it well, I can love it and everything it means, because of Him whom I’m called to imitate via my Baptism into His royal family.
This might all seem overwrought and overthought, and maybe it is. The irony of talking out loud about wearing a crown humbly is not lost on me. But it’s been in my thoughts this week. I’m called to take up my cross and follow Him, sure, but I’m also asked to wear my crown the way He did, too.