After three days, Jesus stepped out of the grave in triumph, never to die again. He is the victor over death, evil, and the devil (Hebrews 2:14). He is Lord and King. And so declares: “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me” (Matthew 28:18). Then comes the true and formal coronation. Christ ascends, exalted to the right hand of the Father, to the praise of the heavenly hosts. As Peter declares, he is made both Lord and Christ (Acts 2:32–33), and Paul echoes this truth: he is now seated above all rule and authority, power and dominion (Ephesians 1:20–22). The coronation is now complete!

The Crowning of the King

What is it about a crown that appeals to us? Or better, what is it about being human that a coronation ceremony moves us? Why is it that our hearts are stirred, even in a movie, when a rightful monarch rises to the throne, and a crown is placed on his or her head?

Tolkien’s The Return of the King closes with a coronation, Aragorn is crowned King Elessar in Minas Tirith. It is powerful and deeply moving. Or The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, with the crowning of Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. Also moving. But why?

Is it the majesty, the beauty, the pomp and circumstance of the event? Maybe in part, because we are drawn to beauty, but maybe it is far deeper than that. Maybe what fills us with greater awe is what the crowns represent. In both stories, the crowns were forged in the fires of evil. There was sacrifice and battle, victory and hope, righteousness restored. That is what gives the moment its weight.

We were created for such moments, moments where good triumphs over evil, where justice is restored, where honour and integrity, power and truth, love and kindness prevail. The reason for this is simple: we were created for a kingdom, with a true King, one who is righteous, who lacks nothing in integrity or power or justice, one whose banner over him is love (Song of Songs 2:4).

And here is the good news: we have such a King and no less a kingdom. Yet, Scripture reminds us that his kingship was secured through paradox. His coronation does not take place in the splendour of Minas Tirith, but at the place of the skull. Not through power, but weakness. Not through life, but through death. Holy Week, Good Friday, and Resurrection Sunday form a coronation, a desperate parody of the real, indeed, but a needed coronation nonetheless, one that draws us in with awe and, by grace, pulls out of us a sorrowful confession of sin and repentance.

Palm Sunday: The King Arrives

The ceremony begins on Palm Sunday, as Jesus made his ascent into Jerusalem, deliberately orchestrating the event from start to finish. The crowds were large because his fame had gone before him. He was known as a miracle worker and a prophet, and more than that, he had been called the Son of David (Matthew 20:30–31). The expectation was clear: the King had come to take his throne.

Yet the coming King chooses a lowly steed, a colt, the foal of a donkey. Vulnerable, untrained, and weak. Everyone knew, however, that no one rides into a city to claim power on a donkey. Had Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon on one, Rome would have laughed. Kings go to battle on war horses, not on donkeys.

The people did not grasp the magnitude of the moment, but Jesus did. He came not to confront Rome, but a far greater enemy, one that lives within and exercises dominion over this world: sin, evil, the devil and his forces (Ephesians 6:12).

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