In Matthew 27:27–31, the evangelist draws back the veil on one of the most haunting scenes in the Passion narrative. A Roman cohort, potentially numbering several hundred soldiers, was assembled in the Praetorium to take possession of Messiah Yeshua/Jesus and lead Him away from Pontius Pilate. Jerusalem was swollen with pilgrims for Pesach/Passover. Political tension simmered. Messianic expectation ran high. It would not take much to set the city into violence, but Rome would tolerate no uprising. What unfolds is not just cruelty—it is calculated humiliation, a spectacle designed to break the spirit of the messianic hopeful.

Yeshua had already endured the brutal scourging recorded in Matthew 27:26. Roman flogging was not incidental; it was preparatory for crucifixion, often leaving a man scarcely recognizable, his flesh torn and his strength drained. Into that agony the soldiers stepped, not with mercy, but with mockery.

They stripped Him and draped a scarlet robe over His shoulders, the color of imperial authority. They twisted together a crown of thorns and pressed it upon His head. Thorns, symbol of the curse in Genesis 3, pierced the brow of the One who bore that very curse. In His hand they placed a reed, a pitiful substitute for a royal scepter. Matthew’s Jewish audience would not miss the irony. The scepter promised in Genesis 49:10, “The scepter shall not depart from Judah,” was not absent. It was present, though disguised as an object of ridicule. The prophetic significance is monumental: the Messiah had indeed come. Those charged with His execution unwittingly announced the fulfillment of Jacob’s prophetic word.

They knelt before Him in feigned homage. “Hail, King of the Jews!” they cried. They mocked the very One before Whom every knee will bow and every tongue confess (Phil. 2:10–11). Their mocking was meant to deride Jewish hope and to disparage any claim to kingship that rivaled Caesar. Yet heaven heard a deeper truth. What they spoke in scorn was proclaimed in sovereignty. The One they mocked was, in fact, the true King.

Then came the spitting—an act of utter contempt. They took the reed from His hand and struck Him with it, beating the crowned King with His own mock scepter. The scene is grotesque. The Creator of all things stands silent while creatures fashioned from dust strike His face. The fullness of the Godhead bodily, abused as though powerless, is in reality the righteous Judge of all the earth.

Finally, they stripped Him of the scarlet robe, returned His own garments, and led Him away to be crucified. The pageantry of humiliation was complete. Rome had displayed its power. Religious leadership believed it had silenced its rival. The crowd would soon see a condemned man lifted up in shame.

But where others saw defeat, heaven was establishing victory.

Messiah’s apparent helplessness was not impotence; it was submission. He was not unable to save Himself; He was unwilling to do so, for the sake of saving others. The One who could have summoned legions of angels chose instead the path of suffering. The Judge stood in the place of the judged. The King bore the penalty of His subjects. What looked like Rome’s triumph was in truth the enthronement of the Son.

This passage confronts us with a profound theological paradox: divine power revealed through voluntary weakness. The kingdom of God does not advance by coercion, but by sacrifice. The crown comes through thorns. The scepter is first a reed of mockery. Glory is preceded by the deepest shame.

Contemporary application presses close to home.

First, discipleship means embracing misunderstood obedience. Faithfulness to Christ may invite ridicule in a culture that rejects His kingship. Yet the mockery of the world does not invalidate the authority of the King. Like our Lord, we entrust ourselves to Him who judges justly.

Second, this scene recalibrates our understanding of victory. We are conditioned to equate success with visibility, strength, and dominance. The Cross reveals another metric. God’s greatest triumph unfolded beneath the appearance of total collapse. In seasons where the Church feels marginalized or weak, Matthew 27 and the mocking of our King, reminds us: heaven’s purposes are not thwarted by earthly scorn.

Finally, the mocked King demands allegiance. The soldiers bowed in jest; we bow in truth. The question is not whether He is King, but whether we will openly acknowledge Him as such.

The reed was a parody, yet the scepter remains. The crown was of thorns, yet it testified to a kingdom unshakable. The One led away to crucifixion is the reigning Messiah. And in His humiliation, our redemption was secured.

Maranatha. Shalom. 

I was the rebellious one. I was the murdering one. I was the guilty one. I was the released one. I was Barabbas. 

The Gospels present us with a haunting exchange: a guilty man walks free while the Innocent is led away to die. That guilty man was Barabbas—Βαραββᾶς (Barabbas), from the Aramaic בַּר אַבָּא, Bar-Abba, “son of the father.” He was a rebellious son of a father. I was that man, just as you were.

The crowd stood before Pontius Pilate, demanding a verdict. Pilate, the Roman governor, examined  Messiah Jesus, and publicly declared Him innocent: “I find no fault in this man” (cf. Lk. 23:4, 14–15, 22). Three times the human judge rendered a verdict of acquittal. Yet the voices of the crowd prevailed. The guilty was released. The Righteous was condemned (1 Pet. 3:18).

Barabbas had committed insurrection and murder (Lk. 23:19). He embodied rebellion against both Rome and, more profoundly, against God’s order. And yet he was chosen. The people preferred a violent revolutionary over the Prince of Peace (Isa. 9:6). They preferred a false son of the father to the true Son of the Father.

This is more than history; it is revelation. Barabbas is every man in Adam, a son in the image of his father (Gen. 5:3). I was the rebellious one. I was the murderer, not by blade, but by hatred in my heart. I was the guilty one, standing justly condemned before divine justice. And yet I was the released one. How could this be? 

Messiah Yeshua was substituted for me (2 Cor. 5:21) – another stood in my place.

The innocent for the guilty. The just for the unjust. The Son of the Father in truth stood in the place of a rebellious son. While the world chose my rebellion over His innocence, the heavenly Father would only receive me in the true Son. I could not approach God as Bar-Abba, a false son; I must be hidden in the beloved Son (Ro. 8:1).

What occurred before Pilate’s tribunal was not ultimately the triumph of mob rule, but the unfolding of divine purpose. The wicked human judge bowed to political pressure, but the heavenly Judge was fulfilling His own decree. As foretold in Isaiah 53, the Suffering Servant would be despised and rejected, numbered with transgressors, pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities. Barabbas walked free as the Servant was numbered with transgressors. More than that: sinners walk free because the Servant bore their guilt (Isa. 53:1-12).

On the Cross, Messiah did not just die for one criminal in Jerusalem; He died for the sins of the world (1 Jn. 2:2). The exchange of Barabbas is the gospel in miniature. It is the very picture of substitution embodied. One life for another. One verdict overturned by grace. The choice of Barabbas over Jesus is, for us, the picture of our own lives before salvation. 

And yet the story does not end at Golgotha.

The same human heart that cried, “Crucify Him!” would soon cry out different words. By the gracious work of the Holy Spirit, hardened hearts and mouths are transformed (Ro. 10:9-10). Those who once mocked begin to marvel. Those who once scorned begin to sing. When the revelation of the true Son of God rushes in, the cry of rebellion becomes the cry of worship: “Praise Him.”

I was Barabbas. Guilty. Rebellious. Condemned.

But the Son of the Father stood in my place. And because He was handed over, I was released. Because of His substitutionary sacrifice I now cry out, “Abba! Father!” (Ro. 8:15). My sin forgiven. My life redeemed. 

Maranatha. Shalom.