In October 2016 the BBC axed a Radio 4 comedy show called “Don’t Make Me Laugh”. No, I hadn’t heard of it either, but it apparently featured panellists being given topics to discuss in a humorous way. One pre-recorded episode, which aired at 6.30pm on the day of the late Queen’s 90^th birthday, included the subject “The Queen must have had sex at least four times”; this led the cast to make bawdy jokes about both her and Prince Philip. The BBC received more than 120 complaints after the broadcast and its governing body, the BBC Trust, ruled that the comments that had been made were “personal, intrusive and demeaning”. Further episodes of the show were banished to a late-night slot before it was cancelled altogether.

Back in the late 18^th century, when monarchy wielded greater political power than it does today, no-one seemed to bat an eyelid at mockery of the King – according to David Francis Taylor, Associate Professor of English at the University of Warwick. Cartoonists cruelly satirised George III’s poor eyesight, portrayed Queen Charlotte naked from the waist up, and depicted both of them sitting on the toilet as the Prime Minister burst in to tell them of the King of Sweden’s assassination. Things got even worse after George IV came to the throne; he was probably the most lampooned monarch in British history. His insatiable appetite and notorious womanising were fair game for cartoonists who showed him enjoying himself under his mistress’s skirt, spanking a lady in public, and even having sex with his secret Catholic wife.

These cartoons caused offence – they were meant to! – but they were bought and enjoyed by lords and ladies, MPs and other members of ‘society’. In fact George IV amassed quite a collection himself; he was a vain man and may have thought that even bad publicity was better than being ignored! And there were two serious messages beneath all this crude mockery. One was to boast of the freedom enjoyed by British people, at least those at “the top of the tree”; in many countries such disrespect would have been a death sentence. And the cartoons – many of which are far too rude to show you! – also signified the vigorous debate people were having over the very nature of, or need for, monarchy.

Mockery lies at the heart of the Crucifixion story. We heard in our reading of how the Jewish leaders scoffed at Jesus, saying, “Ha! If he really was God’s Messiah he’d be able to save himself – but he can’t”. One of the criminals who was crucified alongside Jesus – perhaps more in pain and desperation – said, “Didn’t you say that you’re the Messiah? Then save yourself and us!” The soldiers, who’d already play-acted a cruel parody of a coronation with the purple robe and crown of thorns, now offered Jesus sour wine, knowing that he would it hard to drink, and also implied that a proper Jewish king would have no trouble setting himself free. The inference was clear: none of them saw the tattered man hanging before them as any kind of king – we might say, “Who could blame them?” But Pilate, with his ambiguous notice baldly stating “The King of the Jews” seems to have been less sure. Was it a warning that any Jewish zealot who dared challenge the power of Rome would suffer a death like this? Or was it a faint hint that Pilate had seen something regal in Jesus that he was unable to fathom, a hesitant respect rather than ridicule and derision?

None of us likes being mocked. If we’re given the opportunity, we want to defend ourselves and reply to our attackers, even though we know it’s probably pointless. Although we recognise that the best tactic is to “turn the other cheek” and ignore the offensive remarks, we hope to land the killer-blow comment that will silence our adversaries. So we unwisely get into a conversation that can easily turn into a shouting match (or worse), and finally walk away seething with righteous anger. But that wasn’t what Jesus did. For, as the apostle Philip was later to explain to the Ethiopian eunuch he met in the desert, Jesus was “like a sheep being led to its slaughter or a lamb about to sheared and did not open his mouth”. He didn’t reply to Pilate’s questions nor respond to his persecutors; he soaked up the verbal punches in silence.

What’s interesting – even (one might cautiously say) amusing – is that every person who taunted Jesus was actually affirming his identity. As they scornfully called him “the “Messiah of God”, “the chosen one” and “the King of the Jews” they were asserting the truth about Jesus without realising it. And they went even further by saying, “Look! He saved others but he can’t save himself” – for, had Jesus saved himself (and we believe that he had the power to do so) – then his work of salvation would have been left unfinished and our Christian faith would not exist. It was precisely by not choosing to preserve his own life that Jesus gave life and hope to us. He had to make a choice: and he chose obedience to his Father and a horrific death. Although they’d have been shocked to know it, Jesus’ mockers were actually proclaiming a profound truth in their insults and vicious laughter.

One writer has put things like this. “When

[those looking on]

said, “He can’t save himself”, they meant that the nails held him there, that the soldiers prevented any possibility of rescue, that his powerlessness and weakness guaranteed his death. Their words expressed a physical impossibility. But those who know who Jesus is are fully aware that nails and soldiers cannot stand in the way of Emmanuel. The truth of the matter is that Jesus could not save himself, not because of any physical constraint, but because of a moral imperative. He came to do his Father’s will, and he would not be deflected from it”.

Today is the day when churches declare Christ to be King. Yet the appalling scene we’ve been thinking about doesn’t seem to have any of the normal trappings of majesty – quite the opposite, in fact. Yes, there’s that sign that Pilate nailed on top of the Cross, and there are the cries of the people – but those are almost entirely negative, belittling Jesus’ claims to royalty. We have no palace or throne, the crowd’s shouts are ones of derision rather than acclamation, the walk through the streets of Jerusalem was an opportunity to hurl insults (or worse) at Jesus rather than paeons of praise, and had him stumbling under the weight of his Cross rather than driving in state. And, of course, we’re nearing Christmas which tells us that Jesus was born in a stable rather than in a place of great luxury and comfort. If Jesus is King, he is clearly a very different kind of king to what people might usually expect. It’s no surprise, perhaps, that the people of his day misunderstood and mocked him. For his behaviour challenges every ruler on earth by giving them a model of humble leadership that is an unwelcome blow to their pretentious pride.

I don’t want to tread on the toes of Advent Sunday next week by talking about Jesus as the King returning to earth in glory; that can wait. Today I must leave him on the Cross which, in a remarkable way, he has transformed into a strange yet beautiful throne. For we worship a Jesus who has pulled the rug from beneath all our usual notions of royalty and leadership, replacing them with the picture of a servant who is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice of love for his people. That’s a picture which some people will still love to mock; but it should inspire us to bow before him in worship and awe.

I’ll finish by reading a hymn which I think sums up everything I’ve been trying to say this morning. It’s by Fred Pratt Green.

To mock your reign, O dearest Lord, they made a crown of thorns;
set you with taunts along that road from which no one returns.
They did not know, as we do now, that glorious is your crown;
that thorns would flower upon your brow, your sorrows heal our own.

In mock acclaim, O gracious Lord, they snatched a purple cloak,
your passion turned, for all they cared, into a soldiers’ joke.
They did not know, as we do now, that though we merit blame
you will your robe of mercy throw around our naked shame.

A sceptred reed, O patient Lord, they thrust into your hand,
and acted out their grim charade to its appointed end.
They did not know, as we do now, though empires rise and fall,
your Kingdom shall not cease to grow till love embraces all.

Fred Pratt Green © 1973 Stainer & Bell Ltd Music. CCLI Licence 870095.