King In Disguise

Evan D Garner

Nov 23

November 22, 2025 – The Last Sunday after Pentecost: Proper 29C
Jeremiah 23:1-6; Colossians 1:11-20; Luke 23:33-43

On the eve of the Feast of St. Crispin, October 24, 1415, William Shakespeare’s Henry V disguised himself as an ordinary soldier in order to walk among his troops and learn their honest assessment of the next day’s battle. The French army, which outnumbered the English five to one, could be heard in the distance, celebrating what they believed would be an easy victory. Meanwhile, as the king quickly learned, his own soldiers were quietly huddled around campfires anticipating their own deaths.

Unaware of who it was he was really speaking to, one of the soldiers, Michael Williams, accused the king of trifling with the souls of his troops:

But if the cause be not good, the King
himself hath a heavy reckoning to make, when all
those legs and arms and heads, chopped off in a
battle, shall join together at the latter day, and cry
all “We died at such a place,” some swearing, some
crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left
poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe,
some upon their children rawly left. I am afeard
there are few die well that die in a battle, for how
can they charitably dispose of anything when blood
is their argument? Now, if these men do not die
well, it will be a black matter for the king that led
them to it…

If a soldier died fighting in an unholy battle, Williams argued, unable to seek the absolution of a priest, his subsequent damnation would be the fault of the king. “Not so!” Henry countered in disguise. “If they die unprovided, / no more is the King guilty of their damnation / than he was before guilty of those impieties for the / which they are now visited. Every subject’s duty is / the King’s, but every subject’s soul is his own.”

Henry could tell that his philosophical arguments were not winning the troops to his cause, so he tried a different approach. “I myself heard the King say he would not be ransomed,” he declared, attempting to convince them of his own willingness to die. Williams scoffed, “Ay, he said so to make us fight cheerfully, / but when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed / and we ne’er the wiser.” Shakespeare’s Henry, frustrated at his inability to bridge the gap between lofty king and lowly subjects, grew increasingly agitated, even challenging the recalcitrant Williams to a fight. Since it was the eve of battle, however, the opponents agreed to postpone their quarrel, but they promised to resume their personal hostilities if they happened to survive the next day’s fighting (Henry V, IV.1).

“Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” Luke is the only gospel writer to record these words, which Jesus spoke from the cross. They help Luke portray Jesus as a king disguised as a criminal—one who has the power to forgive even as he hangs on the cross. In the Roman world, there was no punishment as severe or gruesome as crucifixion. Reserved for those whose crimes threatened the order of the empire, the cross was where failed insurrectionists and rebellious slaves were executed in order to send a message to anyone who dreamt of challenging the authority of Rome. By definition, anyone whose body was nailed to a cross had been defeated. Their attempt to become king was as dead as they were.

Luke goes to considerable lengths to be sure that we recognize how fully disguised the crucified Jesus was. Using a chiastic structure, he layers one misidentification on top of another. The leaders scoffed, “He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God.” The soldiers mocked him, saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!” The sign placed upon the cross also mocked him: “This is the King of the Jews.” One of the criminals who was being executed in the same way as Jesus joined in the mockery: “Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

Messiah—King—King—Messiah. Hanging on the cross, the true identity of Jesus is cloaked beneath the image of an executed criminal, a failed rebel, one rejected by God. In a way, the accusations of the leaders, the soldiers, and the first criminal are our own. A true Messiah would not—could not—be defeated by the powers of this world. A real king would triumph over his enemies. If Jesus really were God’s chosen one—the one destined to save the world, the one whom God sent to overthrow the powers of evil and restore the kingdom of God—he would not have been betrayed by one of his disciples, tried by his own people, handed over to the Roman authorities, and killed shamefully on the cross. Real messiahs, real kings don’t die like that. But this one did.

For Luke, the repeated misunderstanding of Jesus’ identity revolves around the concept of salvation. If he really were who he claimed to be, he would save himself, all the objectors declare. Yet it is precisely through his willingness to submit to a shameful death that the world is delivered from shame and death. The very essence of the world’s misunderstanding is the means through which salvation comes. We believe in a crucified Messiah, an executed king, whose defeat at the hands of earthly powers is God’s triumph over them. His death on the cross is our salvation.

The outermost layer of Luke’s chiastic presentation of the cross is completed by the second criminal. At the outset, Jesus declared, “Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” Then, just before Jesus’ death, the other criminal said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Only for the one who hanged beside Jesus, who accepted for himself the same humiliating death, was the significance of the cross understood. This criminal was able to see beneath the disguise and recognize the kingship of the one whom others mocked. For him, seeing Jesus upon the cross was not an obstacle to his salvation but a confirmation of God’s saving love. In the end, only the most humble servants choose a crucified king.

On the morning after his disguised encounter with the troops, Henry V drew from his experience among them and gave a rousing speech, which endeared himself to those who would fight beside him that day:

This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be rememberèd—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day (IV.3)

Having spent the night pondering his frustrating exchange with Williams, Henry named with conviction the fears he knew his soldiers felt and also his confidence in the nobility of their sacrifice. Having become an ordinary man, the king learned their frailties in order that he might embody them and, in turn, lead them to victory.

After defeating the French in the Battle of Agincourt, Henry again met the recalcitrant Williams, who was shocked to learn that he had unknowingly threatened to fight the king—a seditious offence punishable by death. Williams begged for mercy. And, instead of a punishment, the king gave Williams the reward of a faithful soldier. The true identity of a gracious king was now disclosed.

“Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.” Jesus is right: we do not know what we are doing. We cannot see him for who he really is. We mock him for his weakness. We deride him for his failure. We nail him to the cross again and again. But, in the light of the resurrection, God’s salvation comes to us anyway, until, with humility, our eyes can see our king.