FAITH TIBBLE The Crown of Thorns. Reviewed by Ann Skea

Historian Faith Tibble examines the origin of one of the most famous images in the Christian world and how it changed over the centuries.

Almost everyone, whether they are Christian or not, is familiar with the image of Jesus on the cross, his head bound with a circlet of thorns. It has been depicted in art and in Christian churches for centuries, but, as Faith Tibble writes, each of the Biblical Gospels, originally written in Greek,

describes the Roman soldiers as weaving and placing a ‘wreath of acanthus’ [she gives the Greek for this] on Jesus’s head.

It was not until the fourth century that Saint Jerome translated this into Latin as ‘spineum coronam’ (thorny crown), giving the Latin name for the large-leafed plant with spiny leaf-margins that is common throughout the Mediterranean area. St Jerome was not incorrect, but the acanthus had many symbolic meanings, which made this ‘crowning’ different to the torturous thorny version which, as Tibble shows, only became common after the eleventh century.

Tibble is an art historian, and she has traced the imagery of Jesus’s arrest, his mockery by the Roman soldiers, and his crucifixion, from that found on fourth century sarcophagi to the most modern depiction of the wreath created in bronze by Jane Morgan in 2021, a golden version of which adorns the front cover of this book. For anyone who loves art and is curious about religious iconography, Tibble’s detailed and richly illustrated account of her discoveries is a revelation.

She begins with a brief history of the time that Jesus’s ministry began in Judea, which was ‘a newly annexed province’ of the Roman Empire. The Romans had stripped Judeans of their ‘semi-autonomy’, exiled their king to Gaul, and handed control to Roman prefects and their troops. Judea was, therefore, a ‘highly discontented and unstable region’, prone to riots and disturbances, all of which were dealt with swiftly by the prefect and Roman soldiery.

In about 30 AD, when Jesus began to gather followers, the Roman prefect, Pontius Pilate, had already upset the Jewish population of Judea by instituting a number of unwelcome changes. There were multiple examples of self-proclaimed prophets and ‘dictatorial leaders’, and there had been revolts and protests, which had been brutally subdued. Judea was ‘a tinder box’, and Jesus had many followers who believed in him as a messianic saviour who claimed (according to Matthew’s Gospel) that he could summon ‘more than twelve legions of angels’ to lead them to victory over their Roman oppressors. So, when Jesus was brought before Pilate, accused of claiming to be ‘King of the Jews’, he was seen to have ‘the qualities of a general – and one bent on lethal subversion’.

For Pilate, in line with Roman punishment and treatment of prisoners, a flogging and public humiliation by his soldiers – including crowning him in a mock wreath and making jeers about his failures – would have been enough. Pilate was also likely conscious that if Jesus had many followers in the city, killing him might start its own riot.

However, as governor, Pilate was expected to consult the local Jewish leaders, who demanded that Jesus be crucified. The mockery and humiliation – the crowning of him as ‘king’ and as a failed ‘general’ – would still be part of Jesus’s treatment.

Tibble looks closely at this mockery and at the sort of crown or wreath the Roman soldiers might have fashioned, using, first, an image from the fourth century ‘Passion Sarcophagus’ held in the Vatican, Rome. A carved panel on this sarcophagus (reproduced in the book) shows a soldier holding a leafy wreath above Jesus’s head, while Jesus stands placidly beside him. For Romans and Christians the acanthus had special symbolism. Since any fragment of its deep, spreading roots will grow into a new plant, it represented resurrection and ‘eternal renewal’. They would also have known of its medicinal properties, which linked it to the gods of healing and resurrection – Apollo and Asklepios.

So, the Roman soldiers’ mockery of Jesus as a king or an honoured general – with wreath-crown, reed–sceptre and scarlet cloak – was turned in Christian art into a representation of Jesus’s heavenly kingship, his resurrection and his promise of eternal life.

Another sarcophagus (also pictured) shows Jesus’s disciples each being honoured with a wreath–crown by a heavenly hand, the fingers of which are just visible. Here, Tibble argues, they are being given ‘an award for the faithful’; and in other early Christian art the wreath, together with a cross, became the symbols of a martyr.

Martyrdom, as she also demonstrates, became a ‘cult’ among those who aspired to join the ‘ranks of saints’:

By the fifth century, crosses slung over shoulders and wreaths born [sic] on veiled hands are synonymous with additional saints.

An illustration of fifth-century mosaics in Ravenna shows these ranks of saints holding their wreath-crowns. And one from the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia (d.450) shows a metal grill on wheels below which is a fiery furnace, and a halo-wreathed man, holding

an open book in his left hand, while in his right he hoists a cross over his shoulder. He appears to be in motion, running towards the fiery grill, cloak and tunic flying around him.

Early Christian imagery also shows Jesus sitting on the sort of throne seen in statues and other representations of Roman gods. He sits calmly and regally, accepting his torment. This became an example for Christian kings and emperors, especially those of the German Ottonian and Salian empires, who were expected to ‘fulfil a Christo-memetic ideal’ which included ‘the imitation of Christ’s humble endurance of torments on earth.’

A typical image of the coronation of the emperor appears, for example, in the Gospel Book of Otto III, c.998-1001… In this image, Otto III is enthroned in a high-backed cushioned throne, holding an orb and sceptre. He is crowned and surrounded by attendants.

Otto looks placidly (stoically perhaps) towards the viewer, just as Jesus does on the fourth-century sarcophagi and in other images taken from manuscripts, psalters and altar-pieces that reinterpret Jesus’s ‘enthronement’, ‘coronation’ and ‘acclaim’ by the mocking Roman soldiers. Otto’s crown, however, is rigid and metallic-looking, and decorated with pearls and other jewels.

Through many illustrations, Tibble traces the first depiction of a crown decorated with thorns to the eleventh century Codex Aureus of Echternach where:

At last we see an actual, woven crown inlaid with thorns. The thorns have been evenly inserted all around the top of the wreath, like jewels.

Towards the end of the book, Tibble examines relics, such as the ‘Crown of Thorns’ recently rescued from the fire that destroyed the spire of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. The history of this wreath can be traced back, in pilgrims’ accounts, to the fifth century, but she notes the unreliable nature of claims concerning holy relics.

She writes that the Crown of Thorns was ‘likely’ revered in Jerusalem from the fifth century and at ‘some point in the ninth century’ ‘may have been moved’ to Constantinople, where ‘sometime after 1063’ a Greek writer listed it among holy relics. It is certainly recorded that in 1235, Constantinople’s ruler, Baldwin II, used the crown as collateral for a loan from the Venetian community to fund defences against Bulgarian attacks. To redeem his debt, Baldwin later sold it to King James IX of France, who built the glorious Saint-Chapelle in Paris to house it. After the French Revolution in 1801, it was taken to Notre Dame.

Photographs of the relic inside its crystal and jewel encrusted case show a woven, grassy circlet that could well be made from acanthus, just as the earliest records of Jesus’s crown describe it.

The really thorny crowns date from the Middle Ages, but they are widely represented on modern crucifixes, and in modern art and literature. Tibble describes vividly the ‘memorable’ poster for Mel Gibson’s film The Passion of the Christ that shows Jesus ‘wearing a bloody, sharp Crown of Thorns’. It is, she says, an iconic image that ‘sticks in the mind’. She discusses, too, Albert Houthuesen’s 1939 painting, The Crown of Thorns, created during World War II, and suggests that it conveys ‘his own tragic feeling about the war’ and suffering; and the interwoven brambles, ‘gigantic, sharp’ of Jane Morgan’s bronze Crown of Thorns (mentioned earlier).

Throughout The Crown of Thorns, Tibble uses a wide range of sources and discusses the ‘complicated evolution’ of imagery through some of the most detailed, beautiful and interesting examples, many of which grace the pages of her book. Her demonstration of the evolving Christian reinterpretations of Jesus’s Passion is compelling, although she tends to repeat her argument for emphasis. Whether the reader is Christian or not, however, her insight into the often hidden meanings of centuries of art is fascinating, and to see these images is a delight.

Unfortunately, the reproductions, although clear and beautiful, are often too small to really see the details she discusses, but most of them are available on the internet, although not always under the title she has given them. The list of ‘Figures’ with their location at the front of the book is a good guide, and being able to see and enlarge these images on a bright screen is a joy.

Faith Tibble The Crown of Thorns: Humble gods and humiliated kings Bloomsbury 2025 PB 208pp $49.99

Dr Ann Skea is a freelance reviewer, writer and an independent scholar of the work of Ted Hughes. She is author of Ted Hughes: The Poetic Quest (UNE 1994, and currently available for free download here). Her work is internationally published and her Ted Hughes webpages (ann.skea.com) are archived by the British Library.

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Tags: acanthus, art history, Christian relics, Christian symbolism, crucifixion of Christ, Faith | Tibble, Otto III, Pilate