“What should I do with Jesus, the one called the Christ?”
MATTHEW 27:22
The most famous trial in history is about to begin.
The judge is short and patrician with darting eyes and expensive clothes. His graying hair trimmed and face beardless. He is apprehensive, nervous about being thrust into a decision he can’t avoid. Two soldiers lead him down the stone stairs of the fortress into the broad courtyard. Shafts of morning sunlight stretch across the stone floor.
As he enters, Syrian soldiers dressed in short togas yank themselves and their spears erect and stare straight ahead. The floor on which they stand is a mosaic of broad, brown, smooth rocks. On the floor are carved the games the soldiers play while awaiting the sentencing of the prisoner.
But in the presence of the procurator, they don’t play.
A regal chair is placed on a landing five steps up from the floor. The magistrate ascends and takes his seat. The accused is brought into the room and placed below him. A covey of robed religious leaders follow, walk over to one side of the room, and stand.
Pilate looks at the lone figure.
“Doesn’t look like a Christ,” he mutters.
Feet swollen and muddy. Hands tan. Knuckles lumpy.
Looks more like a laborer than a teacher. Looks even less like a troublemaker.
One eye is black and swollen shut. The other looks at the floor. Lower lip split and scabbed. Hair blood-matted to forehead. Arms and thighs streaked with crimson.
“Shall we remove the garment?” a soldier asks.
“No. It’s not necessary.”
It’s obvious what the beating has done.
The procurator wouldn’t have requested to see this prisoner. Experience has taught him to steer clear of the Jewish squabbles—especially religious ones. But he had to admit he’s been curious why this Jesus has stirred the people so.
“They call him a rabble-rouser?” Pilate questions aloud, looking at the guards to his side, giving them permission to chuckle and snap the silence. They do. He shifts in the backless seat and leans against the wall. Were it not for the nature of the charges, Pilate would have waved the man and the matter away. But the accusations included words such as revolt and taxes and Caesar. So he is forced to press further.
“Are you the king of the Jews?”
For the first time, Jesus lifts his eyes. He doesn’t raise his head, but he lifts his eyes. He peers at the procurator from beneath his brow. Pilate is surprised at the tone in Jesus’ voice.
“Those are your words.”
Before Pilate can respond, the knot of Jewish leaders mock the accused from the side of the courtroom.
“See, he has no respect.”
“He stirs the people!”
“He claims to be king!”
Pilate doesn’t hear them. Those are your words. No defense. No explanation. No panic. The Galilean is looking at the floor again.
Something about this country rabbi appeals to Pilate. He’s different from the bleeding hearts who cluster outside. He’s not like the leaders with the chest-length beards who one minute boast of a sovereign God and the next beg for lower taxes. His eyes are not the fiery ones of the zealots who are such a pain to the Pax Romana he tries to keep. He’s different, this upcountry Messiah. As Pilate looks at him the stories begin to come to mind.
“Now, I remember,” he says to himself, standing, then stepping down the steps and walking toward a balcony. He stops near the ledge and leans against it. The pigeons stir and a papery rustle of wings is heard as they flutter to the street below.
Pilate reflects on the reports. The strange story of the man over in Bethany. Dead for, what was it? Three—no, four days. This is the rube they said called him from the grave. And that gathering at Bethsaida. Numbered up to several thousand . . . somebody in Herod’s organization told about them. They wanted to make him king. Oh, yes, he fed the crowd.
Pilate turns and looks at the children playing on the street below. Some are visiting with a guard. Wanting a handout, no doubt. The kids don’t look good. Frail and thin. Hair stringy. Lice, probably. One part of Pilate is troubled because the guard is talking to them and another part is troubled that the guard doesn’t help them. All of Pilate is troubled that children such as this have to get sick to begin with. But they do. They do in Rome; they do in Jerusalem.
He looks again at the stooped man who stands in his chambers. We could use a king, he sighs. A king who could make sense out of this mess.
There was a day when Pilate thought he could. He came to Jerusalem convinced that what was good north of the Mediterranean was good east of it. But that was long ago. That was another Pilate. That was when black was black and white was white. That was when his health was better and his dreams were virgin. That was before the politics. Give a little here to take a little there. Appease. Compromise. Raise taxes. Lower standards. Things were different now.
Rome and noble dreams seem faraway. Perhaps that’s why he is intrigued by the rabbi. Something in him reminds him of why he came . . . of what he used to be. They have scourged my back, too, my friend. They have scourged my back too.
Pilate looks at the Jewish leaders huddled in the corner across the court. Their insistence angers him. The lashes aren’t enough. The mockery inadequate. Jealous; he wants to say it to their faces, but doesn’t. Jealous buzzards, the whole obstinate lot of you. Killing your own prophets.
Pilate wants to let Jesus go. Just give me a reason, he thinks, almost aloud. I’ll set you free.
His thoughts are interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. A messenger leans and whispers. Strange. Pilate’s wife has sent word not to get involved in the case. Something about a dream she had.
Pilate walks back to his chair, sits, and stares at Jesus. “Even the gods are on your side?” he states with no explanation.
He has sat in this chair before. It’s a curule seat: cobalt blue with thick, ornate legs. The traditional seat of decision. By sitting on it Pilate transforms any room or street into a courtroom. It is from here he renders decisions.
How many times has he sat here? How many stories has he heard? How many pleas has he received? How many wide eyes have stared at him, pleading for mercy, begging for acquittal?
But the eyes of this Nazarene are calm, silent. They don’t scream. They don’t dart. Pilate searches them for anxiety . . . for anger. He doesn’t find it. What he finds makes him shift again.
He’s not angry with me. He’s not afraid . . . he seems to understand.
Pilate is correct in his observation. Jesus is not afraid. He is not angry. He is not on the verge of panic. For he is not surprised. Jesus knows his hour and the hour has come.
Pilate is correct in his curiosity. Where, if Jesus is a leader, are his followers? What, if he is the Messiah, does he intend to do? Why, if he is a teacher, are the religious leaders so angry at him?
Pilate is also correct in his question. “What should I do with Jesus, the one called the Christ?”1
Perhaps you, like Pilate, are curious about this one called Jesus. You, like Pilate, are puzzled by his claims and stirred by his passions. You have heard the stories: God descending the stars, cocooning in flesh, placing a stake of truth in the globe. You, like Pilate, have heard the others speak; now you would like for him to speak.
What do you do with a man who claims to be God, yet hates religion? What do you do with a man who calls himself the Savior, yet condemns systems? What do you do with a man who knows the place and time of his death, yet goes there anyway?
Pilate’s question is yours. “What will I do with this man, Jesus?”
You have two choices.
You can reject him. That is an option. You can, as have many, decide that the idea of God’s becoming a carpenter is too bizarre—and walk away.
Or you can accept him. You can journey with him. You can listen for his voice amid the hundreds of voices and follow him.
Pilate could have. He heard many voices that day—he could have heard Christ’s. Had Pilate chosen to respond to this bruised Messiah, his story would have been different.
Listen to his question: “Are you the king of the Jews?” Had we been there that day we would know the tone of voice Pilate used. Mockery? (You . . . the king?) Curiosity? (Who are you?) Sincerity? (Are you really who you say you are?)
We wonder about his motive. So did Jesus.
“Is that your own question, or did others tell you about me?”2
Jesus wants to know why Pilate wants to know. What if Pilate had simply said, “I’m asking for myself. I want to know. I really want to know. Are you the king you claim to be?”
If he had asked, Jesus would have told him. If he had asked, Jesus would have freed him. But Pilate didn’t want to know. He just turned on his heel and retorted, “I am not Jewish.” Pilate didn’t ask so Jesus didn’t tell.
Pilate vacillates. He is a puppy hearing two voices. He steps toward one, then stops, and steps toward the other. Four times he tries to free Jesus, and four times he is swayed otherwise. He tries to give the people Jesus ; but they want Barabbas. He sends Jesus to the whipping post; they want him sent to Golgotha. He states he finds nothing against this man; they accuse Pilate of violating the law. Pilate, afraid of who Jesus might be, tries one final time to release him; the Jews accuse him of betraying Caesar.
So many voices. The voice of compromise. The voice of expedience. The voice of politics. The voice of conscience.
And the soft, firm voice of Christ. “The only power you have over me is the power given to you by God.”3
Jesus’ voice is distinct. Unique. He doesn’t cajole or plead. He just states the case.
Pilate thought he could avoid making a choice. He washed his hands of Jesus. He climbed on the fence and sat down.
But in not making a choice, Pilate made a choice.
Rather than ask for God’s grace, he asked for a bowl. Rather than invite Jesus to stay, he sent him away. Rather than hear Christ’s voice, he heard the voice of the people.
Legend has it that Pilate’s wife became a believer. And legend has it that Pilate’s eternal home is a mountain lake where he daily surfaces, still plunging his hands into the water seeking forgiveness. Forever trying to wash away his guilt . . . not for the evil he did, but for the kindness he didn’t do.