Drugged with sleep, Pontius didn’t stir at his servant’s words: “Sir, Caiaphas and his priests are here to see you.”
“I don’t care,” he snarled from the corner of his mouth. “Tell them to come back later.”
“No, it can’t wait, sir. They have a prisoner they want crucified and buried before sundown.”
Pilate replied sarcastically, “Not that I care, but whom do they want killed this time?”
“The Nazarene preacher Jesus, sir.”
The name raised Pilate’s head. “That’s interesting. He’s been in the city all week. And they want him dead today? What time is it, anyway?”
“The first hour of the third watch. They’re waiting for you, sir.”
“Oh, alright,” Pilate snapped, “bring me the basin.”
After lifting both hands full of cold water to his face, he filled his mouth with more and spat it into the bowl. He stood to be disrobed, after which the servant clothed him in a cotton tunic and woolen toga.
“They’re in the courtyard, sir.”
“Of course, they wouldn’t want to defile themselves by coming inside, would they?”
“Of course, they wouldn’t want to defile themselves by coming inside, would they?”
He walked glacially, mentally flogging his subjects: Cursed Jews! I have an infallible faculty for antagonizing them.
He demanded a cake of dates and, as the servant hurried away, Pilate sat in an armless chair, stretched, put hands behind his head, and consoled himself. Too bad I can’t stay in Caesarea year-round among admitted sinners, unlike these religious hypocrites who detest everyone—Romans most of all.
He pulled a piece of the fruit, popped it in his mouth and relished the sweetness. As the servant stood by, he masticated the stormy relationship between Romans and Jews.
“It’s ironic. We’re the conquerors, but they remain unbeaten. My legionnaires are hostages in a city that’s never pacified, but never more volatile than this time of year when annual rebels crawl from their lairs—like that Barabbas I arrested a few days ago for killing a trooper. Caesar would ban this holiday but for the greater violence to result in these instinctively violent people.”
“It’s ironic. We’re the conquerors, but they remain unbeaten.”
While chomping the fruit, he verbally recited the Senate’s tolerance in appointing Herod ruler of Palestine after his father Antipater died. And then Herod’s four sons as rulers at his death. And there was the Senate’s accommodation in recognizing the legality of their religion, exempting them from military service, even exchanging imperial currency into Jewish shekels so no image would appear in their temple.
“And in return we get only complaints and quarrels.”
Reinforced in resolve to resist the priests, he walked into the courtyard. Before him a gaggle of them surrounded the man Pilate supposed to be Jesus of Nazareth. Unaware of his presence, they were spitting in his face and pounding him with fists.
Pilate’s sudden presence brought an end to it and, in embarrassed silence, they came to attention.
Pontius took his seat and nodded at a soldier who announced, “The governor will hear your petition. The priests came forward, led by Caiaphas.
Insufferable bore, Pilate thought to himself, as Caiphas bowed quickly and addressed the court.
“Sir,” throwing an arm out toward Jesus, “our Sanhedrin has found this man guilty of capital crimes and we ask your judgment against him.”
“What are the charges?”
“Sir, we thank Caesar for letting us resolve conflicts within our religious community; and we consider this man so dangerous that he must be permanently silenced.”
“Insufferable bore, Pilate thought to himself, as Caiphas bowed quickly and addressed the court.”
“What are the charges?”
Instead of replying, Caiaphas blackened the accused: “If he were not a criminal, sir, we wouldn’t have handed him over to you.”
“Since it’s a matter of internal affairs, judge him by your own law.”
“No…no,” Caiaphas replied apologetically, “it’s not lawful for us to put any man to death. You know we’re honorable men”—Pilate snorted, but Caiaphas ignored it—“and our investigation assures his guilt. We need only your validation of our verdict.”
A stalemate: their insistence against Pilate’s resistance; Jewish lynch law against Roman justice. But Caiaphas’s mastery of his bureaucracy knew when to concede.
“You’re right, sir, specific charges are necessary. Just five days ago he rode into the city surrounded by thousands of Galileans calling him ‘Son of David’ and ‘the King who comes in the name of the Lord.’”
Pilate said only, “I’ll speak to the man in private.”
No need to pursue this, he lectured himself on his way. It’s a case of envy in the priests. But I can’t let word get to Rome that I failed to interrogate a possible Messiah.
“I can’t let word get to Rome that I failed to interrogate a possible Messiah.”
In chambers, he sat in his chair and looked at the prisoner. In the uncertain light, the Galilean looked strong and healthy.
“Come closer,” Pilate commanded.
He saw a badly-abused face, spittle still in the beard, bruise marks around his eyes and, he suspected, over his body, but thought he saw something else: “You’re a king of the Jews?”
“Do you want to know as a judge or as a man?”
Not only strong in body, Pilate thought, but replied, “Strictly as a judge.”
Ignoring the response, Jesus quietly and forcefully declared his willingness to be arrested, and as certainly affirmed kingship.
“Oh, you are a king, then?”
“Yes, Governor, but not as you understand the word. I came to tell everyone God’s truth.”
With those uncomfortable words, Pilate ended the interview with a taunt.
Outside he went, Jesus following. “This man’s innocent,” the governor shouted, thrusting his right arm, to hear the priest-led crowd hurl abuse like chips from an ax.
Yet, when the governor turned, he saw the rabbi’s indifference. He stepped close: “Don’t you have any defense against their charges?”
Majestic silence!
“Oh, you are a king, then?”
However, knowing that Jesus was a Galilean meant that Herod could assume jurisdiction. And, as the fates allowed, he was in town. Off to the tetrarch Jesus went, under guard. A relieved Pilate returned to his apartment, but Herod eluded the snare and sent Jesus back.
The crier called the first hour of the fourth watch as Jesus again took his place at the procurator’s side. Pilate stuck a ringed finger at the defendant, glared at the crowd, and declared, “I’ve examined this man who’s supposedly dangerous to your religion and to Rome. He’s innocent of all charges; so say I and so says Herod.”
Sentiment growing measurably more neutral in the ever-increasing throng gave Pilate a possible exit. Sensing the opportunity, he announced he would punish Jesus, then let him go.
Then he immediately realized his mistake by seeing the priests gloating. They remembered previous times when he had forced Roman rule on Jewish religion and they had protested and rioted until he eventually complied. At this first sign of accommodation, the leaders caught the scent of a chicken in eagle’s feathers.
Their response gave Pilate another plan. Since many more common people than priests had arrived, why not offer the annual Passover gift of a forgiven prisoner—but make the choice between Jesus and someone so despised they could only make one choice.
“At this first sign of accommodation, the leaders caught the scent of a chicken in eagle’s feathers.”
He whispered to a soldier, who dashed off, while he sat in his chair, leaving the priests worried that he had out-thought them.
Very shortly the guard returned with a surly desperado in chains. Past the startled assembly he clanked till abreast of Pilate. He turned Barabbas around, pulled Jesus alongside, and placed an arm on each man’s shoulder. With a grim smile curling the corners of his mouth, Pilate inquired, “Which of these two do you want me to free?”
The blatant difference in the men made the decision easy. The common people in the courtyard above and below, and all in sight of the action, began a change. Despite frantic appeals by the leaders calling, “Barabbas, Barabbas,” greater numbers clamored, “Jesus, Jesus!”
Congratulating himself that a hunter knows how to kill the prey he’s trailed, Pilate turned to set Jesus free as his wife’s maiden breathlessly approached and asked to see him. Impossible, he fumed to himself. Can’t talk to her right now. I have momentum on my side. Yet…since he had so often consulted and profitably listened to his wife, he had no choice. Reluctantly calling a recess, he put a soldier over his charge and left with an appeal for Jesus Christ’s release ringing in his ears.
“Very shortly the guard returned with a surly desperado in chains.”
His wife’s news staggered him. “Leave that man Jesus alone, because I’ve had nightmares about him tonight!”
“Nightmares? My wife? About the rabbi? She doesn’t even know him!”
Unnerved by the information, but a believer in omens, he left determined to do his duty.
As he feared, an ominous stirring met him. The leaders had walked in the crowd, alternately appealing, badgering, bullying, and imploring, silencing their calls for Jesus and prompting a call for Barabbas.
His confidence wavering, Pilate put his left hand on a man he detested and his right on the man he had begun to admire.
“Whom shall I release, Barabbas or Jesus?”
And felt his world collapse as he heard shouted in brawling coercion, “Barabbas, Barabbas, Barabbas!”
Choking back a terror he couldn’t swallow, Pilate, in a gesture of frantic amiability, put both hands on Christ’s shoulders, looked pleadingly at the crowd and whined, “What about Jesus of Nazareth?”
Only to hear, “Let him be crucified!”
The priests stood in the crowd, arms folded, icy looks piercing his soul, knowing they had tripped the trap he had set for them.
“The priests stood in the crowd, arms folded, icy looks piercing his soul, knowing they had tripped the trap he had set for them.”
With the crowd’s hatred growing again like lava from Vesuvius, the governor paced the pavement, ransacking his brain for some way to compromise with the uncompromising rabble and release Jesus. Back to his earlier decision he returned.
“I won’t kill him,” he finally shouted, “but here’s what I’ll do; I’ll give him a beating for the trouble he’s caused your leaders.”
Having taken the measure of Pilate like a wild dog of a domestic pup, they accepted the compromise, knowing he could be pushed all the way if pushed incrementally. The punishment occurred in their presence: soldiers hardened to it, Pilate tolerating it, the priests enjoying it, the people shamefully silent. Through it all, the victim only moaned as bone and glass pieces ripped his flesh and drew his precious blood.
The governor had never seen a man so calm under such punishment. “By Jove,” he blurted, “what a man!” Thinking to excite pity in the crowds at the sight of one so brutally and unjustly beaten, he pushed Jesus out to them, then shouting, “This is a Man, I tell you, a real man, the best I’ve ever met! I’ve beaten him. I declare him innocent, and now will let him go.”
“No, you won’t!” Caiaphas shrieked. “You won’t let him go because we want him crucified today!”
“Why?” the governor pleaded, “what evil has he done?”
“He’s been evil to us,” Caiaphas screeched, “and we want him killed!”
“I refuse to kill him!” the governor screamed back. “I won’t! You want him dead; you kill him!”
“We can’t do that!” Caiaphas screamed louder. “We can’t kill him, though he deserves to die because he claims to be the Son of God!”
“We can’t kill him, though he deserves to die because he claims to be the Son of God!”
“The Son of God?” Pilate gasped. Was that it all along? This man claimed to be a son of the gods? They didn’t raise the issue at first because they knew I would have no interest! They’ve trapped me into dealing with a religious issue where I have no ability, authority or interest. Those damned priests!
He couldn’t ignore the charge, however. Even Roman religion allowed the gods to assume human form. And Jesus acted differently from any person he’d ever known.
He took the bloodied rabbi by the arm, and gently led him inside, leaving the priests in charge of the predatory crowd.
Pilate quietly asked, “Jesus, where did you come from?”
No reply.
“I ask you, sir, where did you come from?”
SILENCE!
Stung by Christ’s refusal, yet terrified by his majesty, he lashed out: “Keep silence, will you? Give me something I can use in your defense, to convince the people to demand your freedom. Don’t you know I can have you either released or killed?”
Quietly…Jesus spoke as a teacher to his student. “Governor, you have only the power God has allowed. While you’re guilty if you don’t release me, the Jews are far guiltier for having arrested me.”
“Governor, you have only the power God has allowed.”
That was all. The shocking declaration of God’s sovereignty and human responsibility his only reply.
Out to the crowd Pilate went. “I have no choice!” he shouted in a voice crackling with tension. “I must let this man go. He’s innocent of your charges, don’t you understand? I won’t kill just to satisfy your prejudice. It’s settled; he’s free, and these proceedings are over!”
Amazingly, that seemed to decide the issue. He had resisted the priests’ pressure.
But as the crier sounded the second hour of the fourth watch, Caiaphas played the card that trumped Pilate’s hand. “Governor,” he called stridently as Pilate turned to go. All pretense aside, all courtesy gone, black rage in his voice, he barked his challenge, each word emphatically. “If you let him go, you are not Caesar’s friend!”
“Not Caesar’s friend?” Pilate shot back, “I’m his only friend here. You’ve unjustly accused this man. Think what this means. If justice fails him, what’s to guarantee it won’t fail when you’re falsely accused?”
Even as he mocked their words, he knew the Sanhedrin had conquered him. If he let Jesus go, they would certainly surface charges in Rome with Tiberius, which could finish his career.
“If he let Jesus go, they would certainly surface charges in Rome with Tiberius, which could finish his career.”
In one last, desperate effort at self-respect, he turned, then asked hoarsely, pleadingly to the people, “But what about this man, Jesus of Nazareth, who wants to be your king? Shall I crucify your king?”
In reply, shaking this most political of men, the statement of religious men who once would rather shed their own blood rather than denounce God, now denied their hatred of Rome by a greater hatred of the Nazarene: “We have no king but Caesar!”
This last lie demoralized Pilate. He had nothing more to say. Waving his arm and shaking his head in disgust, he turned away and spoke quietly to a centurion, “Crucify him.” As soon as he washed his hands of Christ’s blood, as he had earlier washed sleep from his eyes, Pilate dismissed the assembly and retired to his apartment.
He hadn’t finished, however. Seething with resentment of the entire Jewish priesthood, he knew he must express his true estimate of Jesus. The sign preceding all condemned criminals gave him the means. “How shall I say it?” he ruminated aloud, crafting the words, “I want the Jews to squirm when they read it. I want them to know that this Roman hasn’t met a better man than Jesus of Nazareth. And one sentence can say it all.”
He called an aide and ordered, “Take it down word-for-word, scribe. Translate it into Aramaic, Latin and Greek so anyone coming to the cross can read it. This is what I want said: ‘JESUS OF NAZARETH, THE KING OF THE JEWS!’”
