When day came, the assembly of the elders of the people gathered together, both chief priests and scribes. And they led him away to their council, and they said, “If you are the Christ, tell us.” Luke 22:66-67a
It has been a long night. Everyone is exhausted.
Later, that will be their excuse, if they feel bad enough to make an excuse. It was a long stretch there, between the preliminary hearing before the high priest and the gathering of the Sanhedrin; all night long official personages were coming and going, sending out messengers, murmuring together in urgent counsel. As usual, the guards and grunts were completely in the dark. They just had their orders: seize him, hold him, bring him. It was all done in darkness, stabbed with torchlight that sliced the narrative in pieces: a mission—a kiss—shouts, and the flash of a sword—someone’s ear cut off (they say)—someone’s ear replaced (couldn’t be)—more shouts—more swords—mission accomplished.
At the center of it all, the man they call Messiah. He came quietly. No resistance. But at the same time, there’s something very unquiet and resistant about him. Like a lion in a lambskin. The guards– listening with stony faces to the questions jabbed at him by the high priest in theological language that flies over their heads–could well believe their charge was dangerous, even though he never opened his mouth.
So, when they are finally allowed to stand down, they have a little fun with the prisoner. Blind-man’s bluff, with sticks. It gets rough . . . after all, if it hadn’t been for this man they would be enjoying a good night’s rest. So, they say he’s a prophet? Smack! Who was that who hit you, prophet? Whack him on the back of the knees and see if he keeps his balance. Trip him up, jerk him back, dance him like a puppet. Not so powerful now, is he? Why were we afraid? And why—if we’re honest—do we fear now? Fear drives the rod as much as scorn. More so? More so.
* * * * * * * * * * *
A bedraggled Jesus-of-Nazareth now stands before the Sanhedrin; his robe askew, his tunic ripped, bruises on his legs and a welt rising on his cheek. The council pretends not to notice because they are riveted on the serious business at hand. A small delegation of elites has been up all night. They’ve called witnesses (and secretly paid them), but when the witnesses start contradicting each other they are dismissed. The accusers haul up old charges to hurl at him: didn’t you desecrate the Sabbath? Didn’t you incite the destruction of the temple? Didn’t you claim you could build it again in a mere three days?
Too all this, he answers nothing. His silence throws them; they are expecting clever repartee of the kind he’s displayed all week. They have prepared themselves for it. But, snaky as ever, he confounds them once again. The chief priest dismisses all the nattering witnesses. After a brief conference with the highest-ranking member of the Sanhedrin, they decide to go for the simple and direct.
“Are you Messiah?” Caiaphas asks. “Tell us.”
As they watch, the bruised head lifts, the cracked lips open. “If I tell you, you will not believe. If I ask, you will not answer. But I am headed for my rightful place at the right hand of the Power.”
They lean forward with a collective gasp. Has he, after all this fuss and bother, just condemned himself? Their voices trip over each other, asking the same question: “Are you the ‘son of God,’ then?”
His answer comes so softly only those who are closest to him hear it. The high priest bolts upright, his face a mask of horror as he takes his robe in both hands and dramatically tears it along the seam. “Blasphemy! He claims to be God! His own mouth condemns him!”
Ironic: the only charge that sticks is the one that happens to be true.
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