Pilate addressed them once more, desiring to release Jesus, but they kept shouting, “Crucify, crucify him!” a third time he said to them, “why, what evil has he done? I have found in him no guilt deserving death. I will punish and release him.” But they were urgent, demanding with loud cries that he should be crucified. And their voices prevailed. Luke 23:20-23
Noise.
They could use it as an excuse later—Pilate, Herod, even some of those priests and elders who stirred up the crowd. Not all were equally invested in Messiah’s death—everything was happing so fast, they could say. All those charges and countercharges, and it was all so confusing, you know? Some said this and others said that, and some of it was blatant lies but nobody seemed to care. You’d need a flowchart to keep track of it all, and even that would have been difficult because of all the
noise.
Voices on every side, from every perspective. Rumors of violence, reports of slaughter, insane gloating and mock outrage and real fear:
“Who’ll help me blow up the White House?”
“The death toll in Syria has reached 250,000 . . .”
“F—you! And your f—ing Democrats too!”
“USA! USA! USA!”
“Is this America?”
“Love Trumps Hate!”
“Crucify him! Crucify, crucify, crucify!”
Noise. Maybe wiser heads would have prevailed in the Sanhedrin without the
noise. Maybe Pilate would have listened to his better angels were it not for the
noise. Perhaps a few in the crowd would have been moved to compassion, but
noise—staticy, rattly, stomping, pounding, amplified, magnified,
hysterical, chimerical, scouring, devouring,
whipping itself up until
our heads frothed and ached and rang and cried out in protest,
and we didn’t know—we just didn’t know
what
to
do.
If we would only look to the Silence in the center of it all.
s have done their work well—restless bands fill the courtyard, more coming all the time. He puts on a brave show: stands up tall, adjusts his toga and band of office, pitches his voice above the din.