Tag: Gospel of Luke

Posted on

David’s Son

But he said to them, “How can they say that the Christ is David’s son?”  Luke 20:41

These few days are laced with music.  Roving bands of singers and musicians are not uncommon during Passover week, but the mood this year is uncommonly light.  The city fizzes with anticipation, knowing something momentous is in the works.  He may wait until after the Passover feast to declare himself—or why not during?  Passover means deliverance, and behold, it is at hand; who could keep from singing?

The Lord declared to my Lord,

‘Sit at my right hand

Until I make your enemies your footstool.’*

A cobbled-up children’s choir, blown in like blossoms and led by someone’s older sister, sing in his presence:

Rule over your enemies, call up your people on the day of battle;

In holy splendor, from the womb of dawn,

Rise up in the dew of your youth—

For the Blessed One has sworn, and will never disavow,

‘You are a priest forever, in the line of Melchizedek,

The LORD stands at your right hand

Ready to crush kings, judge nations, pile up the dead.

Refresh yourself from sparkling springs

And lift up your head!*

Their order breaks down as the song ends.  Giggling and blushing, they stammer out, “Blessings on you, Son of David!” before running away in all directions.

Charming, think the followers.  Disturbing, think the scribes, who have sung the identical psalm any crownnumber of times with no more than a theoretical understanding.  But now it is looking at them—or is it?

“Tell me,” The Nazarene asks his audience: “why do they say Messiah is the son of David?”

His followers merely gaze at him dumbly, like sheep.

“Well,” one of the scribes begin (with some hesitation, suspecting a trap), “David was promised a successor who would reign forever, and . . .”

“How can David himself call him ‘my Lord,’ as you just heard in the Psalm, if Messiah is his son?”

The people keep on grinning, delighted with this rhetorical flourish, but the scribes know it isn’t a flourish.  He claims to be greater than David, their greatest king.  This can lead to no good.  Irksome as the Pharisees are, insufferable as the Sadducees, they all must align in a common cause.

The teacher is clever, they’ll give him that, and more than that—the teacher is profound and wise and infuriating and attractive and repulsive and . . . something entirely outside their experience.

Ultimately though, he’s a great trouble.  He is on a collision course with reality.  Real kings crush pretend kings every time and the collateral damage is horrendous: often counted, as every son of Israel has reason to know, in the multiples of crosses strung along the roads.  Better one casualty than dozens, or hundreds.  For the sake of many, one must die.

*Psalm 110, commonly understood as a Messianic prediction

___________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>

 

Posted on

Confrontations

One day, as Jesus was teaching the people in the temple and preaching the gospel, the chief priests and the scribes with the elders came up and said to him, “Tell us, by what authority you do these things, or who it is that gave you this authority.” Luke 20:1-2

He has established himself in the same courtyard—as if he owned the place! they keep thinking.  The crowds are thronging, the news is spreading, and alarm among the elites casts a pall over what was meant to be another orderly, peaceful Passover.  The chief priests, whose family lineage goes back to Aaron, the elders whose claim to authority even the Romans defer to, and finally the scribes and their Pharisee allies, who often clash with the priestly crowd, all meet to talk it over.

This disturbance, they all agree, has its roots in John the Baptist, who kept shouting about a new age until his ministry abruptly ended at the edge of a broadsword.  John’s death was a relief—one thing they could think that idiot Herod for—until the rumors of Jesus of Nazareth began circulating and swelling and all but shrieking at them.  Even at that, Jesus might have been manageable if he’d stayed in Galilee, but his appearance in Jerusalem is the worst kind of omen.

(Oh Jerusalem . . . if you only knew what makes for peace.)

Pharisees from those northern regions (those tiresome hicks, with their nattering about the Law and its proper observance) have brought troubling but useful reports about his weird claims and cheeky challenges to the old order.  Also rumors of signs and wonders, which can’t be confirmed even though they persist.  Now that he’s in the city he, doesn’t seem to be healing people (or pretending to), but his teaching is an even greater threat.  The way he talks, about my kingdom, my house, my Father—who does he think he is?

(How often would I have gathered you, as a hen gathers her chicks, but you would not . . . the more I called you, the more you ran away from me.)

There is no help for it.  For all kinds of reasons–political, social, religious–he must be destroyed.  And not in some back-alley garroting, but out in public.  First, though, it’s imperative to undermine his moral authority.  How much moral authority can a backwater preacher from Galilee have, anyway?

That afternoon, as the Nazarene is teaching in the courtyard, here they come: elders, priestly representatives, phariseescholarly scribes and Pharisees in their robes and tassels, marching across the tiles with the rocked-ribbed confidence of a Roman phalanx.  “Tell us,” say the eldest of the elders, whose name is Johannes, “by whose authority did you clear this place and take up this false teaching?”

The teacher doesn’t appear to be alarmed or taken aback.  He doesn’t even take time to consider the ramifications of the question.  “First, let me ask you something.  Remember John’s baptism, which people were pouring out of this city to receive?  Was it by the authority of heaven, or of a mere man?”

The elder opens his mouth to reply before recognizing the trap.  “One moment.”  With a jerk of his head, he draws the others aside.

“Where did that come from?” a Pharisee wonders.  “How strange—we were just talking about John!”

“Never mind where he got it,” Johannes snaps.  “He probably has his spies everywhere.  What is our answer?”

“The teaching was from men, of course,” one of the scribes whispers.  “John was a lunatic.”

“That’s not what the people think,” hisses Johannes.  “They still believe John was a holy man and a prophet.”

Eliphaz nods.  “Proclaim to the mob that John was mad and they’ll tear us to pieces.  No thanks.”

Maimonides, another elder, throws up his hands.  “Very well, then! Tell him it was from heaven.”

“And what will he say then?”  Johannes glares at each one of them in turn.  “That we should have listened to John!  Should have tossed dust on our heads and put on sackcloth and paraded down to the Jordan for that madman to baptize us.”  A seething pause follows, in which they realize they’ve been outmaneuvered. “We’ll get him next time.”  Turning back to the teacher, Johannes announces, “We can’t say for sure where John—that holy man of lamented memory—got his authority.”

“You can’t?” their adversary repeats.   “Then I needn’t tell you where my authority comes from.”  He nods in dismissal.  “Priests, elders, scribes—until we meet again.”

His disciples and all hearers are delighted to see the snobs put down.  But his closest friends hear a disturbing echo: priests, elders, scribes . . . they have not seen the last of these.

______________________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>

 

Posted on

Sunday Morning

When he drew near to Bethphage and Bethany, at the mount that is called Olivet, he sent two of his disciples, saying, “Go into the village in front of you, where on entering you will find a colt tied, on which no one has ever sat.  Untie it and bring it here . . .”  Luke 19:29-30

After leaving Jericho, they traveled on to Bethany and may have spent the Sabbath with Lazarus and his sisters.  The “great crowd” of followers–how many now? One or two hundred?–must have overwhelmed the little town, but everyone sensed that the movement was about to come into its own.   Jerusalem was next, and something great would take place there—something fixed, definite, and game-changing.

As the sun went down on another Sabbath, he called two of the twelve to him. Which two?  Shall we pick?  Let’s say it was Simon the Zealot and . . . Judas Iscariot.

They often don‘t get along because of political differences, Judas being a straightlaced, by-the-book sort, while Simon is always popping off about Roman occupiers and the Day of the Lord, meanwhile quoting blood-curdling passages from Nahum.  But both are eagerly anticipating the kingdom, and equally thrilled to receive this commission.

As the Master explains the plan to borrow a donkey and enter Jerusalem in style, the disciples nod, glancing at each other with mutual comprehension.  When they depart, the news spreads throughout the ranks of followers, just now waking up in pastures and barns: He means to ride into the city!  He has never ridden anywhere, on anything!  What could it mean, except that he’s about to claim his kingdom?  A prancing stallion might have made the point better, perhaps, but little villages don’t often offer that kind of conveyance.  No matter; if that’s what he intends to do, they’ll help him do it right.

Jerusalem

At daybreak they are on the road, the sun opening up behind them like a benevolent hand.  Spring breezes play with the new barley sprouting up in the fields and birdsong threads the excitable air.  As they approach the rise known as the Mount of Olives, here come Judas and Simon, leading a little donkey with a gentle, placid face.  “Master!” they shout.  “It happened just as you told us.  As we were untying the colt, its owner came out of the inn nearby and asked what we were doing and we said . . .”

He does not appear to be listening as he places a hand on the donkey’s head and gazes into its dark eyes.  A look of understanding passes between them.  Without any urging the beast moves closer.  Peter whips off his coat and spreads it across the animal’s spine; three of the others follow suit.  The donkey bends its hind legs and Jesus sits on its back, rising slightly over the heads of the surrounding men when the donkey straightens and staggers a little under the unaccustomed weight.

A gasp runs through the onlookers, and then a shout: “Hosanna!  He comes!  Blessed is he!”

Several of them run ahead to spread the news: “Clear the road!  Jesus of Nazareth is coming!”  The road is already thick with Passover traffic, but the travelers have heard of Jesus of Nazareth.  Who hasn’t? They stop and move to the side, craning their necks to see—including a delegation of Pharisees outfitted in prayer shawls and phylacteries.

Young date palms sway along the road.  One of the messengers shimmies up a trunk and cuts some branches, throwing them down to the women below.  Soon bystanders are stripping leaves from other trees and the air fills with a sweet, dusty scent.

As the donkey carrying Messiah crests the hill, this is what they see: a landscape of heaving palm branches and fluttering headscarves, a waiting throng clustered along the way to the Holy City with the road laid bare as a bone.  More people are running from the fields and pastures and the city itself, using their elbows to carve out places to stand and watch.  The disciples can’t help grinning like holy fools—This is their moment!

One man strips off his cloak—his best, tight-woven and dyed russet red—and lays it down before the blessed beast.  Soon the road is patched with them—coats and cloaks and bright sashes, pressed into the ground by careful hooves.  Random cries are beginning to coalesce in a single repeated shout:

“Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

It’s a customary shout for festive worshippers entering the temple or gathering palms for the Festival of Booths.  That feast, also known as Ingathering, normally comes in the fall, but they’re celebrating the Ingathering early this year, and why not?  The LORD always said he would gather his people and open the holy gates for them:

Lift up your heads, O gates!

And be lifted up, O ancient doors,

 That the King of Glory may come in!

The delegation of Pharisees sticks out like disapproving schoolmasters.  “Teacher!” one of them calls to the passing procession: “Tell your disciples to pipe down!  This is Passover, not Succoth.”

The disciples can’t help feeling smug as their teacher answers, calling back over his shoulder, “I might as well tell these stones to pipe down!”

And there before them, at long last, is the Holy City, where all their hopes and dreams will come true.

________________________________________________

 

Posted on

Emmaus

That very day, two of them were going to a village named Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and they were talking with each other about all these things that had happened.  Luke 24:13-14

 

What a walk that was, Cleopas—emmaus

A long way to haul a heavy heart

With bread for the journey and the bitter herbs

of recollection.  And it showed,

for that was his first remark: Why so sad?

Well, there’s some relief in telling what you know—

enlightening the ignorant, right?—and so

remember our surprise when he enlightened

us.

 

Such teaching!  Such pulsing, winged words

that beat upon our hearts and made them burn;

that joined the rough parts in smooth-sanded turn.

Miles unrolled like a scroll beneath our feet, until

our destination leapt out of the twilight.  Yet

we could not give him up.  Remember?

How he became our host; took bread and

broke:

 

And we saw it all–

 

Prophets, priests, kings; the law, the Lord;

the blood of all sacrifice, ceaselessly poured

into one body.              Taken, broken;

the satisfied sentence, once for all spoken.

We looked and we saw—then, swift as a dart

he vanished from sight and entered our hearts.

What a walk, Cleopas, and at its end,

with bread for the journey, we’d yet to begin.

 

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Nextemmaus>

Posted on

He Made His Grave among the Rich

Now there was a man named Joseph, of the Jewish town of Arimathea . . . (Luke 23:50)

While the screaming was going on, he couldn’t make his voice heard.

Maybe he didn’t speak loud enough. Maybe he barely spoke at all.  In the heat of the trial—or what the officials were pleased to call that travesty of justice—there were a few dissenting voices, such as that himself and Nicodemus and perhaps one or two others.  They may have tried to turn the tide quietly, speaking to one man and then another, but the odds were clearly against them.  The hour carried the day, and swept a righteous man to his death.

Now it is quiet.  Events have passed by the governor’s palace, which is now returned to a place of routine business.  Joseph, as a man of wealth and influence, has Pilate’s ear, and now that it is quiet his reasonable voice can be heard: Give me the body.

A reasonable voice; an odd request.  But then, this whole business is odd.  Pilate handed the man over for execution just that morning—is he already dead?  The normal procedure would be to throw the remains in a pit near Gehenna with the other two, once death had wrapped its slow crushing grip around all of them.  Then the whole distasteful business would be over and done with.  But if Joseph wants to offer the hospitality of his own brand-new tomb, let him.  Pilate’s permission, once he’s determined the man is dead, is quick and curt.  An odd request, but it seems right.  A fitting end, perhaps.  Though the governor formally absolved himself for the death of an innocent man, it still troubles him.  And though he now goes about his business with a studied show of normality, it always will.

And they made his grave with the wicked

and with a rich man in his death,

although he had done no violence,

and there was no deceit in his mouth.  (Isaiah 53:9)

When Joseph first thought of offering his tomb, did he recall the prophecy?  Probably not; there was so much to do and so little time before sundown.  Supplies must be gathered, servants called to wash the body, strong men recruited to take it off the cross.  (How did they do that?  Prying the nails out would crush the hands and feet.  Perhaps they could just pull the body free, but not without more tearing of tissues—or perhaps, after hanging so long, the holes could have stretched out enough that hands and feet could simply be lifted off the nails once the cross was horizontal.)

joseph-of-a

With all these dreadful practicalities, it’s doubtful anyone was aware of fulfilling any prophesies, even though that particular prophesy is a very strange one: numbered among the transgressors, buried among the rich.  Priests and scribes had probably debated the meaning of that passage through the centuries—set out parameters, debated the particular, and divided into schools of thought.  But when the day finally comes, everyone is too rushed to think or too distracted to connect or too numb with grief to do more than set one foot in front of the other, like the women following the servants of Joseph’s household as they carry the body to the tomb.  Mary of Magdala, Joanna, and Salome assume it will be their last journey with him.  They watch, the observe, they return to the city to purchase spices before the sun goes down. Exhaustion falls on them like the close of day, and they enter a forced and fitful Sabbath rest.

_____________________________________________

For the Original post in this series, go here

<Previous

Next>

 

Posted on

Among the Scoffers

And Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know now what they do.” . . . And the people stood by, watching, but the rulers scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself, if he is the Christ of God, his Chosen One!”  Luke 23:34-35

Rulers: If you are the Chosen One . . .

Save yourself!

Soldiers: If you are the King of the Jews

Save yourself!

Criminals: If you are Messiah

Save yourself! and us!

Messiahs breath catches, snags on the nails, streams out in shreds.  No . . .

Not me and you

not both and all

no and–but or.

It’s one or the other.

Save myself or you?

I choose you.  I choose . . .

from the other side, a whisper choked and raw,

barely raised above the mutters and jeers:

“Lord? . . . that kingdom you talked about?

When it’s finally yours–remember me?”

Bloody fingers slowly uncurl and stretch; the right hand of one to the left of the other.

When it is mine, it will also be yours.

___________________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>

 

 

 

Posted on

Criminals All

Two others, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him.  Luke 23:32

“Up! It’s your time!”

Their names are unknown to us: One and Two.  Left and Right.  As we meet them, they’ve known for some time that the day was coming but they weren’t sure when—like all of us.

They’ve lived their lives in a haze, yelling from the very first hour: give me food!  Give me warmth!  Give me shelter, give me love!  Give me that shiny thing, and this tasty thing, and that thrilling thing, and this intoxicating thing that will make me lose consciousness for a while so I’ll forget how unsatisfied I am (like all of us).

Unwilling to make do with that they had, they became thieves; interlopers, snatching bright moments from the dull days, decking their lives with desperate finery.  They bargained with the time but time always wins; sooner came before later, and they were caught.

Like all of us.

“Up!  It’s your time!”

Pulled from a filthy cell, loaded down with heavy cross-pieces, they are herded like cattle to the Walk of the Damned.  Terror blinds them; only gradually do they perceive the splatters of blood on the path before them.  And then the crowds: Dear people, is all this acclaim for us?  No, couldn’t be: there’s another poor wretch ahead of them, who’s doing all the bleeding and attracting all the noise.  And what noise!  Wails of sorrow, mocking jeers, furious catcalls packed into a multi-legged clamor, punctuated by stings of a whip applied to make them move faster.

Is there no escape?  No way out?  They’re moving down a hollow tube with iron walls and no joints—no vulnerable places that can be exploited.  Life—once full of possibilities and angles and gaps, pleasure and pain, light and dark—now hardens, funneling them down to a single point they cannot see beyond.

As for all of us.thief

Down the road, through the gate, up a long, tortuous hill, the splintery crosspiece bearing down with every step. Still, they’d gladly keep walking forever—or even more gladly pull someone from the screeching throng to take their place  That scribe over there, his face so buckled you would have thought he was passing bricks, screaming his rage.  That smug-looking Pharisee or his grim-faced pal.  Any one of the contemptible Romans: illiterate peasants most of them, of no higher birth than a Jewish thief, who nonetheless lord over them every chance they got.  Even that wailing woman there, or the wide-eyed boy—pull one of those out of the mob, put this hunk of lumber on their back, and I’ll not protest.

Might feel guilty tomorrow of course, but there will always be another skin of wine and another willing woman to help me forget.

“Halt!”

Not today, though.

Rough hands throw the crosspiece on the ground, drag the two men aside and strip off their clothes.  A guard sizes up those pathetic garments with a calculating eye, deciding if he wants to gamble for them.  Though they know they’ll soon be beyond it, shame stabs each of the condemned as they stand exposed before the crowd.  They’ve been observers at scenes like this, and well know the kind of jokes and jibes passing among the ranks right now.

The crosses are being nailed together.  The two thieves, pathetically trying to cover their private parts with unbound hands, become aware of the third condemned man.  He too is naked except for a grotesque garnish—a circle of spiky thorns pressed down on his head.  The soldiers are calling him King of the Jews.  The thorns are supposed to be a crown—their idea of satirical wit.  The two thieves realize, at about the same time, who this is: Jesus of Nazareth.  They’ve heard of him—who hasn’t?  And what Jew, however impious, didn’t harbor some hope, however sketchy, that this was the one: Messiah.

The screaming mob now surrounding Skull Hill must have had the same hope—what else could explain their rage?  In the last moment before the hammer falls, when they are seized and stretched out, when extra hands are called to hold down their twitching bodies, they feel it too: absolute rage, consuming fury.  Like a child of wrath, foolish, disobedient, malicious, envious, full of hatred for themselves, for others, for God,

Like all of us—

Screams rip the bland blue sky.

_________________________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>

Posted on

Daughters of Jerusalem

And as they led him away, they seized one Simon of Cyrene, wo was coming in from the country, and laid on him the cross, to carry it behind Jesus.  And there followed him a great multitude of the people and of women who were mourning and lamenting for him.  Luke 23:26-27

He’s on the road again, still followed by “a multitude,” but this time with a cross on his back, staggering under the weight and bleeding from a thousand cuts.  Like a crushed dog crawling along the path, like a mangle bird, like a worm—something you turn away from and try to erase from your mind.  Even if there were no crowd, the women track him easily by the blood splashed along the way.  So much blood!  And when they reach him, he has collapsed under the weight of the heavy crosspiece.

carrying cross

There is shouting—jeering, weeping—the Roman soldiers in charge of the execution have called out an unsuspecting countryman to carry it behind the condemned man.  It’s not kindness; they just want to be over and done with it.  It’s some distance to go before Skull Hill, where executions take place, and  there needs to be enough left of the prisoner to nail up when they get there.  The clueless countryman, whose name is Simon, looks terrified.  He was on his way to the temple before the crowd swept over him—why did these alien soldiers single him out?  He barely understands their pidgin Aramaic—for all he knows, he may be headed for his own execution.

Everything the Master said about being turned over to his enemies and killed is echoing in the women’s minds. They women heard it all, along with the disciples, but they never pictures this.  Words are so clean and sterile; this is battered and bloody and helpless. The women from Galilee try to shield him from his mother, but then he stops and turns around.  In spite of the angry shouts of the soldiers, no one strikes him, and Mary (the one who poured oil on his feet) receives the distinct impression that he himself is orchestrating the entire scene.  How strange!  How terrible.

His eyes are the only part of him not bloodied.  Time stops as his eyes linger on the women, his long-time traveling companions.  Then he glances toward another cluster of women who have been following with loud laments.  These are well-born ladies of the holy city who follow political prisoners to their deaths, bringing jars of vinegar and gall to dull the pain.  With a look, he silences their wailing.

“Don’t weep for me, daughters of Jerusalem.  Weep for yourselves and your children.  The day is coming when you’ll beg the mountains to kill you quickly.  If judgment falls like this on the innocent, how will it deal with the guilty?”

The old order—eye for eye, tooth for tooth, blood for guilt—simple justice of the sort that everyone understands, is wildly out of whack.  This man has done nothing wrong: Pilate said it, Herod confirmed it, everyone knows it.  But what they may not know:

This man has done everything right.

Who can say that about anyone?  The wretched stooped-over figure stands condemned, turning blind justice on her head and rendering her carefully-weighted balance scales useless.  If such punishment falls on him, what petty thief, careless gossip, casual liar can have a prayer . . . .

“Move on!” shouts the nearest guard, more confused than angry.  The bloody face sets forward again, the bloody feet stumble on, leaving bright mottled prints on the stones that would have cried out in anguish* had he allowed it.

Luke 19:40

_______________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>

Posted on

Worst-Case Scenario

Pilate then called together the chief priests and the rulers and the people, and said to them, “You brought me this man as one who misleading the people.  And after examining him before you, I didn’t find this man guilty of any of your charges against him . . . “  Luke 23:13-14

With a snap of his fingers, he stages the scene: soldiers hustle the purple-clad “king” out to the portico where Pilate returns to his judge’s chair and faces down the priestly delegation.  They form a rough triangle on the pavement: judge, accuser, accused.  Beyond them, separated by a leather curtain, is the open courtyard.

“You charge this man with insurrection,” Pilate says, “but after examining him I deem the charge to be baseless.  Antipas agrees: this man has done nothing to deserve death.  Therefore it is my judgment that he be flogged for the trouble he has caused you and then released.  For–”

The noise stops him.  On the other side of the curtain a crowd is gathering and voices are beginning to come together.

With a sinking heart, Pilate realizes he’s been outmaneuvered.  The Jews have been busy while he was distracted, sweeping up the dregs of the city—peasants and ne’er-do-wells—and seeding them with shills.  In the general clash of voices a broken rhythm begins: a chant here and there, a confused tumble of words, rolling from one end of the courtyard to another.  From experience, he knows the words will come together like the pieces of a mythical monster—

The crowd is becoming a mob.

The power of Rome has his back in everything, except this.  His job is to keep the peace at almost any price.  Mobs lead to protest and protest to bloodshed, and bloodshed to full-scale rebellion.  He has scarcely recovered from the unfortunate incident with the slaughtered Galileans,* and now this.  The random chants that reach his ears are beginning to take shape:

“Away with him!  Away with him!”

The faces of the priests and Pharisees are bland as cream.

“You know,” says Pilate, grasping at straws, “that at every feast I can release any prisoner I choose.  I choose to release this man.”

But they have anticipated this too.  Even now, voices are crying out, “Give us Barabbas!  Give us Barabbas!”

“Barabbas?” he demands of the Jews.  You’d rather set a rebel and murderer loose among you than this man, who has done no harm?”

They only shrug: who are we to resist the people’s will?

Heaving a giant sigh, Pilate stands up and marches past the curtains.  The Jewcruficy!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.

“I find no fault in this man!  Therefore, he will be flogged and then–”

Another chant is beginning, an undercurrent snaking through the voices, roping them in, tying them together:

Crucify!

 

*Luke 13:1

________________________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>

Posted on

Kings of Earth

Then the whole company of them arose and brought him before Pilate.  And they began to accuse him, saying, “We found this man misleading our nation and forbidding us to give tribute to Caesar, and saying that he himself is Messiah, a king.”  Luke 23:1-2

Not even a conscientious procurator should have to rise this early.  Pilate barely has his eyes open all the way before his body servant brings word that the entire Sanhedrin (or so it seems) is standing on his porch.  And here he’s been congratulating himself on getting through Passover without an incident.  “What do they want?”

The servant isn’t sure.  They have a prisoner . . .

Pilate groans.  He takes his time getting dressed, makes them wait.  They are in the outer courtyard, his servant says.  He knows what that means—on certain holy days, they consider it defilement to cross the threshold of a Gentile.  They must keep themselves lily-white. These Jews are the most arrogant people he’s ever encountered—with, to his mind, the least to be arrogant about.  When he finally emerges from the shadows of his house, they all begin talking at once.  He calls for a chair and raises a hand to quiet them.

“Where is the prisoner?”

The priests and scribes part down the middle.  Pilate blinks in surprise.  He was expecting a hulky, surly zealot like Barabbas, the notorious troublemaker awaiting execution.  This man doesn’t look capable of overturning a sheepfold: shrunken, beat up, clad in a torn filthy garment—and utterly silent.

Jesus of Nazareth, is it?  Pilate has instructed his men to keep an eye on him ever since that showy entrance into the city earlier in the week.  But the man roused no rabble or called no one to arms; he only seemed interested in hanging around the temple and irritating the priests—a project the Governor heartily approves.

But regardless of sentiments he has a job to do.  He forces himself to listen to the accusations: subverting the nation  (pretty vague, that one) . . . opposing the payment of taxes (serious, if true) . . . claiming to be Messiah—

“Messiah?” he asks.  Has heard the term, a little unclear on what it means.

“A king, your Excellency.”

That’s a stretch.  Messiah has a more spiritual meaning, if he remembers correctly.  “So,” he addresses the prisoner, “are you the ‘King of the Jews’?”

The term is a joke, whether the plaintiffs know it or not.  The late unlamented Herod the Great called himself King of the Jews, but after he was dead Caesar determined that none of his surviving sons (survivors, more like) would take that title.  But Pilate’s grim half-smile melts when the wretched prisoner raises his head.  There is an unnerving stillness about him, rock-solid and ages deep, that pulls the Governor a little off balance.

“You have said it,” he whispers.

It’s almost—almost—as though the prisoner shares the joke.  But Pilate senses no irony about him.  Because on another level . . . he affirms it.  As though he really were a king of some sort.

“He speaks with authority,” they said of him. 

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?” 

“Who is this, that the wind and sea obey him?”

Irritably Pilate shakes his head.  This is ridiculous; anyone can see the man is harmless.  Perhaps even “holy”—that austere word the Jews apply to their god.  “I see no grounds for condemning this man,” he says, standing to reinforce that judgment.

But they won’t be dismissed so easily.  “Your Excellency, he’s far more dangerous than he looks!  He stirs up the people everywhere he goes, starting from his home in Galilee.”

“Galilee?”  The word opens a door of escape; Galilee, that region of firebrands and zealots, is not his jurisdiction.  “The man is Herod’s subject, and you’re in luck: Herod is in the city this moment.  Take the man there.  I’ve give you a detachment of guards.  Now go—Go!”

pilate

An hour or so later, while finishing his breakfast, Pilate hears the sound he has dreaded ever since his posting to Judea: the rumble of a mob.

It has not been a peaceful morning; after the Jews reluctantly left the pavement, his wife declined to join him for breakfast.  She wasn’t feeling well, her note said, adding this: I got almost no sleep last night.  I kept dreaming of a bedraggled Galilean brought before you, and now I hear it’s true!  Have nothing to do with him, I beg you.

And now another note, brought by his secretary:

To Pontius Pilate, procurator of Judea, greeting:

I rejoiced to receive Jesus of Nazareth from your generous hand, for I’ve heard much about him.  The tales from Galilee are almost too rich to believe!  But it seems I must use the term “rich” to describe the Jews’ fear of him. He may have performed “signs” for them in Galilee but it appears his bag of tricks is empty.  He’s a harmless has-been, no threat to anyone.  I suggest you have him flogged—that may satisfy the Jews—and let him go.

Your servant, Herod Antipas.

So here is the Nazarene, back again, sporting more bruises and a purple robe.  That is an extravagant touch: Herod’s idea of a joke.  Pilate never liked the old fox, but must admit Herod has offered good advice, even while shrugging the responsibility back to Rome.  Flog and go:  it’s time to bring this sideshow to a quick and decisive end.

From that day on, Pilate and Herod are friends.  Funny thing: it’s the Nazarene who brought them together, like he brought the Pharisees and priests together.  Opponents unified in opposition–and so it will ever be.

_____________________________________________________

For the original post in this series, go here.

<Previous

Next>