Tag: passion of Christ

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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

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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.

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From His Own Mouth

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.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sanhedrin

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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Lord, Look at Me

And immediately, while he was still speaking, the rooster crowd.  And the Lord turned and looked at Peter.  And Peter remembered . . .  Luke 22:60b-61a

The deed is done, the words said—

Those words, crowding my mouth, clamoring to get out,

and where did they come from? What secret sniveling ghost of my heart chose that moment to break out,

Deck itself in phony outrage and deny, deny, deny?

Or could that be the real me, turned inside out, a pocketed pimp exposed in his quivering skin, who will sell out—

NO! When I said it, it was true: “I’ll go with you anywhere,

even to death.”  And you said—

And you turned—

And you looked—

Oh, that look, that spears me like a fish,

That pins me to me, and to you,

That burnishes the bond between us,

That lets me know you will never let go.

in qualm or quiet, in doubt and death, in courage and cravenness,

Oh Jesus, please look at me.

remorse

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The Devil’s Sifter

Then they seized him and led him away, bringing him into the high priest’s house.  Peter was following at a distance.  And when they had kindled a fire in the middle of the courtyard and sat down together, Peter sat down among them.  Luke 22:54-55

Within the hour, Simon “the Rock” feels like a handful of sand.

Of course he had the best intentions—he followed the flaming torches and flashing swords out of the garden, through the twisty city streets, past the temple complex and all the way to the High Priest’s house. John caught up with him* but didn’t speak; no words can push past their thudding hearts.  Their breath came hard and fast as they rushed uphill toward the Palace of Herod Antipas.  The high priest’s house nestles beside it like a chick under a hen’s wing.

It’s much more than a house—it’s also a council chamber and judgment hall, where the Sanhedrin meets and theological disputes are hammered out or hammered on.  As the guards hustle their master through the portal, Peter and John step up their pace before the iron-ribbed gate swings shut.

“Wait,” murmurs John.  He hurries forward and speaks to the gatekeeper–who, after glancing Peter’s way, shrugs and holds open the gate for both of them.  Once in, John disappears, leaving Peter in the courtyard.  John has connections in Jerusalem, even within the priestly class—his mother’s relations.  That’s one reason the sons of Zebedee sometimes give themselves airs and drop  names and make asses of themselves—though they are decent fellows most of the time.

Peter tries to look like he belongs.  The night has turned chilly and some of the household servants and hangers-on have gathered around a fire.  Pulling his cloak around him, he wanders over and joins the circle, ears open for useful information.

Any hopes that his master has been seized by mistake, or that he is some sort of diversion, are soon dashed.  Messiah is the main event; all the servants are talking about him.  And the gist, Peter soon realizes with alarm, is not favorable.

“After that grand entrance, all he’s done is talk.  When will he act?”

“My mother tried to get close to him, to heal her bad hip.  But she was turned away.”

“The signs are dried up, they say.  I’ll bet they were just tricks all along.”

This is ominous.  These are ordinary people, the kind of who flock to Jesus, love him, know he is on their side.  If the ordinary people start to turn against him . . .

“You there.”  Peter looks up to meet the narrowed eyes of a servant girl.  “Didn’t I see you with him in the temple court?”

It strikes like a javelin, cleanly thrown: raw fear.  It invades and occupies him; takes over his voice, hands, heart.  “Me?  I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Every face turns to him: young old, thin, round, all hollow-eyed in the firelight; judging, accusing.  He glares back, hitching his cloak tighter as though it could protect him.  Best to bluff it out, bide his time, wait for an opportunity—to do what, he doesn’t know.

The servant girl is called away and a butler arrives, brisk and officious, rubbing his hand to warm them.  What news? they ask him.

“It doesn’t look good for the Galilean.  He won’t even answer to his own defense.  They keep threatening to take him before Pilate, but he doesn’t even opens his mouth.  Sanhedrin’s next.”

“What’s–”  Peter clears his throat.  “What’s the charge?”

“Good question.”  The butler glances his way, gives him a second look.  “Wait—haven’t I seen you before?  Aren’t you one of the man’s followers?”

It happens again: something takes hold of him.  “No!  I just got here.  Don’t know him.”

The butler doesn’t look convinced, but has more important things to attend to.  After a moment he goes back inside, promising to keep them informed.  Peter shrinks back but holds his place by the fire.  Most of the circle ignore him, but one, a lowly stable hand by the look of him—a nobody–keeps staring.  Peter tries to stare back but the youth won’t relent.  Minutes pass, people come and go.  Through the open doors of the house he hears voices raised, tempers rising.  Something is about to happen.

The stable hand bursts out, “I know you were with him!  I saw you—and besides, you talk like a Galilean.”

He jumps to his feet, the very picture of indignant outrage.  “Curse you, boy!  By all that’s holy, how many times do I have to say it—I don’t know this person you’re talking about!”

He stalks toward the gate.  Already the darkness has begun to lift, giving way to a pearl-pink glow of dawn.  A small crowd is crossing the courtyard from the other side—guards with spears, and among them—

rooster

A jaunty, familiar sound pierces him through: a rooster’s crow.

A face in the passing crowd turns toward him.  The Master eyes bore into his, uncovering the wretch that has always lived there, who once said to him, “Lord, depart from me!  I’m a sinful man!”

Lord, never depart from me! For I’m a sinful man . . .

 

*John includes this detail in his own gospel account.

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