Exigency
Pilate responded, “Then what should I do
with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” They shouted back, “Crucify him!” “Why?”
Pilate demanded. “What crime has he committed?” But the mob roared even louder,
“Crucify him!” Pilate saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere and that a riot was
developing. So he sent for a bowl of water and washed his hands before the
crowd, saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood. The responsibility is
yours!” And all the people yelled back, “We will take responsibility for his
death — we and our children!” So Pilate released Barabbas[1] to them. He ordered Jesus
flogged with a lead-tipped whip, then turned him over to the Roman soldiers to
be crucified. (Matt. 27:22-26)
The most famous
trial in history is about to begin. The judge is short and aristocratic, with
darting eyes and expensive clothes. But he’s apprehensive, nervous about being
thrust into an exigent circumstance that he cannot avoid. Two soldiers lead him
down the stone stairs of the fortress into the wide courtyard. Shafts of
morning sunlight stretch across the stone floor. As he enters, Syrian soldiers
dressed in short togas yank themselves, and their spears, bolt upright and stare
straight ahead. The floor on which they stand is a mosaic of broad, brown,
smooth rocks. On the floor are carved the games the soldiers play while
awaiting the sentencing of the prisoner. But in the presence of the procurator,
they’re not playing any games.
A regal chair is
placed on a landing five steps up from the floor. The magistrate ascends and
takes his seat. The accused is brought into the room and placed below him. A
covey of robed religious leaders follow, walk over to one side of the room, and
stand. Pilate looks at the lone figure. “Doesn’t look like a Christ,” he
mutters. Feet swollen and muddy. Hands tan. Knuckles lumpy. Looks more like a
laborer than a teacher. Looks even less like a trouble-maker. One eye is black
and swollen shut. The other looks at the floor. Lower lip split and scabbed. His
hair blood-matted to his forehead. Arms and thighs streaked with crimson. “Shall
we remove the garment?” a soldier asks. “No. that’s not necessary.” It’s
obvious what the beating has done.
“Are you the
king of the Jews?” For the first time, Jesus lifts his eyes. He doesn’t raise
his head, but he lifts his eyes. He peers at the procurator from beneath his
brow. Pilate is surprised at the tone in Jesus’ voice. “Those are your words.” Before
Pilate can respond, the knot of Jewish leaders mocks the accused from the side
of the courtroom. “See, he has no respect.” “He stirs up the people!” “He
claims to be king!” But Pilate doesn’t hear them. “Those are your words,” Pilate
privately reflects. No defense. No explanation. No panic. The Galilean is looking
at the floor again.
Pilate looks at
the Jewish leaders huddled in the corner across the court. Their insistence
angers him. The lashes aren’t enough. The mockery inadequate. “Jealous,” he
wants to say to their faces, but doesn’t. “Jealous buzzards, the whole
obstinate lot of you. Killing your own prophets,” he mumbles to himself. Pilate
wants to let Jesus go. Just give me a reason, he thinks, almost aloud. I’ll set
you free.
His thoughts are
interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. A messenger leans in and whispers.
Strange. Pilate’s wife has sent word to Pilate to not get involved in the case.
Something about a dream she had. Pilate walks back to his chair, then sits and
stares at Jesus. “Even the gods are on your side,” he mutters to no one in
particular. He’s sat in this chair before. It’s a cruel seat: cobalt blue with
thick, ornate legs. The traditional seat of judgment. By sitting on it Pilate
transforms any room or street into a courtroom. It’s from this place he renders
his decisions.
How many times
has he sat here? How many stories has he heard? How many pleas has he received?
How many wide eyes have stared at him, pleading for mercy, begging for
acquittal? But the eyes of this Nazarene are calm and silent. They don’t
scream. They don’t dart. Pilate searches them for anxiety . . . for anger. He
doesn’t find it. What he finds makes him shift again. “He’s not angry with me.
He’s not afraid . . . he seems to understand.”
Pilate’s right,
of course. Jesus isn’t afraid. He’s not angry. He’s not on the verge of panic
because he’s not surprised. Jesus knows his hour, and the hour has come. And Pilate’s
appropriately curious, too. If Jesus is a leader, where are his followers? If
he’s the Messiah, what does he intend to do? If he’s a teacher, why are the religious
leaders so angry at him? Pilate’s also correct to question, “What should I do
with Jesus, the one called Christ?“ These are exigent circumstances requiring
an immediate answer.
Perhaps you,
like Pilate, are curious about this man called Jesus. Maybe you, like Pilate,
are puzzled by his claims and stirred by his passions. You’ve heard all the
stories: God descending the stars, cocooning in flesh, placing a stake of truth
in the globe. And you, like Pilate, have heard all the others speak, and now
you want him to speak. What do you do with a man who claims to be God, but hates
religion? What do you do with a man who calls himself the Savior, but condemns entire
religious systems? What do you do with a man who knows the place and time of
his death, but goes there anyway? Pilate’s question is yours. “What will I do
with this man, Jesus?” It’s a question whose answer can’t be avoided. It’s an exigency.
You have two
choices. You can reject him. That’s an option. You can, as many have, decide
that the idea of God becoming a carpenter is just too bizarre — and simply walk
away. Or, you can accept him. You can journey with him. You can listen for his
voice amidst the hundreds of voices and follow him. Pilate could have. He heard
many voices that day — he could have heard Christ’s. Had Pilate chosen to
respond to his bruised Messiah, his story would have been different. But Pilate
vacillates. He’s a puppy hearing the voice of two masters.
He steps toward
one voice, then stops, and steps toward the other. Four times he tries to free
Jesus, and four times he’s persuaded otherwise. He tries to give the people Jesus;
but they want Barabbas. He sends Jesus to the whipping post; but they want him
sent to Golgotha. He states he finds nothing against this man; but they accuse
Pilate of violating the law. Pilate, afraid of who Jesus might be, tries one
final time to release him; but the Jews accuse him of betraying Caesar. So many
voices that day. The voice of compromise. The voice of expedience. The voice of
politics. The voice of conscience. And the soft, firm voice of Christ, “The
only power you have over me is the power given to you by God.” (John 19:11)
Jesus’ voice is
distinct. Unique. He doesn’t cajole or plead. He just states the case. Pilate
thought he could avoid making a choice. So, he washed his hands of Jesus. He
climbed up onto the fence and sat down. But in not making a choice, Pilate actually
made a choice. Rather than ask for God’s grace, he avoids malevolence. Rather
than invite Jesus to stay, he sent him away. Rather than hear Christ’s voice,
he heard the voice of the people. Legend has it that Pilate’s wife became a
believer. And legend also has it that Pilate’s eternal home is a mountain lake
where he daily surfaces, still plunging his hands into the water seeking
forgiveness. Forever trying to wash away his guilt . . . not for the evil he
did, but for the kindness he didn’t do.
“So what should
I do with Jesus?” Pilate asked it first, but we’ve all asked it since. It’s a
fair question. Even a necessary question. What do you do with such a man? He
called himself God, but wore the clothes of a man. He called himself the
Messiah, but never commanded an army. He was regarded as king, but his only
crown was twisted thorns. People revered him as regal, yet his only robe was
stitched with mockery. Small wonder Pilate was puzzled. How do you explain such
a man?
One way may be to
take a walk. His walk. His final walk. Follow his steps. Stand in his shadow.
From Jericho to Jerusalem. From the temple to the garden. From the garden to
the trial. From Pilate’s palace to Golgotha’s cross. Watch him walk — angrily
to the temple, wearily into Gethsemane, painfully up the Via Dolorosa. And
powerfully out of the vacated tomb. As you witness his walk, reflect on your
own because all of us have our own walk to Jerusalem. Our own path through
hollow religion. Our own journey down the narrow path of rejection. And each of
us, like Pilate, must cast a verdict.
Pilate heard the
voice of the people and left Jesus to walk the road alone. Will we? I hope that
permanently planted in your soul is the moment the Father stirred you in the
darkness and led you down the path to freedom. It’s a memory like no other. Because
when he sets you free, you are free indeed. That’s how it happened for me, in a
Bible class in a small L.A. suburb.
Thinking back on
it, I don’t know what was more remarkable at the time – that a teacher was trying
to teach the book of Romans to a bunch of rambunctious teenagers, or that I
remember what he actually said. The classroom was mid-sized, one of a half-dozen
or so in a small church. My desk had carving on it, and gum under it. Ten or so
others were in the room where we all sat in the back, too sophisticated to
appear interested.
The teacher was
an earnest man. I can still see his flattop – ex-Marine. His skinny tie stops
midway down his stomach. He has reddish hair and an orange complexion, a soft
voice, and a kind smile. Though he is hopelessly out of touch with 1970’s teens,
he doesn’t know it. His notes are stacked on a little table underneath a heavy
black Bible. He speaks with genuine passion. He’s not a dramatic man, or even a
big man. But that night he was a fervent man. His text was Romans chapter six.
The blackboard was littered with long words and diagrams. But somewhere in the
process of describing how Jesus went into the tomb and came back out, it
happened. I didn’t see a moral code. I didn’t see a church. I didn’t see the Ten
Commandments, or hellish demons. I saw my Father enter my teenage night, awaken
me from my stupor, and gently guide me — no, carry me — to freedom.
I said nothing
to my teacher. I said nothing to my friends. I’m not even sure if I said
anything to God. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. But for
all I didn’t know there was one fact of which I was absolutely sure: I wanted
to be with him. I told my parents that I was ready to give my life to God. Not completely
convinced, my parents asked me what I knew. I told them Jesus was in heaven and
that I wanted to be with him. And for my folks, that was enough.
To this day I
wonder if my love has ever been as pure as it was that first hour. I long for
the certainty of my newborn faith. Had you told me that Jesus was in hell, I
would have agreed to go. Public confession and baptism came naturally for me. You
see, when your Father comes to deliver you from bondage, you don’t ask
questions; you obey instructions. You take his hand. You walk the path. You
leave bondage behind. And you never forget.
I hope you’ll never
forget those first steps of your walk, or Jesus’ final steps from Jericho to
Jerusalem – it was that walk that promised you freedom. Or, his final walk
through the temple of Jerusalem – it was on that walk that he denounced hollow
religion. Or, his final walk to the Mount of Olives – it was there that he
promised to return and take you home. Or, his final walk from Pilate’s palace
to Golgotha’s cross. Bare, bloody feet struggling up a stony narrow path. But
just as vivid as the pain of the beam across his raw back was his vision of you
and him walking together. He could see the hour he would come into your life,
into your dark place to stir you out of your sleep and guide you to freedom.
So, what will
you do with Jesus? C.S. Lewis, in his book, Mere
Christianity, had this to say about that very question: “I am trying here
to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about
Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his
claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a
man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher.
He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a
poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice.
Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something
worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a
demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not
come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He
has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”
Although the question
still remains, the walk isn’t over. The journey’s not complete. There’s one
more walk that must be made. “I will come back,” he promised. And to prove it
he ripped in two the temple curtain and split open the doors of death so that
he could. Jesus is coming back to claim his own.
Will he be
coming back for you? I guess that depends on what you will do with Jesus.
Grace,
Randy
[1]
Some ancient manuscripts of Matthew 27:16–17 have the full name of Barabbas as
"Jesus bar-Abbas" which,
when translated, would read: “Jesus, son of the father.”
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