Opening tightly squeezed eyelids and vigorously shaking his head, he studied the water sluicing over his hands. Clear, clean water. A sigh escaped his lips. For a moment, his guilt-ridden mind had believed it pink from the blood that surely dripped from his fingers. He shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t be preserving his own peace over the safety of an innocent man. Shouldn’t be turning Him over to certain death at the hands of a crazed, angry mob. He really shouldn’t have been brought this case in the first place. Shouldn’t be ridiculous enough to think he could wash away his own guilt at this Man’s fate.
His conscience was screaming at him, echoing with his wife’s warning to steer clear of this whole mess. Upon asking the chief priests and scribes to state their accusations against Jesus, Pilate found himself stunned. Misleading the nation? Patently untrue. Pilate would know about it if it were. There was no record, no evidence, just angry allegations. The second count, forbidding people to pay taxes, was also indubitably false. Caesar’s tax trackers would know all about that if it were happening. Jesus would have never made it to Pilate’s courtroom, He’d be in theirs. Not to mention the very public detail of Jesus’ statement, “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s; and to God what is God’s.” (Luke 23:2; Matthew 22:15-22)
Their final charge was the strangest of all. Jesus says He is Christ, the King of the Jews. He acknowledged its factuality when questioned. But why were they so upset about it? Scores of people had shown up over the years making the same claim, gathering a following, teaching their beliefs. No one had been brought to him in the past. Eventually, their humanity had risen to the top, their deception revealed. Not so with this Man. If all the stories Pilate had heard were true, Jesus was the only claimant who even appeared to qualify. Healer. Savior. Miracle worker. Intellectual teacher. Temple speaker. He ticked all the boxes. The Jewish priests had spent the last several hundred years waiting, hoping, predicting His arrival. Could they not see His excellent candidacy? If He didn’t meet their kingly expectation, who could? What, exactly, were they expecting from their King?
Perhaps their overactive imaginations conjured up images more majestic than a carpenter boy from Nazareth working miracles in the streets. Maybe the passage of years between the prophecy and the actuality had turned some of the teachings into fairy tales. A weatherbeaten knight thundering into town on an enormous white destrier, tossing its head and stomping its hooves in barely restrained anticipation of the next battle. The knight’s scabbed and scarred hand would clutch an intimidating sword, its blade dripping with the blood of those who had defied him along the way. Stopping in front of the palace, he’d leap to the ground, throwing the reins of his fractious horse at a timid and unsuspecting stable hand. The echo of his determined brogans would pound up the wide steps. From far and wide his henchmen would descend on the city, overthrowing the reigning authority and claiming the throne as his own. Authority would again be back in Jewish hands. They would be triumphant. They would be saved. It would be a magnificent display.
If these were their expectations, their disappointment was acute. Jesus was none of those things. Patiently teaching and preaching. Kindly touching and healing. There really was no fault in the man. Perhaps that was the problem. The individuals making these outrageous accusations weren’t looking for someone to calmly come in and reign, they were looking for someone with other qualities. Qualities more in line with their own. Pompous. Pugnacious. Political. Easily bought. Showing favoritism. Someone through whom they could extend their authority, not bow to his. The emotion motivating them to avidly pursue this Man’s death was not a deep-seated belief He was a heretic. No. It was born of envy. Envy over the attention He got, the crowds He drew, the miracles He worked. Terror that their limited authority would be replaced by His obvious superlative command.
Pilate didn’t want to capitulate. It wasn’t his practice to get involved in a squabble with the Jews. Jesus had committed no crime against anyone. He was not a rabble-rouser. He was not a heretic. He was not a threat to Rome. He did not deserve death. Pilate was certain of it. But outside, the crowd was growing more raucous by the minute, stirred up by the overzealous, manipulative chief priests and scribes. A decision must be made, but he wasn’t about to take responsibility. The raging crowd would have to do it. It would be their choice. A vote, as it were. Release Him or crucify Him. Jesus or Barabbas. Sovereign Savior or sinister sinner.
The options had barely crossed his lips when the crowd, swayed by the miscreants infiltrating their ranks, made up their minds, shouting, “Crucify Him!” In spite of Pilate’s feeble attempts to dissuade them, his proclamation that he could find no guilt in Jesus, or his staunch refusal to punish Him for crimes he hadn’t done, the ignorant crowd still screamed, “Crucify Him!” Even the offer of a known criminal failed to alter their determined cries, “Crucify Jesus!” It seemed someone had made a choice. Or everyone had.
Calling for a basin and towel, Pilate shouted his innocence in these shenanigan proceedings over the melee. Dramatically washing his hands in front of the crowd, he turned Jesus over to certain death and walked away. Away from the screaming mob. Away from the insidious allegations. Away from the judgment hall. If Pilate expected peace, he surely was disappointed. Haranguing guilt is not limited to halls of judgment, pricks of conscience are not restricted to moments of questionable choices, and peace returns only at the acceptance of extended grace. (Matthew 27:11-26; Mark 15:1-15; Luke 23:1-7,13-25; John 18:28-40; Isaiah 57:18-19)
That’s where the account gets me. Knowing that guilt and a troubled conscience will plague you day and night, I wonder why Pilate didn’t go to the cross. How many times did he wash his hands attempting to eliminate his guilt? Was his sleep restless and plagued with graphic dreams of beatings and death for the already abused, yet innocent, Man who had stood before him that day? Did he overhear stories passing between the servants of Jesus staggering beneath the weight of an undeserved cross, of blood running down his face from thorns thrust in His brow? Did his ears ring with the sound of a hammer striking nails, the sobs of a mother losing her son, the muffled weeping of those who believed, the loud guffaws of those who didn’t? How did he feel when darkness overtook the bright afternoon sky and the earth shook beneath him? Did rumors of the torn temple veil confirm the affirming words of Jesus definitively stating He was Christ the King? Did Pilate ever realize that in spite of all the choices he made, refused to make, or failed to stop, the redemption provided for mankind at Calvary was for him too? He just needed to go to the cross. (Luke 23:44-45; Mark 15:38; Matthew 27:51)
It is difficult to imagine. We’ve built up such a store of anger against the individuals in the trial and crucifixion of Jesus. Judas. Chief priests. Scribes. Pilate. The angry horde. We hate what they did. Some go so far as to say they deserve their eternal punishment. Jesus doesn’t. He came to save them. All of them. Although plenty have refused to accept His proffered grace, there is no one Jesus didn’t come to save. (John 12:44-46; Romans 10:13; John 3:17; Acts 10:43)
Spineless, selfish, sinful Pilate. The men who falsely accused Him, the crowd who abused Him, the soldiers who crucified Him, the mockers, the scorners, the unbelievers. Horrific, undeserving sinners of the worst kind. People who couldn’t see love and grace and redemption for the hate and envy and fear clouding their vision. Souls buried so deeply in their trespasses and sins they couldn’t imagine a way out, a path to freedom, a salvaged eternity. People like you. People like me. Jesus came into the world to save us all. We just have to go to the cross. (Hebrews 9:22; John 3:16; I Timothy 1:15; I John 1:9, 2:2; Luke 19:10, Titus 2:11)
Unfortunately, many of us are still those people. Our alleged enlightenment has not changed our predicament. We are still sinners in need of forgiveness, mercy, and grace. You can dress up your sins and call them all kinds of sophisticated names–indiscretions, lapses, misconducts, mistakes. Suit yourself. It doesn’t change what they are. Eternally damning sins. The only remedy is to bow at the foot of the cross and allow the redemptive blood of Jesus Christ to erase the incriminating stains of our sins. Like Pilate, the chief priests, the crowd, the soldiers we so readily scorn, we don’t deserve it, could never earn it, but God provides it because His gracious loving kindness toward sinful humanity never ends. It has only to be accepted. Saint or sinner. Heaven or hell. It’s up to you. All you have to do is go to the cross. (Psalm 49:7-8; Galatians 3:13; Colossians 2:13-14; Ephesians 2:1-5; Isaiah 55:7)
Thank God for the cross and Jesus!!
Well done, Naomi! Your imagery brings a scene to life; not like the silly Passion Plays of churches and Christian schools. There’s a tension in your writing that is not often available: tension that Pilate must have felt, that the crowd should have felt.
And yet instead of hate, He said “Father forgive them . . .”