THE SHIPWRECK OF PILATE
We have lingered long at the judgment-seat of Pilate. Far too long.
Pilate has detained us. He knew perfectly well, the first glance he
bestowed on the case, what it was his duty to do. But, instead of
acting at once on his conviction, he put off. Of such delay good
seldom comes. Pilate gave temptation time to assail him. He resisted
it, indeed; he fought hard and long against it; but he ought never to
have given it the chance. And he miserably succumbed in the end.
I.
When Pilate delivered Jesus over to be scourged, it looked as if he had
surrendered Him to the cross; and so in all probability the Jews
thought, because scourging was the usual preliminary to crucifixion.
He, however, had not yet abandoned the hope of saving Jesus: he was
still secretly adhering to the proposal he had made, to chastise Him
and then let Him go. Perhaps, if he retired into the palace while the
scourging was taking place, his wife may have urged him to make a
further effort on behalf of that Just Man.
At all events he came out on the platform, round which the Jews were
still standing, and informed them that the case was not finished; and,
as Jesus, whose scourging was now over, came forward, he turned round
and, pointing to Him, exclaimed with deep emotion, "Behold the Man."
It was an involuntary expression of commiseration,[1] an appeal to the
Jews to recognize the unreasonableness of proceeding further: Jesus was
so obviously not such an one as they had tried to make Him out to be;
at all events He had suffered enough.
But the Christian mind has in all ages felt in these words a sense
deeper than Pilate intended. As Caiaphas was uttering a greater truth
than he knew when he said it was expedient that one should die for the
whole people, so in uttering this exclamation the governor was an
unconscious prophet. Preachers in every subsequent age have adopted
his words and, pointing to Jesus, cried, "Behold the Man!" Painters
have chosen this moment, when Jesus came forth, bleeding from the cruel
stripes and wearing the purple robe and crown of thorns, as the one in
which to portray the Man of Sorrows; and many a priceless canvas bears
the title _Ecce Homo_.
From Pilate's lips there fell two words which the world will never
forget--the question, "What is truth?" and this exclamation, "Behold
the Man!" And the one may be taken as the answer to the other. When
the question, "What is truth?" is put with deep earnestness, what does
it mean but this?--Who will make God known to us? who will clear up the
mystery of existence? who will reveal to man his own destiny? And to
these questions is there any answer but this; "Behold the Man"? He has
shown to the sons of men what they ought to be; His is the perfect
life, after which every human life ought to be fashioned; He has opened
the gates of immortality and revealed the secrets of the other world.
And, what is far more important, He has not only shown us what our life
here and hereafter ought to be, but how the ideal may be realised. He
is not only the image of perfection but the Saviour from sin.
Therefore ought the world to turn to Him and "behold the Man."
II.
Pilate hoped that the sight of the sufferings of Jesus would move the
hard hearts of His persecutors, as it had moved his own. But the only
response to his appeal was, "Crucify Him, crucify Him." It is to be
noted, however, that these cruel words now came from "the chief priests
and officers." Apparently the common people were moved: they might
have yielded, if their superiors had allowed them. But nothing could
move those hard hearts; indeed, the sight of blood only inflamed them
the more; and they felt certain that by sheer persistence they could
break down Pilate's opposition.
He was at his wits' end and replied to them angrily, "Take ye Him and
crucify Him; for I find no fault in Him"; meaning probably, that he was
willing to yield the Prisoner up to their will, if they would take the
responsibility of executing Him; if, indeed, he had in his mind any
clear meaning and was not merely uttering an exclamation of annoyance.
They perceived that the critical moment had arrived, and at last they
let out the true reason for which they desired His death: "We have a
law, and by our law He ought to die, because He made Himself the Son of
God."
This was the ground on which they had condemned Him themselves, though
up to this point they had kept it concealed. They had not mentioned
it, because they thought that Pilate would jeer at it. It had on him,
however, a very different effect. All the morning he had been feeling
uneasy; and the more he saw of Jesus the more he disliked the part he
was playing. But now at length the mention of His claim to be the Son
of God caused his fears to take a definite and alarming shape. It
revived in his mind the stories, with which his own pagan religion was
rife, of gods or sons of the gods who had sometimes appeared on earth
in disguise. It was dangerous to have to do with them; for any injury
inflicted on them, even unconsciously, might be terribly avenged. He
had discerned in Jesus something mysterious and inexplicable: what if
He were the son of Jehovah, the native deity of Palestine, as Castor
and Pollux were sons of Jupiter? and might not Jehovah, if He were
injured, blast the man who wronged Him with a curse? Such was the
terror that flashed through his mind; and, taking Jesus once more
inside the palace, he asked Him, with a mixture of awe and curiosity,
"Whence art Thou?"
Jesus gave him no answer, but again retired into the majestic silence
which at three points already had marked His trial. In the whole
conduct of the Saviour in His sufferings there is nothing more sublime
than these pauses; but it is not easy at every point to gauge the state
of mind to which they were due. Why was Jesus silent at this point?
Some have said, because it was impossible to answer the question. He
could not have said either Yes or No; for, if He had said that God was
His Father, Pilate would have understood the statement in a grossly
pagan sense; and yet, to avoid this, He could not say that He was not
the Son of God. So it was best to say nothing.
The true explanation, however, is simpler. Jesus would say nothing
about whether He was the Son of God or not, because He did not wish to
be released on this ground. Not as a son of God, but as an innocent
man, which Pilate had again and again acknowledged Him to be, was He
entitled to be set free; and His silence called upon Pilate to act on
this acknowledgment.
The judge was more than ever astonished; and he was irritated a little
at being thus treated. "Speakest Thou not unto me?" he asked,
flushing; "knowest Thou not that I have power to crucify Thee and have
power to release Thee?" Poor man! it was to be seen before many
minutes had passed how much power he had. And what was this power of
which he boasted? He spoke as if he had arbitrary discretion to do
whatever he pleased. No just judge would make such a claim: justice
takes from him the power to follow his own inclination if it be unjust.
It was of this Jesus reminded him when He now answered with quiet
dignity, "Thou couldest have no power at all against Me, unless it were
given thee from above." [2] He reminds him that the power he wields is
delegated by Heaven, and therefore not to be used according to his own
caprice, but according to the dictates of justice. Yet He added,
"Therefore he that delivered Me unto thee hath the greater sin." He
acknowledged that Pilate was in a position in which he was compelled to
try the case: he had not taken it up at his own hand, as the Jewish
authorities had done.
Thus Jesus recognised all the difficulties of His judge's position and
was willing to make for him every allowance. This was He whom Pilate
had, a few minutes before, given over to torture. Was there ever such
sublime and unselfish clemency? Could there have been a more complete
triumph over resentment and irritation? If the silence of Christ was
sublime, no less sublime, when He did speak, were His words.
III.
Pilate felt the greatness and the magnanimity of his Prisoner, and came
forth determined at all hazards to set Him free. The Jews saw it in
his face. And at length they brought out their last weapon, which they
had been keeping in reserve and Pilate had been fearing all the time:
they threatened to complain against him to the emperor; for this was
the meaning of what they now cried: "If thou let this man go, thou art
not Caesar's friend: whosoever maketh himself a king speaketh against
Caesar."
There was nothing which a Roman provincial governor so much dreaded as
a complaint lodged against him at Rome. And in Pilate's case such an
accusation, for more reasons than one, would have been specially
perilous. The imperial throne was occupied at the time by one who was
a most suspicious master. Tiberius seemed to delight in humiliating
and disgracing his subordinates. Besides, at this very period he was
peculiarly dangerous. A diseased body, the punishment of vices long
indulged, had made his mind gloomy and savage; in fact, he was little
better than a madman--morose, suspicious and malicious. Nor was any
charge so likely to inflame him as the one which they proposed to lay
against Pilate. It was well known at Rome that the hope of a Messiah
was spread throughout the East; and any provincial governor supposed to
be favouring or even conniving at the claims of such a pretender would
certainly be recalled, probably exiled, and possibly executed. _Amicus
Caesaris_, "Caesar's friend," was one of the most coveted titles of a
man in Pilate's position; and to be accused of acting as no friend of
Caesar's could act was the most serious of all dangers.
But there was something else which lent point to the threat of the
Jewish authorities: Pilate well knew that his administration could not
bear the light of an investigation such as would inevitably follow a
complaint from his subjects. It is a curious thing that in a secular
writer of that age we find an account of another occasion on which this
same threat was held over Pilate; and the writer who mentions it adds:
"He was afraid that if a Jewish embassy were sent to Rome, they might
discuss the many maladministrations of his government, his extortions,
his unjust decrees, his inhuman punishments." [3] Such had been the
character of Pilate's past life; and now, when he was going to do a
humane and righteous act, it stayed his hand. There is nothing which
so frustrates good resolutions and paralyzes noble efforts as the dead
weight of past sins. Those who are acquainted with secret and
discreditable chapters of a man's history are able, wielding this
knowledge over his head, to say, Thou shalt not do this good act which
thou wishest to do, or, Thou shalt do this evil and shameful thing
which we bid thee. There are companies in which men cannot utter the
fine, high-sounding things they would say elsewhere, because there are
present those who know how their lives have contradicted them. What is
it that mocks the generous thought rising in our minds, that silences
the noble word on our lips, that paralyzes the forming energy of our
actions? Is it not the internal whisper, Remember how you have failed
before? This is the curse of past sin: it will not let us do the good
we would.
But, if a man has thus committed himself by an evil past, what is he to
do? What ought Pilate to have done? There is only one course. It is
to summon together the resources of his manhood, defy consequences, and
do the right forthwith, come what may. One step taken in loyalty to
conscience, one word of confession spoken, and in a moment the power of
the tyranny is broken, and the spellbound man is free to issue forth
from the inglorious prison of the past.
Alas, Pilate was not equal to any such effort. For the sake of
righteousness, for the sake of this impressive and innocent but obscure
and friendless Galilean, to face a complaint at Rome and run the risk
of exile and poverty--the man of the world's philosophy could not rise
to any such height. He belonged to the world, whose fashion and
favour, pleasures and comforts were the breath of his nostrils; and,
when he heard the menace of his subjects, he surrendered at discretion.
Thus Jewish passion and persistency triumphed. Pilate resisted, but he
was forced to yield inch by inch. He wished to do right; he felt the
spell of Jesus; and it irritated him to have to go against his
conscience, but his subjects compelled him to obey their wicked will.
Yet the true reason of his failure was in himself--in the shallowness
and worldliness of his own character, which this occasion laid bare to
the very foundations.[4]
IV.
There was little more to do. The mind of Pilate was very savage and
his heart very sore. He had been beaten and humiliated; and he would
gladly inflict some humiliation on his opponents, if he could find a
way. He ascended the judgment-seat, "in a place that is called the
Pavement, but in the Hebrew Gabbatha"--an act similar in significance,
I suppose, with our judges' habit, before pronouncing a death sentence,
of putting on the black cap. Pointing to Jesus, he exclaimed, "Behold
your King!" It was as much as to say that he believed this really to
be their Messiah--this poor, bleeding, mishandled Man. He was trying
to cut them with a taunt. And he succeeded: smarting with pain they
shouted, "Away with Him! away with Him! crucify Him!" "What," he
proceeded, "shall I crucify your King?" And, borne away with fury,
they responded, "We have no king but Caesar." What a word to come from
the representatives of a nation to which pertained "the adoption and
the glory and the covenants and the giving of the law and the service
of God and the promises!" It was the renouncement of their birthright,
the abandonment of their destiny. Pilate well knew what it had cost
their proud hearts thus to forswear the hopes of their fathers and
acknowledge the right of their conqueror; but to compel them to swallow
this bitter draught was some compensation for the cup of humiliation
they had compelled him to drink. And he took them at their word.
[1] Perhaps also of admiration. Pilate had never before seen so
impressive a specimen of humanity; and the contrast between the
sweetness and majesty of His appearance and the indignities which He
had suffered drew from him this involuntary exclamation. One recalls
Shakespeare's words about Brutus:
"His life was gentle, and the elements
So mixed in him, that nature might stand up
And say to all the world, This was a Man!"
[2] We are much tempted on account of the "therefore" to explain "from
above" as referring to the Jewish tribunal.
[3] Philo.
[4] It is a striking illustration of the irony of history that Pilate
was overtaken by the very fate to escape which he abandoned Jesus.
Soon after the Crucifixion his subjects lodged a complaint against him
at Rome. He was recalled from his province and never returned.
Ultimately, it is said, he terminated his existence with his own hand,
"wearied out with miseries." Many legends in subsequent centuries
clustered about his name. Several spots were supposed to be haunted by
his restless and despairing spirit, notably a spring in Switzerland on
the top of Mount Pilatus, which was thought to have derived its name
from him; but this is more than doubtful.