conciliatory tone, or they would lose their case; they therefore
explained that they wanted a severer sentence than they had the right
to inflict. "It is not lawful," they said, "for us to put any man to
death."
Pilate again asked for a statement of the crime of which Jesus was
accused.
Now mark the baseness of their reply. The only crime on which they had
condemned Jesus to death was His claim to Deity; but it would never
have done to tell Pilate that. He would simply have laughed at them.
They must find some charge which would bring Him within the range of
the common law, and be of such a nature that Pilate must take
cognizance of it, and award death. It was not easy to find ground for
such a charge in the life of one who had so studiously threaded His way
through the snares they had often laid for Him; who had bade them
render Caesar's things to Caesar; and protested that He was neither a
ruler nor judge. Their only hope was to rest their charge on His claim
to be the Messiah, construing it as the Jews were wont to do, but as
Jesus never did, into a claim to an outward and visible royalty. They
said, therefore, as Luke informs us, "We found this man perverting the
nation and forbidding to give tribute to Caesar, saying that He Himself
is Christ a King."
This was quite enough to compel Pilate to institute further inquiry.
There were thousands of Jews who questioned Caesar's right to tax them,
and were willing to revolt under the lead of any man who showed himself
capable. It was certainly suspicious that such a charge should be made
by men who themselves abhorred the yoke of Rome. However, Pilate saw
that he had no alternative but to investigate the case further. He
therefore went within the palace to the inner judgment hall, summoned
Jesus before him, and said, not without a touch of sarcasm in his
tones, "Art Thou the King of the Jews?" Thou poor, worn, tear-stained
outcast, forsaken by every friend in this Thy hour of need, so great a
contrast to him who built these halls and aspired to the same
title--art thou a king?
He probably expected that Jesus would at once disclaim any such title.
But instead of doing so, instead of answering directly, our Lord
answered his question by propounding another--"Sayest thou this thing
of thyself, or did others tell it thee concerning Me?" The purport of
this question seems to have been to probe Pilate's conscience, and make
him aware of his own growing consciousness that this prisoner was too
royal in mien to be an ordinary Jewish visionary. It was as though He
said: "Dost thou use the term in the common sense, or as a soul
confronted by a greater than thyself? Do you speak by hearsay or by
conviction? Is it because the Jews have so taught thee, or because
thou recognizest Me as able to bring order and peace into troubled
hearts like thine?"
Whatever thoughts had instinctively made themselves felt were instantly
beaten back by his strong Roman pride. Never before had he been
catechised thus. And he answered haughtily, "Am I a Jew? Thine own
nation and the chief priests have delivered Thee unto me: what hast
Thou done?"
Our Lord did not answer that question by enumerating deeds which had
filled Palestine with wonder; but contented Himself by saying that He
had committed no political offence, and had no idea of setting Himself
up as king, in the sense in which Pilate and the Jews used the word:
"My kingdom is not of this world: if My kingdom were of this world,
then would My servants fight, that I should not be delivered to the
Jews: but now is My kingdom not from hence."
Never in the history of this world did the lips of man speak or his
ears listen to a more pregnant or remarkable utterance. But it has
been shamefully misunderstood. Men have misread the words, and said,
See, the religion of Jesus is quite unworldly, has nothing to do with
the institutions and arrangements of human life. It deals with the
spiritual, and not with the secular. It treats of our spirits, not our
hands or pockets. So long as we recognize Christ's authority in the
Church, we may do as we like in the home, the counting-house, the
factory, and the shop.
It was in no such sense that Jesus uttered these words, and the mistake
has largely arisen through the misunderstanding of the word _of_ as
used by our translators. It has not the force of belonging to, or
being the property of; but is the translation of a Greek preposition,
meaning out of, springing from, originating in. We might freely
translate the Master's words thus: "My kingdom does not originate from
this world; it has come down from another, to bring the principles,
methods, and inspirations of heaven to bear on all the provinces of
human thought and activity." The Son of Man claims the whole of man
and all that he does as a subject of His realm. He cannot spare one
relationship of human life, one art, one industry, one interest, one
joy, one hope from the domain of His empire. He has a word about the
weight in the pedlar's bag, the dealings of the merchant on 'Change,
the justice and injustice of wars that desolate continents.
The one conspicuous proof of the absolutely foreign origin of this
heavenly kingdom is its refusal to employ force. Its servants do not
fight. In the garden the King had repudiated the use of force, bidding
His servant sheathe His sword. Whenever you encounter a system that
cannot stand without the use of force, that appeals to the law court or
bayonet, you are sure that, whatever else it is, it is not the Kingdom
of Christ. Christ's kingdom distinctly and forever refuses to allow
its subjects to fight. They who would surround Christianity with
prestige, endow it with wealth, and guard it with the sword, expel its
Divine Spirit, and leave only its semblance dead upon the field. But
if the aid which might be deemed essential is withheld, whether of
funds or force, it thrives and spreads until the hills are covered with
its goodly shadow, and its products fill the earth with harvests of
benediction. All the Gospel asks for is freedom--freedom to do what
Jesus did, in the way He did it; freedom because of its belief that the
power of truth is greater than all the power of the Adversary. Oh for
a second Pentecost! Oh for the holy days of Apostolic trust and
simplicity! Oh for one of the days of the Son of Man, who came to our
world armed with no authority save that of truth, clothed with no power
but that of love.
In Pilate's next question there seems a touch of awe and respect: "Art
Thou a king then?" That moral nature which is in all men, however
debased, seemed for a moment to assert itself, and a strange spell lay
on his spirit.
With wondrous dignity our Lord immediately answered, "Thou sayest that
I am--a king." But He hastens to show that it was a kingship not based
upon material force like that of the Caesars, nor confined to one race
of men: "To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into the
world, that I should bear witness to the truth. Every one that is of
the truth heareth My voice." There is no soul of man, in any clime or
age, devoted to the truth, which does not recognize the royalty and
supremacy of Jesus Christ. There is an accent in His words which all
the children of the truth instantly recognize. The idea here given of
Jesus gazing ever into the depths of eternal truth, and bearing witness
of what He saw, not in His words alone, but in His life and death; and
of the assent given to His witness by all who have looked upon the
sublime outlines of truth, is one of those majestic conceptions which
cannot be accounted for on any hypothesis than that the speaker was
Divine.
When Pilate heard these words, he probably thought of the Epicureans,
and Stoics, and other philosophers, who were perpetually wrangling
about the truth, and demanding men's allegiance. "Oh," said he to
himself, "here is another enthusiast, touched with the same madness,
though He does seem nobler than many of His craft. One thing is clear,
that my lord has nothing to fear from His pretensions. He may sit as
long as He likes on His ideal throne without detriment to the empire of
the Caesars." With mingled bitterness and cynicism, he answered, "What
is truth?" and, without waiting for an answer, went out to the group of
Jewish rabbis waiting in the opening daylight, and threw them into
convulsions of excitement by saying, "I find in Him no fault at all."
They were the more urgent, saying, "He stirreth up the people, teaching
throughout all Judaea, and beginning from Galilee even unto this place."
The mention of Galilee came as a gleam of light to Pilate. He was
sincerely desirous not to be an accomplice in the death of Jesus, by
falling into the plot which he had been astute enough to detect. But
not daring to take the only honorable and safe way of declaring His
innocence, and summoning a cohort of soldiers to clear the court, he
endeavored to exculpate himself by throwing the responsibility on
Herod. He congratulated himself on the ingenuity of a plan which
should relieve him of the necessity of grieving his conscience on the
one hand, or of irritating the Jews on the other, and which would
conciliate Herod, with whom he was at this time on unfriendly terms.
When he knew therefore that He was of Herod's jurisdiction he sent Him
unto Herod, who himself was at Jerusalem in those days.
Herod was glad to see the wonderful miracle-worker of whom he had heard
so much, and hoped that He might do some wonder in his presence; and,
in the hope of extorting it, set Him at nought, and mocked Him, with
his mighty men. But the Lord remained absolutely silent in his
presence, as though the love of God could say nothing to the murderer
of the Baptist, who had not repented of his deed. Finally, therefore,
disappointed and chagrined, Herod sent Jesus back to Pilate, admitting
that he had found in Him no cause of death.
XXX
The Second Trial before Pilate
"Ye have a custom, that I should release unto you one at the passover:
will ye therefore that I release unto you the King of the Jews?"--JOHN
xviii. 39.
Pilate must have felt mortified when he heard that Herod had sent Jesus
back to his tribunal. He had hoped that the Jewish monarch would so
settle the matter that there would be no need for him to choose between
his conscience and his fear of the Jewish leaders. But it was not to
be. It was decreed that he should pronounce the judicial sentence on
our Lord, and so on himself.
Now was the time for him to act decisively, and to say clearly that he
would be no party to the unrighteous deed to which these priests were
urging him. To have done so firmly and decisively, and before they
could further inflame popular passion, the whole matter would have come
to an end. Alas! he let the golden moment slip past him unused, and
every succeeding moment made it more impossible for him to retrieve it.
Pilate is one of the most notable instances in history of the fatal
error of preferring expediency to principle. He wished to do right,
but not to do it avowedly because it was right. He wished to do right
without seeming to do it, or making a positive stand for it. And in
consequence he was finally entrapped into doing the very deed which he
had taken the greatest trouble to avoid. Therefore, on the plains of
time he stands as a beacon and warning; and to all who do not dare to
oppose the stream of public passion and practice with the single
affirmation of inflexible adherence to righteousness, the voice of
inspiration cries aloud, "Remember Pilate!" However promising a
tortuous course may look, it will certainly end in disaster. However
discouraging a righteous one may appear, it will at last lead out into
the open. And in doing the right thing, be sure to speak out firmly at
once. It may be harder for the moment, but it will be always easier
afterward. One brave word will put you into a position of moral
advantage, from which no power shall avail to shake or dislodge you.
Such a word, however, Pilate failed to speak; and when Jesus was again
brought before him, he began to think of some way by which he might do
as conscience prompted, without running counter to the Jewish leaders.
He, therefore, summoned around him the chief priests and rulers of the
people. The latter are particularly mentioned, as though Pilate
thought that his best method of saving Jesus would be by appealing over
the heads of the priests to the humanity of the common people. When
all were again assembled he made, as Luke tells us, a short speech to
them, reiterating his conviction of His innocence, corroborating his
own opinion by Herod's, and closing by a proposal which he hoped would
meet the whole case. "I will therefore chastise Him and release Him."
Was there ever such a compromise? A little before he had solemnly
affirmed that he could find in Him no fault at all, but if that were
the case, why chastise Him? And if He were guilty of the charges
brought against Him, as chastisement might seem to suggest, surely He
should not be released. Pilate meant to do the best. The chastisement
was intended as a sop to the priests, and to win their acquiescence to
their victim's release. But it was not straightforward, or strong, or
right. And, like all compromises, it miserably failed.
Those keen Jewish eyes saw in a moment that Pilate had left the ground
of simple justice. He had shifted from the principle on which Roman
law was generally administered, and they saw that it was only a
question of bringing sufficient pressure to bear on him, and they could
make him a tool for the accomplishment of the fell purpose on which
their heart was set. The proposal, therefore, was swept ignominiously
away, and Pilate could never regain the position he had renounced.
Pilate then resorted to another expedient for saving Jesus. It was the
custom to carry out capital sentences at feast times, which were the
occasions of great popular convocations; but it was also customary for
the governor to release any one prisoner, condemned to death, whom the
multitude, on the Passover week, might agree to name. Pilate
recollected this, and also that there was a notorious criminal awaiting
execution, who for sedition and murder had been arrested and condemned
to die. It occurred to him that, instead of asking the people
generally whom they wished him to release, he should narrow the choice
and present the alternative between Barabbas and Jesus. They would
hardly fail, he thought, to choose the release of this pale Prisoner,
who was innocent of crime, and, indeed, had lived a life notable for
its benevolence.
Pilate took care to announce his proposal with the greatest effect.
The vast space before his palace was rapidly filling with excited
crowds, who guessed that something unusual was astir, and were pouring
in surging volumes into the piazza, although it was still early. That
he might be the better seen and heard he ascended a movable rostrum, or
judgment-seat, which was placed on the tessellated pavement that ran
from end to end of the palace. "Whom will ye," he asked, "that I
release unto you--Barabbas, or Jesus which is called the Christ?" And
then he suggested the answer: "Will ye that I release unto you the King
of Jews?"
At this moment, and perhaps whilst waiting for their answer, a
messenger hurried to speak to him from his wife. It must have been
most unusual for her to interfere with his judicial acts; but she had
been so impressed by a dream about her husband's connection with Jesus,
the unwonted Prisoner who stood before him, that she was impelled to
urge him to have nothing to do with Him. It was a remarkable episode,
and must have made Pilate more than ever anxious to extricate himself
from his dilemma.
It was still not absolutely too late to set himself free by the
resolute expression of his will. But his temporizing policy was making
it immensely difficult, and he was becoming every moment more entangled
in the meshes of the merciless priests.
He had hoped much from his last proposal, but was destined to be
bitterly disappointed. The chief priests and elders had been busy
amongst the crowds, persuading and moving them. We do not know the
arguments they would employ; but we all know how inflammable a mob is,
and presently the name of Barabbas began to sound ominously from amid
the hubbub and murmur of that sea of human beings. Presently the
isolated cries spread into a tumultuous clamor, which rang out in the
morning air, "Not this man, but Barabbas!"
Pilate seems to have been dumbfoundered at this unexpected demand; and
said, almost pitifully, "What then shall I do with Jesus, which is
called Christ?" As though he had said, "You surely cannot mean that He
should suffer the fate prepared for a murderer!" Then they cried out
for the first time, To the cross, to the cross! "Crucify Him! crucify
Him!"
Pilate had failed twice; he felt that he was being swept away by a
current which already he could not stem, and which was becoming at
every moment deeper and swifter. But he was very anxious to release
Jesus; and so he tried to reason with them, and said, "Why, what evil
hath He done?" But he might as hopefully have tried to argue with an
angry sea, or with a pack of wolves. He felt this, and, mustering a
little show of authority, said: "I have found no cause of death in Him;
I will, therefore, chastise Him, and release Him." But this
announcement was met by an infuriated shout of disapproval. "They were
instant with loud voices, requiring that He might be crucified." "They
cried out the more exceedingly, Crucify Him." A little before this
Pilate had been besieged for six days in his palace at Caesarea by
similar crowds, whose persistent fury at last compelled him to give in
to them. He dared not provoke similar scenes, lest they should result
in a revolution. When he saw that he could prevail nothing, but that
rather a tumult was made, he called for water. He said to himself, "I
am very sorry, this Man is innocent, and I should like to save Him.
But I have done my best, and can do no more. I will, at least, relieve
myself of the responsibility of His blood. 'Slave, bring me water!'"
As he washed his hands he said, "I am innocent of the blood of this
righteous Man; see ye to it." "Yes, yes," cried those bloodthirsty
voices, "His blood be on us, and on our children." See how God
sometimes takes men at their word. The blood of Jesus was required of
that generation at the sack of Jerusalem, forty years after; and it has
been required of their children through all the ages. Why that
wandering foot, found in every land, yet homeless in all? Why the
hideous tortures, plunderings, and massacres of the Middle Ages? Why
the modern Jew-hate, disguised under the more refined term
_anti-Semitism_? Why the banishment from their holy places for
eighteen centuries? All is attributable to that terrible imprecation
which attracted to the race the blood of an innocent Victim. It does
not exculpate them to say that they did not realize who Jesus was, and
that they would not have crucified Him if they had realized His Divine
dignity. They are being punished to-day, not because they crucified
the Son of God, knowing Him to be such, but because they crucified One
against whom they could allege no crime, and whose life had been full
of truth and grace.
After he had washed his hands "Pilate gave sentence that it should be
as they required, and released unto them him that for sedition and
murder had been cast into prison, whom they desired; but he delivered
Jesus to their will."
Those condemned to die by crucifixion first underwent the hideous
torture of the scourge. This, then, was inflicted on Jesus, and it was
carried out in the inner courtyard by the Roman soldiery, under
Pilate's direction. "Then Pilate therefore took Jesus, and scourged
Him." Stripped to the waist, and bound in a stooping posture to a low
pillar, He was beaten till the officer in charge gave the signal to
stop. The plaited leathern thongs, armed at the ends with lead and
sharp-pointed bone, cut the back open in all directions, and inflicted
such torture that the sufferers generally fainted, and often died.
But the scourging in this case did not satisfy the soldiers, whom
scenes of this nature had brutalized. They had been told by their
comrades of the mockery of Herod's palace, and they would not lag
behind. Had He been robed in mockery as King of the Jews, then He
shall pose as mock emperor. They found a purple robe, wove some tough
thorns into a mimic crown, placed a long reed in His hand as sceptre,
then bowed the knee, as in the imperial court, and cried, "Hail, King
of the Jews!" Finally, tiring of their brutal jests, they tore the
reed from His hands, smote Him with it on His thorn-girt brow, and
struck Him with their fists. We cannot tell how long it lasted, but
Jesus bore it all--silent, uncomplaining, noble. There was a majesty
about Him which these indignities could not suppress or disturb.
Pilate had never seen such elevation of demeanor, and was greatly
struck by it. He was more than ever desirous to save Him, and it
suddenly occurred to him that perhaps that spectacle of sorrow and
majesty might arrest the fury of the rabble. He therefore led Jesus
forth wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe, and, stationing
Him where all could see, said, "Behold the Man! Behold Him and admire!
Behold Him and pity! Behold Him and be content!" But the priests were
obdurate. There is no hate so virulent as religious hate, and they
raised again the cry, "Crucify Him, crucify Him!" Pilate was not only
annoyed, but provoked. "Take ye Him," he said, in surly tones,
"crucify Him as best ye can, my soldiers and I will have nothing to do
with the foul deed."
Then it was that the Jewish leaders, in their eagerness not to lose
their prey, brought forward a weapon which they had been reluctant to
use. "We have a law," they said, "and by our law He ought to die,
because He made Himself the Son of God." We hardly know how much those
words meant to Pilate, but they awakened a strange awe. "He was the
more afraid." He had some knowledge of the old stories of mythology,
in which the gods walked the world in the semblance of men. Could this
be the explanation of the strange majesty in the wonderful Sufferer,
whose presence raised such extraordinary passion and ferment? So he
took Jesus apart, and said to Him, "Whence art Thou?" "Art Thou of
human birth, or more?" But Jesus gave him no answer. This is the
fifth time that He had answered nothing; but we can detect the reason.
It would have been useless to explain all to Pilate then. It would not
have arrested his action, for he had lost control, but would have
increased His condemnation. Yet His silence was itself an answer; for
if He had been only of earth, He could never have allowed Pilate to
entertain the faintest suspicion that He might be of heaven.
Pilate's pride was touched by that silence. It was at least possible
to assert a power over this defenceless Prisoner, which had been defied
by those vindictive Jews. "Speakest Thou not unto _me_? Knowest Thou
not that I have power to release or to crucify Thee?" And Jesus
answered, "Thou wouldst have no power against Me, except it were given
thee from above; therefore, he that delivered Me unto thee hath the
greater sin." In these words our Lord seems to refer to the mystery of
evil, and specially the power of the prince of this world, who was now
venting on Him all his malice. At this moment the serpent was bruising
the heel of the Son of Man, who shortly would bruise His head. It
would appear as though our Lord were addressing kind and compassionate
words to Pilate. "Great as your sin is, in abusing your prerogative,
given to you from above, it is less than the sin of that Evil Spirit
who has cast Me into your power, and is urging you to extreme measures
against Me. The devil sinneth from the beginning." Even in His sore
travail, the Lord was tender and pitiful to this weak and craven soul,
and spoke to it as though Pilate and not He were arraigned at the bar.