_THE PASSION._
LUKE xxii. 47-xxiii.
While Jesus kept His sad watch in Gethsemane, treading the winepress
alone, His enemies kept theirs in the city. The step of Judas, as he
passed out into the night, went verberating within the house of the high
priest, and onwards into the palace of Pilate himself, awaking a
thousand echoes, as swift messengers flew hither and thither, bearing
the hurried summons, calling the rulers and elders from their repose,
and marshalling the Roman cohort. Hitherto the powers of darkness have
been restrained, and though they have, again and again, attempted the
life of Jesus, as if some occult spell were upon them, they could not
accomplish their purpose. Far back in the Infancy Herod had sought to
kill Him; but though his cold steel reaped a bloody swath in Ramah, it
could not touch the Divine Child. The men of Nazareth had sought to hurl
Him down the sheer precipice, but He escaped; Jesus had not come into
the world to die at Nazareth, thrown off, as by an accident, from a
Galilean cliff. He had come to "accomplish His decease," as the
celestials put it upon the mount, "at Jerusalem," and that too, as He
indicated plainly and frequently in His speech, upon a cross. Now,
however, the hour of darkness has struck, and the fulness of the time
has come. The cross and the Victim both are ready, and Heaven itself
consents to the great sacrifice.
Strangely enough, the first overture of the "Passion music" is by one of
the twelve--as our Evangelist names him, "Judas who was called Iscariot,
being of the number of the twelve" (xxii. 3). It will be observed that
St. Luke puts a parenthesis of forty verses between the actual betrayal
and its preliminary stages, so throwing the conception of the plot back
to an earlier date than the eve of the Last Supper, and the subsequent
narrative is best read in the light of its programme. At first sight it
would appear as if the part of the betrayer were superfluous, seeing
that Jesus came almost daily into the Temple, where He spoke openly,
without either reserve or fear. What need could there be for any
intermediary to come between the chief priests and the Victim of their
hate? Was not His person familiar to all the Temple officials? and could
they not apprehend Him almost at any hour? Yes, but one thing stood in
the way, and that was "the fear of the people." Jesus evidently had an
influential following; the popular sympathies were on His side; and had
the attack been made upon Him during the day, in the thronged streets of
the city or in the Temple courts, there would have been, almost to a
certainty, a popular rising on His behalf. The arrest must be made in
the absence of the multitude (xxii. 6), which means that they must fall
upon Him in one of His quiet hours, and in one of His quiet retreats; it
must be a night attack, when the multitudes are asleep. Here, then, is
room for the betrayer, who comes at the opportune moment, and offers
himself for the despicable task, a task which has made the name of
"Judas" a synonym for all that is treacherous and vile. How the base
thought could ever have come into the mind of Judas it were hard to
tell, but it certainly was not sprung upon him as a surprise. But men
lean in the direction of their weakness, and when they fall it is
generally on their weakest side, the side on which temptation is the
strongest. It was so here. St. John writes him down in a single
sentence: "He was a thief, and having the bag, took away what was put
therein" (John xii. 6). His ruling passion was the love of money, and in
the delirium of this fever his hot hands dashed to the ground and broke
in pieces the tables of law and equity alike, striking at all the
moralities. And between robbing his Master and betraying Him there was
no great distance to traverse, especially when conscience lay in a numb
stupor, drugged by opiates, these tinctures of silver.
Here, then, is a betrayer ready to their hand. He knows what hour is
best, and how to conduct them to His secret retreats. And so Judas
communed with the chief priests and captains, or he "talked it over with
them" as the word means, the secret conference ending in a bargain, as
they "covenanted" to give him money (xxii. 5). It was a hard and fast
bargain; for the word "covenanted" has about it a metallic ring, and
opening it out, it lets us see the wordy chaffering, as Judas abates his
price to the offer of the high priests, the thirty pieces of silver,
which was the market price of an ordinary slave. Not that Judas intended
to be a participator in His death, as the sequel of his remorse shows.
He probably thought and hoped that his Master would escape, slipping
through the meshes they so cunningly had thrown about Him; but having
done his part of the covenant, his reward would be sure, for the thirty
pieces were already in his possession. Ah, he little dreamed how
far-reaching his action would be! That silver key of his would set in
motion the ponderous wheel which would not stop until his Master was its
Victim, lying all crushed and bleeding beneath it! He only discovered
his mistake when, alas! it was too late for remedy. Gladly would he have
given back his thirty pieces, ay, and thirty times thirty, to have
called back his treacherous "Hail," but he could not. That "Hail,
Master," had gone beyond his recall, reverberating down the ages and up
among the stars, while even its echoes, as they came back to him in
painful memories, threw him out of the world an unloved and guilty
suicide!
What with the cunning of the high priests and the cold calculations of
Judas, whose mind was practised in weighing chances and providing for
contingences, the plot is laid deeply and well. No detail is omitted:
the band of soldiers, who shall put the stamp of officialism upon the
procedure, while at the same time they cower the populace and repress
any attempt at rescue; the swords and staves, should they have to resort
to force; the lanterns and torches, with which to light up the dark
hiding-places of the garden; the cords or chains, with which to bind
their Prisoner; the kiss, which should be at once the sign of
recognition and the signal for the arrest, all are prearranged and
provided; while out of sight the high priests are keeping their midnight
watch, ready for the mock trial, for which the suborned witnesses are
even now rehearsing their parts. Could worldly prudence or malicious
skill go farther?
Stealthily as the leopard approaches its victim, the motley crowd enter
the garden, coming with muffled steps to take and lead away the Lamb of
God. Only the glimmer of their torches gave notice of their approach,
and even these burned dull in the intense moonlight. But Jesus needed no
audible or visible warning, for He Himself knew just how events were
drifting, reading the near future as plainly as the near past; and
before they have come in sight He has awoke the three sleeping sentinels
with a word which will effectually drive slumber from their eyelids:
"Arise, let us be going: behold, he is at hand that betrayeth Me" (Matt.
xxvi. 46).
It will be seen from this that Jesus could easily have eluded His
pursuers had He cared to do so. Even without any appeal to His
supernatural powers, He could have withdrawn Himself under cover of the
night, and have left the human sleuth-hounds foiled of their prey and
vainly baying at the moon. But instead of this, He makes no attempt at
flight. He even seeks the glades of Gethsemane, when by simply going
elsewhere He might have disconcerted their plot and brought their
counsel to nought. And now He yields Himself up to His death, not
passively merely, but with the entire and active concurrence of His
will. He "offered Himself," as the writer of the Epistle to the Hebrews
expresses it (Heb. ix. 14), a free-will Offering, a voluntary Sacrifice.
He could, as He Himself said, have called legions of angels to His help;
but He would not give the signal, though it were no more than one
uplifted look. And so He does not refuse even the kiss of treachery; He
suffers the hot lips of the traitor to burn His cheeks; and when others
would have shaken off the viper into the fire, or have crushed it with
the heel of a righteous indignation, Jesus receives patiently the stamp
of infamy, His only word being a question of surprise, not at the
treachery itself, but at its mode: "Betrayest thou the Son of man with a
kiss?" And when for the moment, as St. John tells us, a strange awe fell
upon the multitude, and they "went backward and fell to the ground,"
Jesus, as it were, called in the outshining glories, masking them with
the tired and blood-stained humanity that He wore, so stilling the
tremor that was upon His enemies, as He nerved the very hands that
should take Him. And again, when they do bind Him, He offers no
resistance; but when Peter's quick sword flashes from its scabbard, and
takes off the right ear of Malchus, the servant of the high priest, and
so one of the leaders in the arrest, Jesus asks for the use of His
manacled hand--for so we read the "Suffer ye thus far"--and touching the
ear, heals it at once. He Himself is willing to be wounded even unto
death, but His alone must be the wounds. His enemies must not share His
pain, nor must His disciples pass with Him into this temple of His
sufferings; and He even stays to ask for them a free parole: "Let these
go their way."
But while for the disciples Jesus has but words of tender rebuke or of
prayer, while for Malchus He has a word and a touch of mercy, and while
even for Judas He has an endearing epithet, "friend," for the chief
priests, captains, and elders He has severer words. They are the
ringleaders, the plotters. All this commotion, this needless parade of
hostile strength, these superfluous insults are but the foaming of their
rabid frenzy, the blossoming of their malicious hate; and turning to
them as they stand gloating in their supercilious scorn, He asks, "Are
ye come out, as against a robber, with swords and staves? When I was
daily with you in the Temple, ye stretched not forth your hands against
Me: but this is your hour, and the power of darkness." True words, for
they who should have been priests of Heaven are in league with hell,
willing ministers of the powers of darkness. And this was indeed their
hour, but the hour of their victory would prove the hour of their doom.
St. Luke, as do the other Synoptists, omits the preliminary trial before
Annas, the ex-high priest (John xviii. 13), and leads us direct to the
palace of Caiaphas, whither they conduct Jesus bound. Instead, however,
of pursuing the main narrative, he lingers to gather up the side-lights
of the palace-yard, as they cast a lurid light upon the character of
Simon. Some time before, Jesus had forewarned him of a coming ordeal,
and which He called a Satanic sifting; while only a few hours ago He had
prophesied that this night, before the cock should crow twice, Peter
would thrice deny Him--a singular prediction, and one which at the time
seemed most unlikely, but which proved true to the very letter. After
the encounter in the garden, Peter retires from our sight for awhile;
but his flight was neither far nor long, for as the procession moves up
towards the city Peter and John follow it as a rear-guard, on to the
house of Annas, and now to the house of Caiaphas. We need not repeat the
details of the story--how John passed him through the door into the
inner court, and how he sat, or "stood," as St. John puts it, by the
charcoal fire, warming himself with the officers and servants. The
differing verbs only show the restlessness of the man, which was a
life-long characteristic of Peter, but which would be doubly accentuated
here, with suspecting eyes focussed upon him. Indeed, in the whole
scene of the courtyard, as sketched for us in the varying but not
discordant narratives of the Evangelists, we may detect the vibrations
of constant movement and the ripple-marks of intense excitement.
When challenged the first time, by the maid who kept the door, Peter
answered with a sharp, blunt negative: he was not a disciple; he did not
even know Him. At the second challenge, by another maid, he replied with
an absolute denial, but added to his denial the confirmation of an oath.
At the third challenge, by one of the men standing near, he denied as
before, but added to his denial both an oath and an anathema. It is
rather unfortunate that our version renders it (Matt. xxvi. 74; Mark
xiv. 71), "He began to curse and to swear;" for these words have a
peculiarly ill savour, a taste of Billingsgate, which the original words
have not. To our ear, "to curse and to swear" are the accomplishments of
a loose and a foul tongue, which throws out its fires of passion in
profanity, or in coarse obscenities, as it revels in immoralities of
speech. The words in the New Testament, however, have a meaning
altogether different. Here "to swear" means to take an oath, as in our
courts of law, or rather to make an affirmation. Even God Himself is
spoken of as swearing, as in the song of Zacharias (i. 73), where He is
said to have remembered His holy covenant, "the oath which He sware unto
Abraham our father." Indeed, this form of speech, the oath or
affirmation, had come into too general use, as we may see from the
paragraph upon oaths in the Sermon on the Mount (Matt. v. 33-37). Jesus
here condemned it, it is true, for to Him who was Truth itself our word
should be as our bond; but His reference to it shows how prevalent the
custom was, even amongst strict legalists and moralists. When, then,
Peter "swore," it does not mean that he suddenly became profane, but
simply that he backed up his denial with a solemn affirmation. So, too,
with the word "curse;" it has not our modern meaning. Literally
rendered, it would be, "He put himself under an anathema," which
"anathema" was the bond or penalty he was willing to pay if his words
should not be true. In Acts xxiii. 12 we have the cognate word, where
the "anathema" was, "They would neither eat nor drink till they had
killed Paul." The curse thus was nothing immoral in itself; it was a
form of speech even the purest might use, a sort of underlined
affirmation.
But though the language of Peter was neither profane nor foul, though in
his "oath" and in his "curse" there is nothing for which the purest
taste need apologize, yet here was his sin, his grievous sin: he made
use of the oath and the curse to back up a deliberate and cowardly lie,
even as men to-day will kiss the book to make God's Word of truth a
cover for perjury. How shall we explain the sad fall of this
captain-disciple, who was first and foremost of the Twelve? Were these
denials but the wild and wandering cries of some delirium? We find that
Peter's lips did sometimes throw off unreasoning and untimely words,
speaking like one in a dream, as he proposed the three tabernacles on
the mount, "not knowing what he said." But this is no delirium, no
ecstasy; his mind is clear as the sky overhead, his thought bright and
sharp as was his sword just now. No, it was not a failure in the reason;
it was a sadder failure in the heart. Of physical courage Simon had an
abundance, but he was somewhat deficient in moral courage. His surname
"Peter" was as yet but a forename, a prophecy; for the "rock"-granite
was yet in a state of flux, pliant, somewhat wavering, and too easily
impressed. It must "be dipped in baths of hissing tears" ere it hardens
into the foundation-rock for the new temple. In the garden he was too
ready, too brave. "Shall we smite with the sword?" he asked, matching
the "we," which numbered two swords, against a whole Roman cohort; but
that was in the presence of his Master, and in the consciousness of
strength which that Presence gave. It is different now. His Master is
Himself a bound and helpless Prisoner. His own sword is taken from him,
or, which is the same thing, it is ordered to its sheath. The bright
dream of temporal sovereignty, which like a beautiful mirage had played
on the horizon of his thought, had suddenly faded, withdrawing itself
into the darkness. Simon is disappointed, perplexed, bewildered, and
with hopes shattered, faith stunned, and love itself in a momentary
conflict with self-love, he loses heart and becomes demoralized, his
better nature falling to pieces like a routed army.
Such were the conditions of Peter's denial, the strain and pressure
under which his courage and his faith gave way, and almost before he
knew it he had thrice denied his Lord, tossing away the Christ he would
die for on his cold, impetuous words, as, with a tinge of disrespect in
his tone and word, he called Him "the Man." But hardly had the denial
been made and the anathema been said when suddenly the cock crew. It was
but the familiar call of an unwitting bird, but it smote upon Peter's
ear like a near clap of thunder; it brought to his mind those words of
his Master, which he had thought were uncertain parable, but which he
finds now were certain prophecy, and thus let in a rush of sweet,
old-time memories. Conscience-stricken, and with a load of terrible
guilt pressing upon his soul, he looks up timidly towards the Lord he
has forsworn. Will He deny _him_, on one of His bitter "woes" casting
him down to the Gehenna he deserves? No; Jesus looks upon Peter; nay, He
even "turns" round toward him, that He may look; and as Peter saw that
look, the face all streaked with blood and lined with an unutterable
anguish, when he felt that glance fixed upon him of an upbraiding but a
pitying and forgiving love, that look of Jesus pierced the inmost soul
of the denying, agnostic disciple, breaking up the fountains of his
heart, and sending him out to weep "bitterly." That look was the supreme
moment in Peter's life. It forgave, while it rebuked him; it passed
through his nature like refining fire, burning out what was weak, and
selfish and sordid, and transforming Simon, the boaster, the man of
words, into Peter, the man of deeds, the man of "rock."
But if in the outer court truth is thrown to the winds, within the
palace justice herself is parodied. It would seem as if the first
interview of Caiaphas with Jesus were private, or in the presence at
most of a few personal attendants. But at this meeting, as the High
Priest of the New was arraigned before the high priest of the Old
Dispensation, nothing was elicited. Questioned as to His disciples and
as to His doctrine, Jesus maintained a dignified silence, only speaking
to remind His pseudo-judge that there were certain rules of procedure
with which he himself was bound to comply. He would not enlighten him;
what He had said He had said openly, in the Temple; and if he wished to
know he must appeal to those who heard Him, he must call his witnesses;
an answer which brought Him a sharp and cruel blow from one of the
officers, the first of a sad rain of blows which bruised His flesh and
made His visage marred more than any man's.
The private interview ended, the doors were thrown open to the mixed
company of chief priests, elders, and scribes, probably the same as had
witnessed the arrest, with others of the council who had been hastily
summoned, and who were known to be avowedly hostile to Jesus. It
certainly was not a properly constituted tribunal, a council of the
Sanhedrim, which alone had the power to adjudicate on questions purely
religious. It was rather a packed jury, a Star Chamber of self-appointed
assessors. With the exception that witnesses were called (and even these
were "false," with discrepant stories which neutralized their testimony
and made it valueless), the whole proceedings were a hurried travesty of
justice, unconstitutional, and so illegal. But such was the virulent
hate of the hierarchy of the Temple, they were prepared to break through
all legalities to gain their end; yea, they would even have broken the
tables of the law themselves, if they might only have stoned the
Nazarene with the fragments, and then have buried Him under the rude
cairn. The only testimony they could find was that He had said He would
destroy the temple made with hands, and in three days build another made
without hands (Mark xiv. 58); and even in this the statements of the two
witnesses did not agree, while both were garbled misrepresentations of
the truth.
Hitherto Jesus had remained silent, and when Caiaphas sprang from his
seat, asking, "Answerest Thou nothing?" seeking to extract some broken
speech by the pressure of an imperious mien and browbeating words,
Jesus answered by a majestic silence. Why should He cast His pearls
before these swine, who were even now turning upon Him to rend Him? But
when the high priest asked, "Art Thou the Christ?" Jesus replied, "If I
tell you, ye will not believe: and if I ask you, ye will not answer. But
from henceforth shall the Son of man be seated at the right hand of the
power of God;" thus anticipating His enthronement far above all
principalities and powers, in His eternal reign. The words "Son of man"
struck with loud vibrations upon the ears of His enraged jurors,
suggesting the antithesis, and immediately all speak at once, as they
clamour, "Art Thou, then, the Son of God?" a question which Caiaphas
repeats as an adjuration, and which Jesus answers with a brief, calm,
"Ye say that I am." It was a Divine confession, at once the confession
of His Messiahship and a confession of His Divinity. It was all that His
enemies wanted; there was no need of further witnesses, and Caiaphas
rent his clothes and asked his echoes of what the blasphemer was worthy?
And opening their clenched teeth, his echoes shouted, "Death!"
The lingering dawn had not broken when the high priest and his barking
hounds had run their Prey down to death--that is, as far as they were
allowed to go; and as the meeting of the full council could not be held
till the broad daylight, the men who have Jesus in charge extemporize a
little interlude of their own. Setting Jesus in the midst, they mock
Him, and make sport of Him, heaping upon that Face, still streaked with
its sweat of blood, all the indignities a malign ingenuity can suggest.
Now they "cover His face" (Mark xiv. 65), throwing around it one of
their loose robes; now they "blindfold" Him, and then strike "Him on
the face" (xxii. 64), as they derisively ask that He will prophecy who
smote Him; while, again, they "spit in His face" (Matt. xxvi. 67),
besmearing it with the venom of unclean, hissing lips! And amid it all
the patient Sufferer answers not a word; He is silent, dumb, the Lamb
before His shearers.
Soon as the day had fairly broke, the Sanhedrists, with the chief
priests, meet in full council, to give effect to the decision of the
earlier conclave; and since it is not in their power to do more, they
determine to hand Jesus over to the secular power, going to Pilate in a
body, thus giving their informal endorsement to the demand for His
death. So now the scene shifts from the palace of Caiaphas to the
Prætorium, a short distance as measured by the linear scale, but a far
remove if we gauge thought or if we consider climatic influences. The
palace of Caiaphas lay toward the Orient; the Prætorium was a growth of
the Occident, a bit of Western life transplanted to the once fruitful,
but now sterile East. Within the palace the air was close and mouldy;
thought could not breathe, and religion was little more than a mummy,
tightly bound by the grave-clothes of tradition, and all scented with
old-time cosmetics. Within the Prætorium the atmosphere was at least
freer; there was more room to breathe; for Rome was a sort of libertine
in religion, finding room within her Pantheon for all the deities of
this and almost any other world. In matters of religion the Roman power
was perfectly indifferent, her only policy the policy of _laissez
faire_; and when Pilate first saw Jesus and His crowd of accusers he
sought to dismiss them at once, remitting Him to be judged "according to
your law," putting, doubtless, an inflection of contempt upon the
"your." It was not until they had shifted the charge altogether, making
it one of sedition instead of blasphemy, as they accuse Jesus of
"perverting our nation, and forbidding to give tribute to Cæsar," that
Pilate took the case seriously in hand. But from the first his
sympathies evidently were with the strange and lonely Prophet.
Left comparatively alone with Pilate--for the crowd would not risk the
defilement of the Prætorium--Jesus still maintained a dignified reserve
and silence, not even speaking to Pilate's question of surprise,
"Answerest Thou nothing?" Jesus would speak no word in self-defence, not
even to take out the twist His accusers had put into His words, as they
distorted their meaning. When, however, He was questioned as to His
mission and Royalty He spoke directly, as He had spoken before to
Caiaphas, not, however, claiming to be King of the Jews, as His enemies
asserted, but Lord of a kingdom which was not of this world; that is,
not like earthly empires, whose bounds are mountains and seas, and whose
thrones rest upon pillars of steel, the carnal weapons which first
upbuild, and then support them. He was a King indeed; but His realm was
the wide realm of mind and heart; His was a kingdom in which love was
law, and love was force, a kingdom which had no limitations of speech,
and no bounds, either of time or space.
Pilate was perplexed and awed. Governor though he was, he mentally did
homage before the strange Imperator whose nature was imperial, whatever
His realm might be. "I find no fault in this Man," he said, attesting
the innocence he had discovered in the mien and tones of his Prisoner;
but his attestation only awoke a fiercer cry from the chief priests,
"that He was a seditious person, stirring up the people, and preparing
insurrection even from Galilee to Jerusalem." The word Galilee caught
Pilate's ear, and at once suggested a plan that would shift the
responsibility from himself. He would change the _venue_ from Judæa to
Galilee; and since the Prisoner was a Galilean, he would send Him to the
Tetrarch of Galilee, Herod, who happened to be in Jerusalem at the time.
It was the stratagem of a wavering mind, of a man whose courage was not
equal to his convictions, of a man with a double purpose. He would like
to save his Prisoner, but he _must_ save himself; and when the two
purposes came into collision, as they did soon, the "might" of a timid
desire had to give way to the "must" of a prudential necessity; the
Christ was pushed aside and nailed to a cross, that Self might survive
and reign. And so "Pilate sent Him to Herod."
Herod was proud to have this deference shown him in Jerusalem, and by
his rival, too, and "exceeding glad" that, by a caprice of fortune, his
long-cherished desire, which had been baffled hitherto, of seeing the
Prophet of Galilee, should be realized. He found it, however, a
disappointing and barren interview; for Jesus would work no miracle, as
he had hoped; He would not even speak. To all the questions and threats
of Herod, Jesus maintained a rigid and almost scornful silence; and
though to Pilate He had spoken at some length, Jesus would have no
intercourse with the murderer of the Baptist. Herod had silenced the
Voice of the wilderness; he should not hear the Incarnate Word. Jesus
thus set Herod at nought, counting him as a nothing, ignoring him
purposely and utterly; and stung with rage that his authority should be
thus contemned before the chief priests and scribes, Herod set his
Victim "at nought," mocking Him in coarse banter; and as if the whole
proceeding were but a farce, a bit of comedy, he invests Him with one of
his glittering robes, and sends the Prophet-King back to Pilate.
For a brief space Jesus finds shelter by the judgment-seat, removed from
the presence of His accusers, though still within hearing of their
cries, as Pilate himself keeps the wolves at bay. Intensely desirous of
acquitting his Prisoner, he leaves the seat of judgment to become His
advocate. He appeals to their sense of justice; that Jesus is entirely
innocent of any crime or fault. They reply that according to their law
He ought to die, because He called Himself the "Son of God." He appeals
to their custom of having some prisoner released at this feast, and he
suggests that it would be a personal favour if they would permit him to
release Jesus. They answer, "Not this man, but Barabbas." He offers to
meet them half-way, in a sort of compromise, and out of deference to
their wishes he will chastise Jesus if they will consent to let Him go;
but it is not chastisement they want--they themselves could have done
that--but death. He appeals to their pity, leading Jesus forth, wearing
the purple robe, as if to ask, "Is it not enough already?" but they cry
even more fiercely for His death. Then he yields so far to their clamour
as to deliver up Jesus to be mocked and scourged, as the soldiers play
at "royalty," arraying Him in the purple robe, putting a reed in His
hand as a mock sceptre, and a crown of thorns upon His head, then
turning to smite Him on the head, to spit in His face, and to kneel
before Him in mock homage, saluting Him, "Hail, King of the Jews!" And
Pilate allows all this, himself leading Jesus forth in this mock array,
as he bids the crowd, "Behold your King!" And why? has He experienced
such a revulsion of feeling towards his Prisoner that he can now vie
with the chief priests in his coarse insult of Jesus? Not so; but it is
Pilate's last appeal. It is a sop thrown out to the mob, in hopes that
it may slake their terrible blood-thirst, a sacrifice of pain and shame
which may perhaps prevent the greater sacrifice of life; while at the
same time it is an ocular demonstration of the incongruity of their
charge; for His Kingship, whatever it might be, was nothing the Roman
power had to fear; it was not even to be taken in a serious way; it was
a matter for ridicule, and not for revenge, something they could easily
afford to play with. But this last appeal was futile as the others had
been, and the crowd only became more fierce as they saw in Pilate traces
of weakening and wavering. At last the courage of Pilate breaks down
utterly before the threat that he will not be Cæsar's friend if he let
this man go, and he delivers up Jesus to their will, not, however,
before he has called for water, and by a symbolic washing of his hands
has thrown back, or tried to throw back, upon his accusers, the crime of
shedding innocent blood. Weak, wavering Pilate--
"Making his high place the lawless perch
Of winged ambitions;"
overridden by his fears; governor, but governed by his subjects; sitting
on the judgment-seat, and then abdicating his position of judge; the
personification of law, and condemning the Innocent contrary to the law;
giving up to the extremest penalty and punishment One whom he has thrice
proclaimed as guiltless, without fault, and that, too, in the face of a
Heaven-sent warning dream! In the wild inrush of his fears, which swept
over him like an inbreaking sea, his own weak will was borne down, and
reason, right, conscience, all were drowned. Verily Pilate washes his
hands in vain; he cannot wipe off his responsibility or wipe out the
deep stains of blood.
And now we come to the last act of the strange drama, which the four
Evangelists give from their different stand-points, and so with varying
but not differing details. We will read it mainly from the narrative of
St. Luke. The shadow of the cross has long been a vivid conception of
His mind; and again and again we can see its reflection in the current
of His clear speech; now, however, it is present to His sight, close at
hand, a grim and terrible reality. It is laid upon the shoulder of the
Sufferer, and the Victim carries His altar through the streets of the
city and up towards the Mount of Sacrifice, until He faints beneath the
burden, when the precious load is laid upon Simon the Cyrenian, who,
coming out of the country, met the procession as it issued from the
gate. It was probably during this halt by the way that the incident
occurred, related only by our Evangelist, when the women who followed
with the multitude broke out into loud lamentation and weeping, the
first expression of human sympathy Jesus has received through all the
agonies of the long morning. And even this sympathy He gave back to
those who proffered it, bidding these "daughters of Jerusalem" weep not
for Him, but for themselves and for their children, because of the day
of doom which was fast coming upon their city and on them. Thus Jesus
pushes from Him the cup of human sympathy, as afterwards He refused the
cup of mingled wine and myrrh: He would drink the bitter draught
unsweetened; alone and all unaided He would wrestle with death, and
conquer.
It is somewhat singular that none of the Evangelists have left us a clue
by which we can recognize, with any certainty, the scene of the
Crucifixion. In our thoughts and in our songs Calvary is a mount,
towering high among the mounts of God, higher than Sinai itself. And
such it is, potentially; for it has the sweep of all the earth, and
touches heaven. But the Scriptures do not call it a "mount," but only a
"place." Indeed, the name of "Calvary" does not appear in Scripture,
except as the Latin translation of the Greek _Kranion_, or the Hebrew
_Golgotha_, both of which mean "the place of the skull." All that we can
safely say is that it was probably some rounded eminence, as the name
would indicate, and as modern explorations would suggest, on the north
of the city, near the tomb of Jeremiah.
But if the site of the cross is only given us in a casual way, its
position is noted by all the Evangelists with exactness. It was between
the crosses of two malefactors or bandits; as St. John puts it, in an
emphatic, Divine tautology, "On either side one, and Jesus in the
midst." Possibly they intended it as their last insult, heaping shame
upon shame; but unwittingly they only fulfilled the Scripture, which had
prophesied that He would be "numbered among the transgressors," and that
He would make His grave "with the wicked" in His death.
St. Luke omits several details, which St. John, who was an eye-witness,
could give more fully; but he stays to speak of the parting of His
raiment, and he adds, what the others omit, the prayer for His
executioners, "Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do," an
incident he probably had heard from one of the band of crucifiers,
perhaps the centurion himself.
With a true artistic skill, however, and with brief touches, he draws
for us the scene on which all ages will reverently gaze. In the
foreground is the cross of Jesus, with its trilingual superscription,
"This is the King of the Jews;" while close beside it are the crosses of
the thieves, whose very faces St. Luke lights up with life and
character. Standing near are the soldiers, relieving the _ennui_ with
cruel sport, as they rail at the Christ, offering Him vinegar, and
bidding Him come down. Then we have the rulers, crowding up near the
cross, scoffing, and pelting their Victim with ribald jests, the
"people" standing back, beholding; while "afar off," in the distance,
are His acquaintance and the women from Galilee. But if our Evangelist
touches these incidents lightly, he lingers to give us one scene of the
cross in full, which the other Evangelists omit. Has Jesus found an
advocate in Pilate? has He found a cross-bearer in the Cyrenian, and
sympathisers in the lamenting women? He finds now upon His cross a
testimony to His Messiahship more clear and more eloquent than the
hieroglyphs of Pilate; for when one of the thieves railed upon Him,
shouting out "Christ" in mockery, Jesus made no reply. The other
answered for Him, rebuking his fellow, while attesting the innocence of
Jesus. Then, with a prayer in which penitence and faith were strangely
blended, he turned to the Divine Victim and said, "Jesus, remember me
when Thou comest in Thy kingdom." Rare faith! Through the tears of his
penitence, as through lenses of light, he sees the new Dawn to which
this fearful night will give birth, the kingdom which is sure to come,
and which, coming, will abide, and he salutes the dying One as Christ,
the King! Jesus did not reply to the railer; He received in silence his
barbed taunts; but to this cry for mercy Jesus had a quick
response--"To-day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise," so admitting the
penitent into His kingdom at once, and, ere the day is spent, passing
him up to the abodes of the Blessed, even to Paradise itself.
And now there comes the hush of a great silence and the awe of a strange
darkness. From the sixth to the ninth hour, over the cross, and the
city, and the land, hung the shadow of an untimely night, when the
"sun's light failed," as our Evangelist puts it; while in the Temple was
another portent, the veil, which was suspended between the Holy Place
and the Most Holy, being rent in the midst! The mysterious darkness was
but the pall for a mysterious death; for Jesus cried with a loud voice
into the gloom, "Father, into Thy hands I commend My spirit," and then,
as it reads in language which is not applied to mortal man, "He gave up
the ghost." He dismissed His spirit, a perfectly voluntary Sacrifice,
laying down the life which no man was able to take from Him.
And why? What meant this death, which was at once the end and the crown
of His life? What meant the cross, which thus draws to itself all the
lines of His earthly life, while it throws its shadow back into the Old
Dispensation, over all its altars and its passovers? To other mortals
death is but an appendix to the life, a negation, a something we could
dispense with, were it possible thus to be exempt from the bond we all
must pay to Nature. But not so was it with Jesus. He was born that He
might die; He lived that He might die; it was for this hour on Calvary
that He came into the world, the Word being made flesh, that the sacred
flesh might be transfixed to a cross, and buried in an earthly grave.
Surely, then, it was not _as_ man that Jesus died; He died _for_ man; He
died as the Son of God! And when upon the cross the horror of a great
darkness fell upon His soul, and He who had borne every torture that
earth could inflict without one murmur of impatience or cry of pain,
cried, with a terrible anguish in His voice, "My God, My God, why hast
Thou forsaken Me?" we can interpret the great horror and the strange cry
but in one way: the Lamb of God was bearing away the sin of the world;
He was tasting for man the bitter pains of the second death; and as He
drinks the cup of the wrath of God against sin He feels passing over Him
the awful loneliness of a soul bereft of God, the chill of the "outer
darkness" itself. Jesus lived as our Example; He died as our Atonement,
opening by His blood the Holiest of all, even His highest heaven.
And so the cross of Jesus must ever remain "in the midst," the one
bright centre of all our hopes and all our songs; it must be "in the
midst" of our toil, at once our pattern of service and our inspiration.
Nay, the cross of Jesus will be "in the midst" of heaven itself, the
centre towards which the circles of redeemed saints will bow, and round
which the ceaseless "Alleluia" will roll; for what is "the Lamb in the
midst of the throne" (Rev. vii. 17) but the cross transfigured, and the
Lamb eternally enthroned?