Noise (Holy Week, #4)

Pilate addressed them once more, desiring to release Jesus, but they kept shouting, “Crucify, crucify him!” a third time he said to them, “why, what evil has he done?  I have found in him no guilt deserving death.  I will punish and release him.”  But they were urgent, demanding with loud cries that he should be crucified.  And their voices prevailed.  Luke 23:20-23

Noise.

They could use it as an excuse later—Pilate, Herod, even some of those priests and elders who stirred up the crowd.  Not all were equally invested in Messiah’s death—everything was happing so fast, they could say.  All those charges and countercharges, and it was all so confusing, you know?  Some said this and others said that, and some of it was blatant lies but nobody seemed to care.  You’d need a flowchart to keep track of it all, and even that would have been difficult because of all the

noise.

Voices on every side, from every perspective.  Rumors of violence, reports of slaughter, insane gloating and mock outrage and real fear:

“Who’ll help me blow up the White House?”

“The death toll in Syria has reached 250,000 . . .”

“F—you!  And your f—ing Democrats too!”

“USA! USA! USA!”

“Is this America?”

“Love Trumps Hate!”

“Crucify him!  Crucify, crucify, crucify!

Noise.  Maybe wiser heads would have prevailed in the Sanhedrin without the

noise.  Maybe Pilate would have listened to his better angels were it not for the

noise.  Perhaps a few in the crowd would have been moved to compassion, but

noise—staticy, rattly, stomping, pounding, amplified, magnified,

hysterical, chimerical, scouring, devouring,

whipping itself up until

our heads frothed and ached and rang and cried out in protest,

and we didn’t know—we just didn’t know

what

to

do.

If we would only look to the Silence in the center of it all.

Kings of Earth

Then the whole company of them arose and brought him before Pilate.  And they began to accuse him, saying, “We found this man misleading our nation and forbidding us to give tribute to Caesar, and saying that he himself is Messiah, a king.”  Luke 23:1-2

Not even a conscientious procurator should have to rise this early.  Pilate barely has his eyes open all the way before his body servant brings word that the entire Sanhedrin (or so it seems) is standing on his porch.  And here he’s been congratulating himself on getting through Passover without an incident.  “What do they want?”

The servant isn’t sure.  They have a prisoner . . .

Pilate groans.  He takes his time getting dressed, makes them wait.  They are in the outer courtyard, his servant says.  He knows what that means—on certain holy days, they consider it defilement to cross the threshold of a Gentile.  They must keep themselves lily-white. These Jews are the most arrogant people he’s ever encountered—with, to his mind, the least to be arrogant about.  When he finally emerges from the shadows of his house, they all begin talking at once.  He calls for a chair and raises a hand to quiet them.

“Where is the prisoner?”

The priests and scribes part down the middle.  Pilate blinks in surprise.  He was expecting a hulky, surly zealot like Barabbas, the notorious troublemaker awaiting execution.  This man doesn’t look capable of overturning a sheepfold: shrunken, beat up, clad in a torn filthy garment—and utterly silent.

Jesus of Nazareth, is it?  Pilate has instructed his men to keep an eye on him ever since that showy entrance into the city earlier in the week.  But the man roused no rabble or called no one to arms; he only seemed interested in hanging around the temple and irritating the priests—a project the Governor heartily approves.

But regardless of sentiments he has a job to do.  He forces himself to listen to the accusations: subverting the nation  (pretty vague, that one) . . . opposing the payment of taxes (serious, if true) . . . claiming to be Messiah—

“Messiah?” he asks.  Has heard the term, a little unclear on what it means.

“A king, your Excellency.”

That’s a stretch.  Messiah has a more spiritual meaning, if he remembers correctly.  “So,” he addresses the prisoner, “are you the ‘King of the Jews’?”

The term is a joke, whether the plaintiffs know it or not.  The late unlamented Herod the Great called himself King of the Jews, but after he was dead Caesar determined that none of his surviving sons (survivors, more like) would take that title.  But Pilate’s grim half-smile melts when the wretched prisoner raises his head.  There is an unnerving stillness about him, rock-solid and ages deep, that pulls the Governor a little off balance.

“You have said it,” he whispers.

It’s almost—almost—as though the prisoner shares the joke.  But Pilate senses no irony about him.  Because on another level . . . he affirms it.  As though he really were a king of some sort.

He speaks with authority,” they said of him. 

“What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us?” 

“Who is this, that the wind and sea obey him?”

Irritably Pilate shakes his head.  This is ridiculous; anyone can see the man is harmless.  Perhaps even “holy”—that austere word the Jews apply to their god.  “I see no grounds for condemning this man,” he says, standing to reinforce that judgment.

But they won’t be dismissed so easily.  “Your Excellency, he’s far more dangerous than he looks!  He stirs up the people everywhere he goes, starting from his home in Galilee.”

“Galilee?”  The word opens a door of escape; Galilee, that region of firebrands and zealots, is not his jurisdiction.  “The man is Herod’s subject, and you’re in luck: Herod is in the city this moment.  Take the man there.  I’ve give you a detachment of guards.  Now go—Go!”

pilate

An hour or so later, while finishing his breakfast, Pilate hears the sound he has dreaded ever since his posting to Judea: the rumble of a mob.

It has not been a peaceful morning; after the Jews reluctantly left the pavement, his wife declined to join him for breakfast.  She wasn’t feeling well, her note said, adding this: I got almost no sleep last night.  I kept dreaming of a bedraggled Galilean brought before you, and now I hear it’s true!  Have nothing to do with him, I beg you.

And now another note, brought by his secretary:

To Pontius Pilate, procurator of Judea, greeting:

I rejoiced to receive Jesus of Nazareth from your generous hand, for I’ve heard much about him.  The tales from Galilee are almost too rich to believe!  But it seems I must use the term “rich” to describe the Jews’ fear of him. He may have performed “signs” for them in Galilee but it appears his bag of tricks is empty.  He’s a harmless has-been, no threat to anyone.  I suggest you have him flogged—that may satisfy the Jews—and let him go.

Your servant, Herod Antipas.

So here is the Nazarene, back again, sporting more bruises and a purple robe.  That is an extravagant touch: Herod’s idea of a joke.  Pilate never liked the old fox, but must admit Herod has offered good advice, even while shrugging the responsibility back to Rome.  Flog and go:  it’s time to bring this sideshow to a quick and decisive end.

From that day on, Pilate and Herod are friends.  Funny thing: it’s the Nazarene who brought them together, like he brought the Pharisees and priests together.  Opponents unified in opposition–and so it will ever be.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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From His Own Mouth

When day came, the assembly of the elders of the people gathered together, both chief priests and scribes.  And they led him away to their council, and they said, “If you are the Christ, tell us.”  Luke 22:66-67a

It has been a long night.  Everyone is exhausted.

Later, that will be their excuse, if they feel bad enough to make an excuse.  It was a long stretch there, between the preliminary hearing before the high priest and the gathering of the Sanhedrin; all night long official personages were coming and going, sending out messengers, murmuring together in urgent counsel.  As usual, the guards and grunts were completely in the dark.  They just had their orders: seize him, hold him, bring him.  It was all done in darkness, stabbed with torchlight that sliced the narrative in pieces: a mission—a kiss—shouts, and the flash of a sword—someone’s ear cut off (they say)—someone’s ear replaced (couldn’t be)—more shouts—more swords—mission accomplished.

At the center of it all, the man they call Messiah.  He came quietly.  No resistance.  But at the same time, there’s something very unquiet and resistant about him.  Like a lion in a lambskin.  The guards– listening with stony faces to the questions jabbed at him by the high priest in theological language that flies over their heads–could well believe their charge was dangerous, even though he never opened his mouth.

So, when they are finally allowed to stand down, they have a little fun with the prisoner.  Blind-man’s bluff, with sticks.  It gets rough . . . after all, if it hadn’t been for this man they would be enjoying a good night’s rest.  So, they say he’s a prophet?  Smack!  Who was that who hit you, prophet?  Whack him on the back of the knees and see if he keeps his balance.  Trip him up, jerk him back, dance him like a puppet.  Not so powerful now, is he?  Why were we afraid?  And why—if we’re honest—do we fear now?  Fear drives the rod as much as scorn.  More so?  More so.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Sanhedrin

A bedraggled Jesus-of-Nazareth now stands before the Sanhedrin; his robe askew, his tunic ripped, bruises on his legs and a welt rising on his cheek.  The council pretends not to notice because they are riveted on the serious business at hand.  A small delegation of elites has been up all night.  They’ve called witnesses (and secretly paid them), but when the witnesses start contradicting each other they are dismissed.  The accusers haul up old charges to hurl at him: didn’t you desecrate the Sabbath?  Didn’t you incite the destruction of the temple?  Didn’t you claim you could build it again in a mere three days?

Too all this, he answers nothing.  His silence throws them; they are expecting clever repartee of the kind he’s displayed all week.  They have prepared themselves for it.  But, snaky as ever, he confounds them once again.  The chief priest dismisses all the nattering witnesses.  After a brief conference with the highest-ranking member of the Sanhedrin, they decide to go for the simple and direct.

“Are you Messiah?” Caiaphas asks.  “Tell us.”

As they watch, the bruised head lifts, the cracked lips open.  “If I tell you, you will not believe.  If I ask, you will not answer.  But I am headed for my rightful place at the right hand of the Power.”

They lean forward with a collective gasp.  Has he, after all this fuss and bother, just condemned himself?  Their voices trip over each other, asking the same question: “Are you the ‘son of God,’ then?”

His answer comes so softly only those who are closest to him hear it.  The high priest bolts upright, his face a mask of horror as he takes his robe in both hands and dramatically tears it along the seam.  “Blasphemy!  He claims to be God!  His own mouth condemns him!”

Ironic: the only charge that sticks is the one that happens to be true.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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