Reliving The Passion #24

Mark 15:11–14

The chief priests stirred up the crowd to have him release for them Barabbas instead.

And Pilate again said to them, “Then what shall I do with the man whom you call the King of the Jews?”

And they cried out again, “Crucify him!”

And Pilate said to them, “Why? What evil has he done?”

But they shouted all the more, “Crucify Him!”

M orning. The sun stands at the eastern horizon, hard and hot; the entire eastern sky is white with its shining. The wind is out of the northwest, but it comes uncertainly and sometimes turns back on itself. Little clouds like human hands are rising in the west.

Jerusalem is near the end of the rainy season. It might—but it might not—rain today. The sun is solid, but other elements in heaven are troubled and unpredictable. Animals all over the city stamp and shiver. They twist their ears to a distant sound. A roaring. Thunder, perhaps? The onset of storm? No, it is a human noise. A hundred throats are roaring at Gabbatha. There is a mob there demanding its will of the Governor—humanity, making its choice.

Pontius Pilate stands before this crowd, confounded. He had expected to ease their antagonisms by offering amnesty. If they didn’t choose Jesus for release (he reasoned), yet they might forget him. And if they couldn’t forget him, they might at least be satisfied to take Barabbas as a triumph of sorts and calm their violent temper.

Well, they didn’t choose Jesus.

So Pilate asked them a question intended to test his success at cooling their mood. He said: “What’ll I do with the fellow you call King of the Jews?”—and then he took three steps backward, gaping.

Whether he asked it wrong, or whether there’s something deeper between the prisoner and the people than he can fathom, their thunderous answer stunned the governor. He stands now confounded, and all the beasts of Jerusalem shiver and stamp as before a storm. Such a roaring is shaking the morning! A hundred throats all bellowing one word.

Pilate glances left at the cause of this general fury—at Jesus of Nazareth, who stands solitary on the porch regarding this foaming sea of people, hearing (surely!) the horrible word they utter—and the governor shakes his head, bewildered. How could one man—?

“Why?” cries Pilate suddenly. He seriously means the question: “What evil has he done?”

But we are now at the climax of human hatreds. This rage requires no rationale. This hatred has no reason but itself. God and the children of Adam are enemies, for the children rebelled against their God—and enemies hate. That is enough to say. Treasons and charges and blasphemies are forgotten now. No answer is given Pilate’s question. The question is pointless in the heat of ancient enmities.

“Why?” cries Pontius Pilate, but rage redoubles itself. The storm increases. That single word is repeated merely, roared and roared the louder: no proof, no premise, no logic to support it. For this is the natural reaction of sinners in the presence of Holy God, and its passion alone is its validity. They scream:

Crucify! Crucify! Crucify! Crucify! Crucify!

O Jesus:

You gazed into the hundred hearts amassed before you, thick with fear and fury. Was mine among them? Yes. Mine was among them. I have desired your death in order to preserve my life, my way of life, my fulfillments, and my own control.

But you, like me, desired your death too!

By a mercy I cannot comprehend, you accepted my evil intent even to save my life! Well, I am therefore my own no more, but yours—no more an enemy, a friend to you forever.

Lord Jesus, how I love you!

Amen.