Pilate’s wife
Pilate’s wife was spiritually sensitive. She was not Jewish; she had no reason to trust or even listen to Judaism’s chief proponents. I can imagine her wanting to hear Jesus speak herself, and being unable to go because she was the wife of the governor. She could send her servants, and they could report back to her. She could pounce on the spies’ reports her husband received. I imagine her being closer to her husband than the average wife of the time, because they’re both outsiders in an insular, resentful society. I bet she loved to hear what was being talked about. In what she heard of Jesus, she felt something; I imagine her asking to hear what he said. She dreamed about Jesus the night before his trial before Pilate. She cautioned her husband. Pilate was already pretty cautious in handling Jesus, because of the wildly conflicting reports of his power and his disruptive teachings. Pilate probably privately agreed that the Pharisees and Sadducees were morally bankrupt, as a group. But it was Roman policy to allow religious leaders a lot of leeway, to prevent uprisings and keep the peace. The Sanhedrin was the recognized religious authority in what was trying to be a theocracy. I can imagine Pilate wishing Jesus were more obviously powerful or more obviously crazy; it would make Pilate’s job easier. Instead the Savior was pure, like a crystal, all good, and nearly silent, having said all that he needed to. He confirmed Pilate’s supposition that Jesus was King of the Jews; I imagine Pilate had no doubt of it. But this King was allowing his people, the people he claimed as his own, to call for his death. What’s a mere governor to do? If this man, self-proclaimed son of God, the one over-arching God the Jews claimed to worship, was not going to save himself from crucifixion, Pilate would have to kill him. The Jewish leaders had tried and condemned Jesus. According to Roman law, they couldn’t legally kill him. They were unwilling to break that law if they could persuade Pilate to do it for them. Pilate stood on a knife’s edge. If he kept Jesus alive, the Jews would revolt and a lot of people would die; even more would suffer, as the Romans would certainly crack down on them. If he allowed Jesus to be killed, the Sanhedrin would temporarily be calm, Pilate hoped.
The Sanhedrin also stood on a knife’s edge; they couldn’t allow Jesus to continue preaching their overthrow; they would lose everything. But they couldn’t outright kill him; he was right. He had the power to heal; he loved people. He taught them freely and he even fed them, repeatedly. The masses of people loved him. But he challenged their theology; he claimed to be the son of God, and didn’t do any of the freeing from oppression that the leaders were looking for. The Pharisees and Sadducees were still under Roman rule. What kind of King doesn’t rule his people?
And so Jesus was scourged, a kind of increased suffering to reduce his time on the cross, and then crucified. I imagine the soldiers had to be psyched up to crucify someone. They had heard of Jesus and had to show themselves that he could be hurt, that he could be mocked, before they could actually kill him.
Was the centurion in charge of the execution the same centurion whose daughter had been raised from the dead? Was he hating his duty that day? And yet, like Pilate, he saw that Jesus did not object, not even to cry out. What a weird experience, so unlike the unrepentant who railed and sobbed and begged for release.
The women who watched afar off, the Marys, one of whom went home with John the Beloved to be cared for as his own mother, saw where the body was laid, and then hurried home to prepare for the Sabbath, the saddest Sabbath of their lives. The light had gone out. I imagine them sitting around, talking in low voices about previous Sabbaths with the Savior, walking through the grain, Jesus telling the authorities that the Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sabbath, and that He was the Lord of the Sabbath anyway, so whatever he did on the Sabbath was right. How could this be right? He’s dead. He’s not here. He’s never going to be here again. He taught about a resurrection, but… we’ve never seen it, and who will raise him as he raised Lazarus?
The disciples, who left everything to follow him through the countryside, and then walked through in pairs, teaching what he taught; what do we do now? Do we keep teaching? Do we go back to our mundane, unmiraculous lives? Was this all just a three-year interlude, and now the earth’s back to suffering again?
And those who arrived in Jerusalem too late, lame, mute, blind, stumbling with sickness, looking for healing, for forgiveness, for kindness and mercy; the one man who had all these things in abundance is dead. There will be no more meals with him on the hills of Galilee. The Jewish leaders were at fault; it was the Romans who killed him, but the Romans had left him alone for three years. It was the Pharisees and Sadducees who induced the Romans to do it. I bet the Pharisees and Sadducees lost more than Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea over this. The attempted monolith of the Sanhedrin shook.
The people who gathered to hear Jesus as if to drink pure fresh water, had no more water of life. I bet they talked among themselves, remembering Jesus, thinking about what he said, remembering more because he was suddenly gone. There would be a palpable disappointment. And yet, what he said made sense. It had value, even if he was gone. We can try again, and we can stop listening to the synagogue leaders who rejected him. What was it he said again? Forgive? Repent? Which things should we stop doing and which should we start doing?
Stop, Start, Continue. He prayed. All the time. We should pray, every day. He fed people; he didn’t hurt people. I should be nice to you, not raging. He forgave people, even when they pressed him and stole power from him. That woman that snuck up on him? He not only forgave her, he healed her. He taught everyone, even the lepers, the outcasts, the publicans. He ate with the rich, and welcomed the poor. He gave what he had, and multiplied it into enough for all. I can’t multiply what I have, but I can share it, and we will both have some.
It’s not the end of the world. Dawn will come; we will dress his body and we will remember him. Sleep now; dream of heaven.
