Chapter 11 of 15
Following my master's instructions, I pushed my way through the crowd to a place where a platform stood near the door that led through the palace wall to the praetorium. After a short wait, the door opened to a fanfare of horns and a roll of drums, heralding the arrival of the Procurator. Arrayed in his finest ceremonial attire, Pontius Pilate strode regally through the doorway, flanked by his standard-bearers; he climbed the steps to the platform and began to survey the multitudes as imperiously as if he were Caesar himself. A few servants struggled to carry his massive "judgment seat" up the steps, signaling that this was not to be merely an informal greeting from Pontius Pilate, but was rather an official appearance by the Roman Procurator of Judea.
After allowing the multitudes to cheer him for a few minutes, Pilate sank into the judgment seat and held up a hand for silence. Just as the crowd began to quiet, Roman soldiers dragged two prisoners from the palace, bound and shackled, and shoved them up onto the platform. On the left side stood Barabbas, a thief and murderer whom the Romans had recently condemned to die. On the right side of the platform, just in front of where I stood, was Jesus.
I had been told that Jesus was to be presented to the crowd, and thus I was not surprised to see him; however, I was dismayed by his appearance. A robe of royal purple hung from his shoulders, I took it to be a mockery of his supposed claim to be the King of the Jews. A ring of thorny branches had been pressed onto his head as if it were some kind of cruel crown. Little time had passed since I had seen him led away into the palace, but apparently it had been time enough for the Romans to scourge him: His body was covered with ragged gashes that oozed blood; his face was bruised and swollen.
And yet in marked contrast to Barabbas, who looked wildly about as he tried to understand what was happening to him, Jesus appeared to be calm and unafraid. Just as he had been when Herod mocked him. Just as he had been when the priests abused him. Just as he had been when we came to arrest him.
After quieting the crowd once more, the Procurator announced that, to demonstrate that Rome was merciful as well as powerful, he would spare the life of one condemned prisoner. And that we – the people of Israel who had gathered to celebrate the Passover festival – we could choose between Barabbas and Jesus. "I grant you the power to choose," he announced, "whether Barabbas or Jesus will live." It went without saying that the Procurator had also granted us the power to choose whether Barabbas or Jesus would die.
Now my master had predicted that the crowd would call for the release of Barabbas – who was, after all, a Judean, one of their own. But the crowd, in amazement from being conferred with this awesome and unexpected responsibility, appeared to be stunned into silence. For several moments there was no sound at all; then a low murmur arose as each man began to speak with his neighbor in hushed tones.
But then the silence was broken by a young woman who stood just behind me. I had noticed her earlier as I crossed the forum, she had been weeping softly into her hands, in a strange contrast to the merry festival that swirled around her. "Give us Jesus," I heard her say, in a voice so soft and unsteady that even I could barely hear her. I turned to look at her, her face was caked with dirt and streaked with tears, her eyes were dull and hazy. She looked around in some surprise, as if trying to determine who had spoken – but then she seemed to realize that the words had been hers, and she opened her mouth to speak again...
"Give us Jesus!" she shouted. And this time, I was certain that her words were heard by everyone in the forum.
And in that instant, my brother, I had the sudden, dreadful realization that the life of Jesus was in my hands. I had been instructed to cry for the freedom of Barabbas should the crowd hesitate to do so, but now I realized that if I added my voice to that of poor woman who stood behind me – if I took up her cry of "Give us Jesus!" – I was certain that the crowd would take up the cry with me. The Procurator, bound by his own promise, would have no choice but to release him.
Could this be what Pilate really wanted? Could it be that his desire to please his wife was stronger than his loyalty to his Emperor?
But when I glanced up at Pilate, who glared down at me from his judgment seat, I knew that I was mistaken. The Procurator, a shrewd judge of men, had read my indecision and had guessed at my intention. His eyes bore into me like daggers, they told me of the heavy price I would have to pay if I failed to do as I was told.
I have never been a timid soul, my brother – but as you know, neither have I been rash and defiant. But suddenly I was filled with a strength that I can neither explain nor fully describe, and I feared not the anger of the Procurator nor the sure retribution of my master. Instead of doing what was expected of me, I would do what was right. I would cry, "Give us Jesus," and the crowd would respond to my call, and the life of Jesus would be spared...
But then, my brother, I looked at Jesus.
And in that instant, everything changed.
He stared down at me not as a man who was caught up in events that were beyond his control, but as a man who was exactly where he wished to be.
He stared down at me not as man who had been broken, but as a man who still ruled his own fate.
And he stared down at me not as a man who feared to die, but as a man who believed that death was his very purpose.
In that instant, I was filled with an absolute certainty of what it was that Jesus wanted me to do.
I gathered my breath so that my voice would be heard even by those who stood at the farthest side of the forum.
"Give us Barabbas!" I cried.
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©2004 Henry Charles Mishkoff