[ p. 185 ]
THE end was not yet, though it came speedily—it hardly seems possible to us that a case of capital punishment could be rushed through in a few hours.
The Sanhedrin found itself face to face with a new difficulty. The “trial” of Jesus was still to be held, and it must be held in a Roman Court. Up to Jesus’ final declaration the way had seemed smooth. Any earthly form of Messiahship had political implications, and with political pretenders the Romans made exceedingly short shrift. But Heavenly Messiahship —Son of Man Messiahship—was a different matter, for it had no such implications. It was a purely religious offense, and Roman courts paid no attention to religious crimes. “Injuries to the gods are the affair of the gods,” was the Roman legal maxim. To go to Pilate and charge, “This man claims to be the Heavenly Son of Man” would mean only that they would be laughed out of court. It was in grave perplexity that the Sanhedrin “held a council,” in order to decide what to do next.
The decision arrived at was to carry out their original plans unaltered. Pilate would not know the difference between the two conceptions of Messiahship. Moreover, if he should prove recalcitrant, it would be [ p. 186 ] easy to apply pressure. Were he threatened with a riot, he would not spare an insignificant Galilean artisan, utterly without friends and influence. So to Pilate the prosecutors carried Jesus, with an accusation specifying perversion of the nation, interference with tribute, and claiming to be a king, offenses that to a Roman governor would outweigh murder a hundredfold.
Pilate was already at odds with the Jews, unpopular and knowing it, anxious to vent upon them his dislikes, yet of too weak a nature to defy them in the pinch. He listened to the indictment. Then he looked at the prisoner. A more unregal figure he could hardly have imagined, and with amazement he asked, “Thou art the king of the Jews?” [1] Jesus, unwilling even to seem to deny his commission, responded as before, “Thou sayest.” After that he was silent. [2] The prosecutors amplified their charges, but Pilate was as yet unconvinced: surely the man before him was only some harmless visionary. Finally, catching at the word “Galilean” and remembering Herod’s presence in the city, he sent the prisoner to the tetrarch, with a request for information. [3]
Herod merely made sport of the prisoner, disappointed [ p. 187 ] in his hope of seeing a miracle-worker, and vented his displeasure upon him by turning him over to the bodyguard of soldiers, who mockingly arrayed him in royal garments. He then sent him back to Pilate without, so far as we know, contributing anything to the latter’s understanding of the trial.
The rest was short business—short but cruel. Pilate tried once more to release the man, but the Jews cried out that if he did so he was likely to get into trouble with the Emperor. Again Pilate offered to chastise him before he was released, but that was not enough. Just then the holiday crowd came rushing in, demanding the release of a prisoner, as was the custom at the festival time, and Pilate, hoping against hope, offered them their choice of Jesus or a political prisoner called Barabbas. Urged on by the priests, they were quick to choose, and Barabbas was released and Jesus was delivered to be crucified.
The sentence was written down and formally read, “Thou shalt go to the cross.” The prisoner was then delivered to a centurion—a non-commissioned officer —for execution. The latter’s first act would have been to dispatch some of his men to the place of execution, to erect the upright beams of the crosses—three, because two robbers were condemned at the same time. The prisoners were then scourged; in Jesus’ case the soldiers, hearing that he had been condemned for claiming Kingship, mocked him and thrust a thorny crown on his head. At last, wearing the crown and [ p. 188 ] carrying the cross, [4] he moved out on the sorrowful way to Calvary.
There they crucified him, tying his arms to the crossbeam, then binding this into position on the upright, and finally binding the whole body in such a position that the course of the blood would slowly be stopped. As an added torture the hands and feet were nailed. [5] The two thieves were crucified with him, one on each side; with a mocking title, by Pilate’s orders, nailed to his cross, “The King of the Jews.”
On the way he had some small human comfort. [6] The women of Jerusalem wept in sympathy. Like the women of today, they were accustomed to minister to the suffering; and it was their practice to give soothing drink to those about to be executed. The women, therefore, were the ones, so it seems, who offered him a drugged wine. He declined, telling them to weep, not for him, but for their children. When he fell under the weight of the cross, Simon of Cyrene was impressed by the soldiers and made to give assistance, afterward (so tradition says) becoming a believer.
At nine o’clock he was crucified, praying for his murderers as the spikes were driven into his hands and feet: “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” A little later the brigand, who, with the other robber, had been reviling him, turned upon his [ p. 189 ] companion, reminding him that they were suffering justly. Then, won by the Saviour’s brave endurance as well as touched by his prayer for the executioners, he cried, “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy kingdom.” Quick as a flash the prayer was answered, “Today shalt thou be with me in paradise.”
So they hung for nearly three hours; and it was then that Jesus, seeing a gathering storm and knowing that the increasing agony would be too much for his mother to bear, sent her home with the beloved disciple, his closest friend, who, with some of the women of Galilee, was lingering near the cross. “Woman, behold thy son.” “Son, behold thy mother.”
It was noon and he had been hanging on the cross three hours, when the sky became overcast—a sirocco from the desert coming up, probably, which presaged the earthquake of which we are told later. For three more hours he hung in the darkness; then the watchers heard a loud cry of agony, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
A truthful record? Who can deny it? Who can imagine the invention of such a word from such a man? Who can deny the honesty of the loving hearts that recorded it, sharp as might have been their temptation to conceal it and let men forget its possible implications, its seeming show of weakness and loss of faith? The words have always been regarded as proof of Christ’s complete entrance into all human experience. They are a revelation of faith, not of despair; for they are quoted from one of the psalms (the Twenty-second) with which he was doubtless comforting [ p. 190 ] himself during his agony—an agony which suddenly became so sharp that this one verse rose in a loud sharp cry.
The other recorded words came quickly together at the end: “I thirst”—a cry which aroused the pity of the soldiers, who reached up to his lips a sponge soaked in sour wine. Then, in a sharp cry of agony, “It is finished.” And then a sentence of peaceful submission: “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit,” and he was gone. [7]
Later, the soldiers came to break the legs of the two dying robbers; and finding Jesus already dead, thrust the spear into his side. The disciple who had returned and was standing by, saw the blood and serum gush out; saw and for some reason found faith returning.
Greek, like Aramaic, has no special sentence form for questions. ↩︎
The dialogue in St. John between Pilate and Jesus may represent special information not known to the other Evangelists. Or it may be an interpretation in unambiguous language of the deeper points at issue. ↩︎
This was not an attempt to transfer the cause to Herod; a case begun in a Roman court must be concluded there. Moreover, Herod had no jurisdiction in Jerusalem. ↩︎
The crossbeam only. No one could, unaided, carry an entire cross. ↩︎
Crucifixion as a punishment was abolished centuries before it was represented in Christian art. ↩︎
From this point onward it seems best simply to repeat the story as told in the Gospels. ↩︎
The final words remind us again that Jesus was probably comforting his soul by repeating passages out of the sacred writings, as a sufferer today might whisper psalms, familiar hymns, or oft-used devotions. The psalm from which these words are taken is the Thirty-first, long used in the offices of the church at compline, the evening office: “Into thy hands I commend my spirit; for thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, thou God of truth.” In Jesus’ day the verse is said to have been used, especially by children, in the evening devotions. Is it not as if Jesus’ last words were said as one might now go back to the prayers said years before at a mother’s knee, “Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep”? ↩︎