Dear Theophilus,
My hands tremble as my eyes race
across this parchment. My heart sags as
Peter’s strength fails him, and yet somehow I am amazed that Jesus knew exactly
that such a thing would occur. I, too,
join your dismay at the crowd’s anger and willingness to exact their revenge
upon a man in their power—each blow sickens me as I think of the man’s
innocence. The leaders certainly take
great pride in their position, unwilling to admit that they might be in the
wrong.
But why doesn’t Jesus resist? Aren’t we supposed to struggle and fight for
our own lives? Why couldn’t Jesus show
them his power at this moment, drawing them back in awe as they realize who it
is they are condemning, helping them see how wrong they have been? Couldn’t the man who was strengthened by
angels blind them with glory unexpected?
I would have wanted to fight for my life, and he goes meekly to
death. It is beyond my comprehension,
Theophilus. I doubt this is the last
time I will say that.
The assembly, now certain that Jesus
had blasphemed and needing someone with more power than they had to condemn him
to death, took Jesus before Pilate, offering their accusations to him. They accused him of everything from
portraying their nation falsely to ordering them not to pay their taxes to
Rome, as well as claiming to be the Messiah.
Pilate, undoubtedly intrigued,
asked Jesus the same question—are you the
king of the Jews? I doubt the Romans
would take kindly to anyone else claiming to be king. The pages of history don’t reveal them to be
a very generous people in that manner.
Jesus, however, offered the same
answer that he had given the assembly—you
say so.
Pilate, lacking the man’s own words
to condemn him, told the crowd that the accusations they had made seemed
baseless to him. Theophilus, you can
imagine how angry this made the crowds!
They were so determined to be rid of Jesus that they were not about to
let some Roman stop them from destroying the prey they had within their
hands. The crowd told Pilate that his
teaching was stirring up the people throughout Judea, from Galilee to
Jerusalem.
At the word Galilee, Pilate’s ears
perked up. He saw a way out of this—for
if Jesus was a Galilean, then Jesus’ fate belonged in the hands of Herod. So Pilate sent the disappointed crowd on
their way, for Herod was in Jerusalem.
When the crowd presented Jesus to
Herod, he was glad to see the man, for word had been circling for some time and
Herod was hoping that Jesus might do some act or sign before him so that Herod
could know for himself if the rumors were true or not. Theophilus, I have to say that my attitude
would probably be similar to Herod’s—I’d ask Jesus to prove who he was,
too. So Herod was probably quite
frustrated, as I would have been, when he questioned Jesus for some time only
to be stonewalled. Jesus was not
answering Herod’s questions, and the entire conversation was covered in the
shouts and accusations of the other religious leaders. Herod’s unsatisfied curiosity quickly turned
to disdain, and he joined with his soldiers in mocking the man. Finding no solution to the questions he had
and unwilling to condemn the man to death, he dressed him in a purple robe and
sent him back to Pilate.
It’s rumored that this event caused
Herod and Pilate, once enemies, to become friends. They both had a curiosity about Jesus and
were both frustrated at their attempts to discover the truth of his
identity. I wonder if it would have been
different had the crowd of scribes and Pharisees not been breathing down their
necks. No matter, I suppose. You say that this is the path it had to
travel, but I can’t help but see so many places where Jesus could have
escaped. Perhaps this does make the
story all the more powerful—I can’t help but wonder what kind of man he
was. I would do everything in my power
to save my own skin, but I see the story at the human level, rather than one
that involves deities descending from heaven to save humanity. My mind doesn’t expand, and so I silently
implore Jesus to run, to flee, to save himself.
It’s what I would do.
Sincerely,
Luke
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