Sermonstudio

Bible dictionaries and commentaries are able to give us a little extra-biblical information about Pontius Pilate, so that we may augment the biblical materials with some elements of his life before he arrived in Palestine and after he departed. Added to that is the legend that he retired to a villa on Lake Lucerne, where a mountain bears his name. Whether he ever thought of Jesus after the trial we do not know, but if he was in fact forced to depart Rome and live in exile, he may have thought back on many of his mistakes and missed opportunities, the trial of Jesus among them.

For purposes of this sermon I imagined Pilate as an older, subdued servant of an empire that no longer welcomed him. He is disillusioned with politics and power. Certainly, he has had much opportunity for reflection. He does more than simply tell us his story; he gives testimony to the importance of integrity. The one-sentence summary that guided the development of this sermon is: "In spite of pressures to decide against Jesus, Pilate's sad story shows the importance of deciding for him."

Because some of the material in the sermon was based on legend, I included the following statement in the worship folder under the sermon title: "Legend says that Pontius Pilate died in exile near Lake Lucerne, and that on certain moonlit nights his body rises to the surface of the lake, endlessly washing hands that will not become clean."



Pilate's Story

Matthew 27:15-24


How good of you to come and see me. I'm surprised that anyone remembers us now. "Pontius Pilate and his wife Claudia," that is the way they used to announce us in Rome. But, since retirement, we don't get there much anymore. And what with Claudia's condition and all, it is better to stay here around Lake Lucerne. The Alpine air is just what the doctor ordered. Well, maybe not just what the doctor ordered. To tell the truth, it's what Caesar ordered. And it isn't so much retirement either; it's exile. We would love to be in Rome, but we can't go there. We are out of favor, and we are obliged to stay here. You see, there were some things that happened while I was serving in my last post -- in Judea. Let me tell you about them.

I had thought I was doing rather well -- a soldier rising from the middle class. I married Claudia, a granddaughter of Tiberius Caesar. She was a true aristocrat. I remember her own grandfather telling me at the wedding: "The best move a politician can make is to marry well." Eventually, I was appointed procurator of Judea, not a major assignment, but certainly a stepping-stone. I was anxious to do well -- to represent Rome with strength, efficiency, peace, and justice. I hoped during my tenure to gain enough in taxes and other benefits to live well upon our return to Rome.

From the beginning, it didn't go well. The ones who ran the country were the priests. As soon as I arrived in Caesarea, the administrative capital, a delegation came to see me. The high priest, Caiaphas, even loaned me money, "to meet my many expenses," he said. I soon learned that he had hooked me and would endlessly expect favors. I soon learned to bluff, scheme, cheat, and hate.

Soon after my arrival, I went up to Jerusalem. I discovered that, because of their religious peculiarities, there were no images of Caesar in the city. It was the only major city in the entire empire where that was so. I felt that was a situation which needed to be corrected, so one night I had some of my soldiers place large portraits of the emperor on the towers of the fortress, overlooking the Temple. The next day, 6,000 Jews gathered outside the fortress, praying and chanting for the removal of the portraits. It went on day and night. For five days, I refused to see them. Then, I told them to disperse, or I would have them killed. All 6,000 of them bared their necks and dared me to do it. I couldn't have word get back to Rome that I had killed 6,000 unarmed civilians, so I took down the portraits. But when word got back to Rome, I was perceived to have caused the problem. From that time on, I dreaded feast days, for every one brought new threats of revolt.

To get on the good side of the Jews, I suggested building an aqueduct to bring water to Jerusalem. The priests readily agreed. Since it was for their benefit, I took the funds from their temple treasury. Again, the Jews raised a protest. They were good at that. To keep it from becoming a riot, I sent soldiers, dressed as peasants, into the crowd with clubs. They beat the ringleaders and, without leaders, the protest lost momentum. Unfortunately, some Jews were hurt, and a few died. When word got back to Rome, the emperor was outraged and rebuked me for poor judgment. I learned to hate those priests, and I tried to thwart them at every turn.

During their Passover several years ago, Claudia and I went up to Jerusalem for the feast. One night Caiaphas came to me to talk about a case he was interested in. There was a man from Nazareth, named Jesus, whom the priests had been watching. They said that he was some kind of pretender to the Jewish throne. They had already arrested him, and tried him that night. He was found guilty of blasphemy, a charge I didn't understand. I told them to take care of it themselves; they had the power. But they didn't want to be the ones to kill him. They said he was seditious -- a political threat. They wanted me to hear the case and to find him guilty. Some justice, right? They wanted me to try him, and they were already telling me the verdict. I told him I wouldn't be part of their scheme. It was then that he reminded me of the loan. Moreover, he said, either I would convict the prisoner, or there would be a riot. The proud arm of Roman justice was to be a dirty dagger in the hands of those scheming priests.

When he left, Claudia and I talked. She said she knew of the man whom the priests wanted dead. The slave girl, who fixed her hair, had told her about him. A harmless fellow, a traveling preacher. Claudia has always been interested in talk of gods and such. She said she was quite taken by some of the interesting things she had heard about him. We didn't sleep much that night. We talked of Rome and parties, of career and compromise, and of the villa we hoped one day to own.

The next morning Caiaphas and his cronies came to the hall that I used when I judged cases in Jerusalem. They had several guards and a prisoner with his hands tied. The prisoner had obviously already been through interrogation. "What's the charge?" I said. "What difference does it make?" muttered Caiaphas. "We wouldn't have brought him to you if he weren't guilty." "Then judge him yourself," I said. I thought there should be some semblance of justice. The priest rolled his eyes toward the prisoner and whispered, "Don't you remember what we talked about last night? Do I need to go through all that again?"

"Are you the King of the Jews?" I asked the prisoner. "So you say," he responded. "It must be so," I said. "Your own people have handed you over to me." "My kingship is not of this world," he responded. "If it were, my servants would fight." Sensing that no case was being made, the priests began to list the charges: perverting the nation; forbidding the payment of tribute to Caesar; saying that he was Christ, a king. "So, you are a king then?" I said. "I am a witness to the truth," he answered. That phrase caught me. I had been looking for the truth all my life. For a while, I thought I knew what it was, but now it eluded me and left an emptiness. I had been in Judea for six years, and this was the first time I had found anyone interested in the truth. "What is truth?" I asked the prisoner. He didn't answer me. He just looked at me as though he doubted I would understand, even if he told me.

"Don't you hear the things they are saying about you?" I said. "Don't you want to make a defense?" He only looked at me. He answered nothing. I looked him over carefully. "I don't find any crime in him," I said. Caiaphas was enraged. "This is not going as we discussed it," he whispered. "He stirs up the people from Jerusalem to Galilee." "Is he from Galilee?" I asked. "Well, that's the territory of Herod, and he is down here for the holidays. Let's have him hear the case."

I sent the whole group off to Herod. The priests were livid that things hadn't gone as they planned, but there was nothing they could do about it.

While they were away, my wife sent me a message. After our late-night conversation, she had had bad dreams about the case and was urging me to beg off. "Don't do anything rash," she advised. "We've already had enough trouble here." I looked out the window from the judgment hall and noticed that quite a crowd was gathering in the courtyard below. Were they likely to be friends of this Nazarene, I wondered, or enemies?

Before long, the entourage returned from Herod, dissatisfied. He had been interested in interviewing the Nazarene, because the fellow was from his region. But Herod wasn't about to touch the case. "I'll be interested to see what you decide," he said. The prisoner was wearing a crown made out of thorn branches. Some of the thorns had pierced his skin, and there were small streams of blood on his brow. They had thrown an old cape over his shoulders. Even under those circumstances, there was something regal about the way he bore up under all this. For a moment, I wanted to spring to my feet and salute him. It occurred to me that the priests might settle for a compromise. "Herod has found nothing in the charges deserving of death," I said, "and neither do I. Why don't I have my soldiers rough him up a bit, teach him a lesson, show him we don't want any foolishness, and then let him go?" But that was not what they had in mind. This traveling preacher had challenged their authority, and they wanted him dead.

Still, I was not prepared to give in to them. It was my custom to show clemency on this feast day by releasing a prisoner in recognition of the Jewish release from captivity in Egypt. We had a fellow in custody by the name of Barabbas, an insurrectionist and murderer. "I am supposed to release a prisoner today," I announced. "It was going to be Barabbas. Why don't we make it Jesus instead?" But those crafty priests insisted that it be Barabbas.

"Why don't we see what the people say to that?" I suggested. I took Jesus out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard below. Signaling for the attention of the crowd, I called out: "Look at this man. He's called 'The King of the Jews.' Today I am going to release a prisoner. Should it be the King of the Jews or Barabbas?" At first the crowd wasn't sure what to say, but some of the priests, who had come out onto the balcony, began to shout, "Barabbas." Before long, the crowd had joined in the chant: "Barabbas." "And what shall I do with the King of the Jews?" I asked. "Crucify him!" shouted the priests. And soon the whole crowd was shouting, "Crucify him!"

I never could understand those people. I stepped back into the judgment hall. "By all rights this man should be set free," I said to the priests. "We have a law," said Caiaphas, "and by our law he ought to die, because he made himself out to be the Son of God." I looked over at the prisoner, now visibly weakened by his several beatings. He didn't look like a Son of God. "Where are you from anyway?" I asked him. He didn't answer me. "Don't you know that I have the power to release you or to crucify you?" I asked. "Your power over me comes from above," he said. What did that mean, I wondered: that my power came from the emperor? Of course, that was true. Or did he mean that my power came from the gods? Or as those Jews would have it, from their one God, who they felt ruled over everything? Well, for me, Caesar was both ruler and god. And it was in his name that I governed.

"I believe I'll release him," I said. "If you release him, you're no friend of Caesar," responded Caiaphas. "He has made himself out to be a king, and that puts him against the Emperor." It was pretty clear what he was saying. Whatever I decided that day was going to be reported to Rome, and it had better sound like I was supporting the Emperor's interests. "Do you want me to crucify your king?" I asked. "We have no king but Caesar," Caiaphas responded with an obsequious smile. What a laugh! This stiff-necked people, always on the verge of revolt, were so determined to get rid of that helpless prophet that they were willing to profess loyalty to the Emperor.

I was in a tough spot. Down in the courtyard, the crowd was becoming agitated. A riot could easily have broken out. Roman law would have supported releasing the man, but those priests could make it appear that I was not attentive to the Emperor's interest. My wife, with her religious sensibilities, had urged caution. The man was basically a decent fellow who had gotten crossways with the priests.

My career was on the line. If I did what I felt would be the right thing to do and let him go, I could lose my position. I needed some kind of dramatic action that could get me off the hook. I took a pitcher of water and a basin out onto the balcony, poured water into the basin, washed my hands in front of the crowd and said, "I am innocent of this man's blood. Do with him what you will." Oh, if only it could be that easy to absolve oneself of responsibility! I have discovered that to go against conscience leaves a stain that is not so easily washed away.

I stepped back inside, signed the order releasing Barabbas, and signed the order for the execution of the King of the Jews. The priests had won. As the party was about to lead the prisoner away, I told them to wait a moment. I took a piece of papyrus and wrote the words "King of the Jews" on it. "Put this at the top of the cross," I said. "It will identify his crime." Caiaphas, who was momentarily satisfied with the way things were working out, took exception to the statement. "Why don't you write, 'He said I am King of the Jews'?" I hadn't won much that day. If the statement dissatisfied the priests, so much the better. "Let it be as I have written it," I said.

As they left, the Nazarene looked at me. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes was one of pity rather than hatred. He glanced at my hands. I'll feel the weight of his eyes on my hands for as long as I live. He knew, and I knew, that justice had not been served that day. Both of us were victims. I should have judged in his favor, but I felt that I couldn't afford to. As a result, justice and truth both suffered.

I never saw the Nazarene again, although I've seen him often in my thoughts. And Claudia -- she has seen him often in her dreams. Poor Claudia. She was overwhelmed by the whole thing. She feels that I condemned some kind of spiritual king. Since that time, Claudia has become afraid of the dark. She can sleep only in a lighted room. You see, the day the Nazarene was executed, the daylight vanished! The sun just went away for several hours. I don't know how or why. I only know that it became dark as a cave as I was trying to explain to Claudia why I had to do what I did. But she only railed at me about her dream. Since then, we have felt as though we were under a curse.

I wasn't much good at governing after that. A short time after the execution of that country preacher, there was a disturbance in Samaria. I felt that the Samaritans were about to revolt, so I sent soldiers to break up a gathering at their temple. They resisted; there was violence; some of them were killed and fell on the altar where they were making a sacrifice. "Sacrificed on their own altar." That's how the word got back to Rome.

The emperor felt that I had had more than enough opportunity to make things work in Judea. I was called home, and then sent here to Lucerne, far from Rome, to live out my exile. It isn't so bad, really. Oh, we miss Rome, but the air here is good. It is supposed to cure whatever ails you. One problem is that there is so much time here to think. I walk by the lake. I put my hands in the water and I am reminded again of that day in Jerusalem. Nothing will wash it away.

I have relived that day a thousand times. If I had it to do over again, it would be different. Does that surprise you? Pilate, the hard-bitten Roman soldier, the proud, career-oriented politician, has feelings of remorse? Well, it's true! Power, wealth, prestige, physical well-being, all those things with which we Romans are so occupied -- they are all fleeting. I was anxious to have all of them, so I forfeited other things: honor, justice, truth, personal integrity, for material advancement, and I lost it all. That Nazarene spoke of a kingdom not of this world, a realm where justice and truth and integrity are valued, but I was too busy trying to keep my position to pay much attention to what he had to say. Yes, sir, if I could do it over, I'd sit at his feet and listen to what he had to say.

You know, sometimes I have the feeling that he is near, that one day I'll turn around and he will be there, and I'll tell him I handled things badly, and he'll listen and understand. Maybe that kingdom he spoke about is not so far away. I missed it once. I won't miss it again.