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Pamela J. Tinnin

An old cleaning woman sees everything that happens the day Jesus is brought before Pilate. She never lets on that she has met the accused man before.

So, you heard about the trial? Oh, I was there all right -- heard every word. I have been cleaning woman at the praetorium since the widow Riyhad died. I know everything that goes on in that place. They pay me no mind -- I'm just one more widow woman.

All this craziness. I think it's just a sign of the times -- things are getting way out of hand, have been a long time now. Crazy John the Baptist crying out for repentance and dunking people in the river, saying they were born again, when anyone in their right mind knows that's impossible. Always some nut claiming to be the Messiah. Conjurers and magicians in the streets, yelling themselves hoarse trying to drum up business, saying they could foretell the future, heal by a touch, or cast a spell on your enemies -- after you give them a coin, of course.

I wouldn't want to be in Pilate's shoes -- I mean, he's a powerful man, sets his own wages and married into money -- but trying to keep the Romans happy, and convince the Jews they never had it so good. And that wife of his -- well, she can't be easy to live with. Always nagging him with those dreams -- dipping into the wine too often, I say.

And if he didn't have troubles enough, they went and arrested that Nazarene. Pilate tried to wash his hands of him. He thought he took care of it when he sent the Jew on to Herod, but they don't call Herod "The Fox" for nothing. Here Jesus stood before Pilate again, smelly, unshaved, in rags, looking the worse for wear ...

What is it about this Jesus? He didn't even try to fight back, just stood there quiet, trying to rub some feeling into his arms where the leather bindings pulled tight. Pilate's not a patient man. He blurts out, "So you're King of the Jews?" And then that answer -- "My kingship is not of this world." Then Pilate snorts, "So you are a king?" You don't get much past Pilate, that's for sure. Then another answer that just didn't make sense: "You say I am a king -- but I came to bear witness to the truth."

Then they just stared at each other for the longest time, that Jew without a hope in the world of walking away from this kind of trouble, and Pilate, probably hoping against hope that the man in front of him, reeking of blood and sweat and muck, would disappear in a puff of smoke.

Nobody moved, or said a thing. A big blow fly up near the ceiling buzzed loudly and slowly in the heat; the clop of horses' hooves sounded through the window; and still the Jew stood there, scuffing one bare foot in the dust, and saying nothing. The carpenter held his ground, kept looking Pilate right in the eye. And Pilate ... he turned away first. I almost didn't hear what Pilate said at the last; it wasn't much more than a whisper, "What is truth?" And you know, he sounded almost sad.

The truth? Pilate had the power, and Jesus had nothing. We all knew how it was going to end from the beginning. It would have taken a miracle, and though some said the carpenter had done miracles, there weren't any that day. There were plenty who wanted his blood, even in the synagogue, you could see that. He must have stepped on some pretty important toes.

I don't think Pilate cared one way or another. He isn't a bad sort, least no worse than any other prefect, as long as you stay out of his way. As my man Caleb used to say, "You've got to go along to get along."

Pilate tried to set Jesus free. The high priests didn't have enough to convict him. But, no, they wouldn't have it, and Pilate gave in. Now it's just a matter of time -- they'll crucify him for sure.

There's something I haven't told anyone. Can you keep a secret? You look like I can trust you. I didn't say anything when they brought him in, but I recognized the Nazarene right off. I met him once before. It was an early morning, three years or so ago, before I came to Jerusalem to be near my son. I went down to the shore like I used to when the fishing was good. I could usually pick up a bit of work mending nets. They'd give me fish, enough to dry and to sell for a few coins.

That's when I saw him, talking to those two boys of Zebedee's, James and John they're called. The three had built a little fire with some sticks of driftwood, a big fish with its tail curling up cooked over the flames, the fat sizzling and popping when it dripped into the fire. There was the first glimmering of light at the far shore, the sun just beginning to come up, trying to shine through one of those thick Galilee fogs. The waves lapped at the rocks, knocking the boats against each other. These old bones hurt with cold, and I was shivering. The stranger waved me over, saying, "Sit by the fire, sister." He made room, then broke off a piece of the bread he was eating, and handed it to me, with a smile like none I've ever seen on any man.

Bread never tasted so good, and the fish was smoky and rich on my tongue. You could tell Zebedee's sons couldn't believe he'd called a woman to sit and eat and talk with them. But the strange one acted like it was natural as anything. At first I was too nervous to speak, but he asked me about my people, my village.

Once I started, it was like I wanted to tell it all -- how when I was a girl I could run like the wind; how I haven't seen my daughter since she married that boy from the south; how funny it was that Caleb and I'd come to love each other even though our folks arranged the marriage; how much I miss that old man. The stranger ate, stirred the fire, and listened like he had all the time in the world, like my life was as important as anyone's. Talking, I forgot the cold; I forgot my worries.

When it was time to take the boats out, he filled my basket with fish, then helped me to my feet. As I turned to walk away, he stopped me. I felt the calluses on his hand as he touched my forehead, smelled the fish on his breath as he whispered words of a blessing. I watched the three of them step into the water and walk toward the boats, the dark water moving up their legs, the heavy net carried on their shoulders. The sun was up; the fog had disappeared. The Nazarene turned his head and looked back at me, and the strangest thing -- his face seemed filled with light, even though it was in the shadows.

I never saw him again, not until they brought him into the praetorium. I'd heard the stories about him -- I mean, the whole countryside was talking, but I kept telling myself it wasn't the one I met that morning by the sea. I'd only seen him that once, and when I remembered what happened that morning -- the eating, the talking, the blessing -- I began to think maybe it wasn't real -- just the dreams of an old woman's heart.

"What is truth?" Pilate asked, and well he might. I think he'll come to regret the day he washed his hands and gave him up to that mob. As for the rest of us, we who don't have the courage to stop it, we who stay quiet in our corners, hoping no one notices us -- we should be on our knees praying that God doesn't rend the heavens and shake the earth, and destroy us all at the moment of Jesus' dying.

Oh, I'm just an old woman -- maybe my mind's going -- it happens. But ... what if he is who they say? Lamb of God, Prince of Peace, Redeemer ... Messiah? In these times, it's dangerous to talk of such things, but ... could it be? Is it him? Has he really come?