People pushed and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the accused. The Man stood tall. His back was lacerated, His brow dripping with blood, yet His eyes betrayed only forgiveness towards His tormentors. Pontius Pilate lifted his arm and called for silence.
“Ecce homo!* What shall I do with Jesus, who is called the Messiah?”
One of the priests spat and shrieked, “He’s a sinner, a liar and blasphemer! He calls Himself the Son of God. Crucify the impostor!”
Simon Peter spoke up: “We know this Man. We lived with Him for three and a half years! There is no sin in Him. He’s blameless! Who among you can accuse Him of any sin?”
A deathly hush fills the room.
John, another disciple, piped up: “He is the Christ indeed! He washed our feet and taught us to love our enemies. Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but this Man had nowhere to lay down His head. Yes, He was destitute, yet He filled our hearts with the riches of the Father’s Words.”
Some commotion ensued at the back, as a motley crew arrived: ten former lepers, one Bartimaeus, another man born blind, one healed paralytic, a cured epileptic boy, and many more. Jairus, holding his daughter’s hand, led the way, flanked by Lazarus and a boy from Nain. The throng parted.
The chief rulers broke into a rage. “He’s possessed by the devil! A son of Beelzebub! Only by those means did He perform those miracles.”
Almost unobserved, a few children scurried forward and sat down at Jesus’ feet. “I know those kids,” muttered the man next to me. “They’re the ones He took on His knees and blessed.”
Pilate rose, and as he washed his hands, he said, “I find no fault in Him.” Then, he condemned Jesus to be crucified.
Two disciples from the countryside approached the bench. “Honorable Pilate, we heard Him preach. Never did a man speak with such wisdom. Did not our hearts burn within us when He proclaimed, ‘Blessed are the meek,’ and ‘Come unto Me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest?’”
“He called us vipers and whited sepulchers, fools. How dare He! And listen, Pilate, He called Himself a king. If you let that one slide, you are no friend of Caesar,” a Pharisee retorted.
A former Zealot (and a real firebrand, but now a disciple) answered, “You’re right about the whited sepulchers. ‘Do not be like the hypocrites,’ He said. But He also taught, ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.’”
At this point Jesus finally spoke: “My kingdom is not of this world. If it were, My servants would fight to defend Me.”
The Pharisee pretended not to hear. He proceeded to accuse Jesus of consorting with sinners, tax collectors, and prostitutes. It was all too true—Matthew, Zacchaeus, not to mention the woman of ill repute. They were present, but “sinners” no more.
From the Praetorium, a courier emerged. He relayed to Pilate a private message from his wife, but those in the front row caught the sentence and passed it on: “Have nothing to do with that just Man.”
Pilate rose up and washed his hands. “I find no fault in Him.” But he still condemned Jesus to be crucified.
I looked up at John and saw tears running down his cheeks. “He came to His own, and His own did not receive Him. Yet in Him was life, and that life was the light of men. All Scripture testifies of Him.”
As Jesus passed me, He looked into my eyes: “And who do you say that I am?”
Then, I awoke from my dream.
*Latin for “Behold the Man!”
