“Pilate, desiring only to satisfy the crowd, released Barabbas. But Jesus he handed over to be flogged and crucified” (Mark 15.15).
In both the Nicene and Apostle’s creed, we recite that Jesus’ suffering was under Pontius Pilate, someone who, based on an ancient inscription, we know to be a historical figure who once served as Rome’s representative in Palestine. He appears to be unremarkable; though, we don’t know a lot about him. From what we do know, he seemed to revel in cruelty and was able to maintain peace only through violence against the populace. He’s a functionary, a bureaucrat who history, outside of Christianity, has forgotten.
Yet, week upon week millions on this globe speak his name alongside Jesus himself. Why?
Pilate (unlike others in positions of power then and today) doesn’t seem like someone who gave a thought to how or even if anyone would remember him. This may well have been a blessing, albeit a small one, for those who lived, moved, and breathed beneath his tenure. It’s enough to have a ruler whose primary objective is to impress the boss (i.e. Augustus back in Rome). God only knows what someone who wanted a place in historical record might do.
Well, that’s not quite right, is it? God isn’t the only one who knows, we do as well. We’re living amidst the rule of someone occupied with being remembered in the years and decades to come. There’s some greed and worship at the altar of Mammon in there as well, but by their own words there’s a preoccupation with getting their name somehow etched into the statue of history alongside those that preceded them.
As I write this about a week and a half out from Palm Sunday, war continues to rage in the Middle East—a war of choice, shoddily planned, that has killed thousands thus robbing the world and those who love them of their presence and potential. More than any other time, wartime threatens to make the declarations of the coming Resurrection season sound hollow. As bombs drop, buildings crumble, and leaders speak and act with callous hearts, the Cross looms larger: the powers of this world seem to have the upper hand over the Realm that Jesus said was near.
And perhaps, in times of war and violence, this symbol of State power should stand out from the walls where they hang, the yards in which their planted, and the necks upon which they’re worn. Despite what the Resurrection has transformed it into, the Cross remains a testament to the cruelty of the powers of this world—and the humans who wield that power. It was not just an instrument of execution, but a means of silencing dissent.
Victims of Rome who were hung upon the wood of crosses did not merely suffer from the nails driven into their skin and a struggle to breathe. Naked beside a busy road, they endured indignity and humiliation by being seen for days. Their bodies, unprotected, were subject to the elements: hot sun by day, chill wind at night. They were transformed into objects of shame that declared that the Roman State could not be fought.
Looking upon this terrible symbol of suffering in this time, it can be difficult to wonder if, perhaps, this new Reality of God Jesus taught us about is not as reachable as he seemed to think. In the light of an administration that has declared that “hell will rain down” upon their targets, who have swept up men, women, and children to be held in camps, and who killed Alex Pretti and Renee Good, the Cross can seem loom larger than the empty tomb in the distance.
Yet Pontius Pilate’s name seems to dull the dark shadow that instrument casts. His name, has been repeated now for centuries, week after week. His place in history, as long as Christians continue to gather, is secure; though not in a way he or any other official would desire.
Pilate, like the Empire he served, is gone. His body and bones have returned to dust just as Rome, whose hand stretched across Europe, remains only in crumbled structures and weeded roads. Despite any efforts to the contrary, time and events came for them and they moved into memory and history. Just as Mussolini, Stalin, and so many others who longed to secure an honored place in history were left in the past.
In the moment, the State has determined that intimidation, humiliation, and death are means to maintain their current authority. Like Pilate and Imperial Rome, they seem to believe they can use violence to conquer and to rule for years to come.
But the Cross and the Creeds remind us that this like all administrations are fleeting. And though their place may indeed be marked in history, it will not be as they imagine. Their names may be repeated week upon week, but not in adoration nor awe.
And despite all their violence, policies, and efforts, the tomb in the distance still remains empty.
Jesus, you suffered at the hands of the powers of this world. We ask your comfort and presence with those who this administration have imprisoned and slain in a desire for a place in history. May they, like Pilate and Rome, be remembered for their weakness in the face of the great power of your Resurrection. And bring us closer to the Reality where those who long to be first are last and the last—imprisoned, widowed, and killed—take their place at the head table.