The Advocate

by Randy Singer

  I nodded. That much I had figured out.

  “Jesus also asked about the inscription,” Nicodemus continued. “That called to mind the Torah’s command to inscribe Yahweh’s laws on our hands and our foreheads, on our doorposts, and on the gates of our cities. The most important inscription of all is the Shema—‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord is God, the Lord alone. You must love the Lord your God with your entire heart, soul, mind, and strength.’”

  I thought about this for a moment, but it still didn’t answer my primary question. “Why didn’t the crowd seem more upset when he sanctioned the imperial tax?”

  Nicodemus looked past me at the activities in the courtyard as if weighing whether he should answer the question at all. Finally he turned to me, and I sensed he was taking a big risk. “In our religion, do you know what belongs to God?” he asked.

  “For starters, a whole lot of pigeons, doves, and lambs.”

  “I’m not just talking about sacrifices,” Nicodemus said. As usual, my sarcasm had been lost on him. “‘The earth is the Lord’s and everything in it.’”

  “The Torah again?”

  “A psalm of King David.”

  “Everything in it.” This was why it was so tough to govern the Jews. “So you’re saying that Jesus was really telling the Jews not to pay the imperial tax?” I asked. My head was swimming a little now.

  “I never said that,” Nicodemus insisted. “And Jesus didn’t either.”

  Maybe. But I could no longer be sure. And maybe that was the whole point of what Jesus had said, slipping through the jaws of the trap. One thing I did know—the man was a clever advocate.

  And perhaps a dangerous one as well.

  CHAPTER 23

  Two mornings later, I awoke when the cock crowed. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and the soles of my feet landed on cool marble.

  I opened the shutters and looked out at the moon still casting shadows through the tree limbs, the darkness struggling to fight off the first heralds of dawn.

  I washed. A servant came and lit the fire. Jerusalem was beautiful from here, peaceful in the first pale rays of sunrise. The dimly lit sky masked the blemishes of the thatched mud homes surrounding the glory of the Temple, illuminating only the intriguing contours of the city—the spikes on the Temple roof, the massive supporting columns, the porticoes surrounding the Temple courtyard, the great wall of Jerusalem winding to the horizon.

  There were still fires smoldering from the previous night. Later that day, the day before Passover, the sacrifices would be in full swing. The slit of the knife across the throat of the heifer, the gutting of the lambs, the stabbing of the pigeons and doves. Everywhere you went, you would encounter the reek, so pungent you could taste it in the dry desert air—the odor of death, the stench of burning carcasses. Crimson ribbons of blood would streak the inner Temple courtyard.

  Romans engaged in bloodletting for sport. The Jews sanctified it, calling it propitiation.

  I yawned. It had been a late night, and I didn’t sleep as well in Jerusalem as I did in Caesarea. At least yesterday the Temple had been relatively quiet. The Nazarene and his followers were nowhere to be found.

  The sun peeked over the horizon, its rays of hope awakening the city from its slumber. Pilate would be up by now. I would meet him in a few minutes for our morning shave. There were reports to write, disputes to settle, rumors to be investigated.

  I put on my toga and sandals, grabbed an oil lamp, and headed to the barber.

  In the distance I heard it, not as loud this time, but still unmistakable.

  The cock crowed for the second time. The beginning of a new day.

  Twenty minutes later, the servants interrupted our morning shave. Pilate and I were deliberating whether we should say anything to Tiberius about the latest Jewish Messiah, the donkey-riding man from Nazareth who had single-handedly cleared the Temple. It was always a delicate balance between telling Caesar too much and telling him too little. Too much and he thinks the province is out of control. Too little and he might hear about the unrest from other sources and think Pilate was keeping something from him. We had decided to mention this latest rift among the Jewish religious leaders while at the same time reassuring Tiberius we had things well under control.

  We never got a chance to start the letter.

  “The Sanhedrin met in the middle of the night,” one of the servants said breathlessly. “They’ve convicted a man who was leading a rebellion and want to bring him before you.”

  The barber ran the cold blade down my cheek and wiped it off. I glanced at Pilate and saw the annoyed look on his face.

  “Tell them I’m shaving,” he said with a flick of the wrist.

  But the servant held his ground. The high priest was insistent, demanding an audience. He had most of the Sanhedrin trailing behind him, followed by a large contingent of the Temple guards. A mob was forming. “With respect, Your Excellency,” he said, “it may be best to address this quickly.”

  Pilate looked at me, and I shrugged. This was why we had come to Jerusalem for Passover. Things would only get worse if we let them fester.

  “They tried him at night?” I asked. A nighttime trial was prohibited by Jewish law.

  “Apparently.”

  “Did they post notice of the charges in the Temple and send them to us?”

  The courier shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. I just know that they have already found him guilty and meted out punishment.”

  Pilate and I exchanged another look. He knew my commitment to the law, my obsession with proper procedures. Roman justice, not our engineering or our military feats, was what separated us from the barbarians, the toga-clad people from those with loincloths.

  “Bring them to the judgment seat,” Pilate said.

  The servant looked down and shuffled his feet.

  “What is it?” Pilate asked sharply, making no effort to hide his annoyance.

  “It’s the day before their High Sabbath,” the man said meekly. “They’re not willing to come inside.”

  Pilate grunted. The Jews didn’t want to defile themselves by coming into the home of an unclean Roman. It was an ongoing insult that I thought Pilate abided too lightly.

  “Set up the judgment seat in the Stone Pavement Courtyard,” Pilate commanded. He reached for a bowl of water and began washing his face. “I’ll be back in ten minutes,” he told his barber.

  The Stone Pavement Courtyard was surrounded on three sides by the walls of the palace and lined with enormous Corinthian columns. Roman guards were stationed on both the ground floor and balcony and stood at attention, red-and-yellow rectangular shields in their left hands, the emblem of their battalion in their right. Their full-body armor gleamed in the morning sun, contrasting against the red capes hanging on their backs. There were hundreds of them and a few thousand more ready to storm the courtyard if necessary. It was an impressive display of Roman power.

  Pilate stood in the marble portico at the top of a huge flight of steps twenty feet above the courtyard. I stood behind him to his right. A tall Samnite centurion named Longinus was on his left. Pilate had put on full military regalia—body armor and a red cape—to remind the Jews that he had been on the battlefield before and was not afraid to shed blood.

  The enormous wooden gates on the opposite side of the courtyard swung open, and the Jewish leaders marched through, dressed in their ceremonial robes, looking grim and determined. They were followed by members of their Temple guard, dragging the prisoner like a dog with a chain attached to a metal collar around his neck, pulling and yanking him toward the portico. Hundreds of Jews followed and spread out on the massive stone pavement, filling the courtyard and spilling out beyond the gates.

  The guards jerked the prisoner to the bottom of the steps and thrust him forward. He had the dark-olive complexion of a Jew and the sinewy build of a laborer. His hands were bound behind his back, and his robe had been torn so that it hung awkwardly on one side, revealing welts and bru
ises on his shoulder and arm. His lips and nose were swollen, he had gashes on his forehead and cheeks, and his long dark hair was matted with blood and sweat. A dark bruise had already formed under one eye, and there was dried blood and spittle caked on his beard.

  A guard jerked on the chain to move him. The man caught his balance, firmly planted both feet, and raised his penetrating brown eyes to look at Pilate.

  It was Jesus. The one who had cleared the Temple and overturned the tables of the money changers. The one who had healed the sick, who had supposedly walked on water. He stood there with a quiet dignity, his face calm, while others snarled around him.

  “What charges do you bring against this man?” Pilate asked. He posed the question in Greek, the official language of the imperial legal system.

  Caiaphas, the burly high priest, stepped forward, his eyes burning with contempt. “If this man weren’t a criminal, we would not have handed him over to you.” The crowd murmured its approval and seemed to surge toward the steps, a great, heaving mass of humanity.

  Pilate had been through worse.

  “Then take him yourselves and judge him according to your own law,” he said with a dismissive wave. He took his seat, signaling an end to the proceedings.

  The crowd reacted angrily, and the leaders all started talking at once. They quieted when Annas, the former chief priest and arguably the most influential man in all of Jerusalem, raised his voice and called for silence.

  “It is not legal for us to put someone to death!” he said, his face twisted in anger. Those around him shouted their approval.

  I marveled at how quickly the tables had turned. Just a few days earlier, Jesus was running roughshod through the Temple courtyard, and no one dared oppose him. Now, as far as I could see, he didn’t have one friend in the entire crowd.

  Pilate stood and raised his hand, hushing the crowd. The Roman soldiers, making their presence known on the outskirts, leaned their standards against the walls and put a hand on their swords. Some of the Jewish men glanced nervously at the soldiers. Nobody had forgotten the slaughter of the Jews following the aqueduct dispute. Pilate stepped to the edge of the stairs, his eyes meeting those of the rabbi. Then he turned to Annas.

  “Isn’t this the same man who was welcomed to the city by the fanfare of your own people just five days ago? And now you want him dead?”

  Annas stiffened. “Your Excellency, this man is the leader of a dangerous element. He claims to be the king promised to the Jews.” Annas looked around and seemed to be debating how far to take this. He took a step forward and lowered his voice. “We have no king but Caesar.”

  The comment hung in the air for a moment with all its complex implications. Just as nobody had forgotten the slaughter of the Jewish civilians, nobody had forgotten the incident of the shields. “We have no king but Caesar.” It was, among other things, an implied threat to pull rank on Pilate again—to appeal directly to Caesar if the Jewish leaders didn’t get their way.

  For the first time that morning I saw Pilate hesitate. He still kept his shoulders square in a posture of defiance. But he paused, looked again at the prisoner, and then, with a curt nod, said simply, “Bring him back.”

  Pilate pivoted and walked into the great judgment hall of the Praetorium, his red robe billowing behind him. Roman soldiers stepped forward and took charge of the prisoner, dragging him up the steps. I watched for a moment, then turned and followed Pilate.

  This was going to be a long morning.

  CHAPTER 24

  The soldiers dragged Jesus into the room by the chain attached to the collar around his neck. Pilate dismissed everyone except me and the centurion Longinus, who took his place by the door.

  Pilate circled Jesus, looking him over. The prisoner stared straight ahead.

  “Are you the king of the Jews?” Pilate asked. It was a scornful question, mocking the appearance of the man.

  “Are you asking this on your own, or have others told you about me?”

  I had to suppress a smile. This was the same rabbi who had dumbfounded the religious leaders just a few days earlier in the Temple courtyard. Now he was playing cat and mouse with Pilate. “Are you asking this on your own?” Was Pilate operating on hearsay? Had Pilate himself seen any evidence that Jesus was establishing a kingdom? Of course not.

  Pilate’s visage darkened, and he stood directly in front of the Nazarene. He didn’t like being questioned. “I’m not a Jew, am I?” he asked. His voice was more caustic this time, less inquisitive. “Your own nation and chief priest handed you over to me. What have you done?”

  “My kingdom is not of this world,” Jesus said slowly, deliberately, as if explaining something to a child. “If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would fight so that I wouldn’t be handed over to the Jewish leaders. As it is, my kingdom does not have its origin here.”

  “You are a king then?”

  The question brought a pause from Jesus, as if he had all the time in the world. “You say that I am a king. I was born for this, and for this I have come into the world: to testify to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth listens to my voice.”

  Pilate looked Jesus up and down again as if he were appraising a visitor from another world. Jesus was talking about religion, but Pilate was an eminently practical man. He seemed torn between admiration for the prisoner’s self-assurance and frustration at the man’s insolence.

  “What is truth?” Pilate asked with a snort, and I thought of the lessons drilled into me by Seneca. This was the right question, though Pilate asked it flippantly, not expecting an answer.

  Accommodating him, Jesus chose not to respond.

  Pilate nodded to Longinus, who called in the guards and led the prisoner away.

  When the massive wooden doors closed behind them, Pilate shook his head in frustration. “The man is arrogant,” he said.

  “He’s also innocent, Your Excellency.”

  “He claims to be a king.”

  “He may be delusional, but he’s no threat.”

  Pilate frowned, deep furrows carved into his forehead. “Maybe he isn’t, but the men who hate him are.”

  He walked over to a window and stared at the city for a long time. When he turned back to me, I could see the tension lining his face.

  “He’s one man,” Pilate said. “And the truth is, I have an entire province to consider.” With that, he headed for the portico. I dutifully followed.

  “What is truth?” I mumbled.

  This time, Jesus stood at the top of the portico steps, facing the crowd. Pilate and I huddled behind him.

  “There are no grounds for charging him,” I said.

  Pilate agreed, but I could see uncertainty in his eyes. “Do they think I’m their slave?” he asked. “That they get to tell me when the power of Rome will be brought to bear?”

  He stepped to the edge of the portico, and the crowd quieted. “I find no grounds for charging this man,” Pilate announced.

  The words were met with shouting and jeering. The mob, which seemed to have grown while we were inside, pressed toward the stairs. Soldiers on the portico descended a few steps, and those on the exterior walls stood a little more erect, eyes trained on Pilate, waiting for his signal.

  Pilate allowed the uproar to die down. He was still standing, a sign that he had not yet pronounced final judgment. “Let me hear your testimony,” he commanded.

  For twenty-five minutes, the rabbi’s accusers called witnesses. Jesus had threatened to destroy the Temple and rebuild it in three days. He had disrespected the Jewish leaders, calling them whitewashed tombs and vipers. He had told the Jews not to pay taxes, a charge which I knew had no foundation. The testimony was all over the place, but Jesus just stood there the entire time, like a statue, never disputing any of their charges.

  I had been through hundreds of trials with Pilate. Together we’d seen grown men beg and argue and curse. We’d seen them lunge at their attackers. I had watched one man clutch his chest and die. B
ut I had never seen this kind of stoicism in the face of such vitriol.

  “Are you not answering anything?” Pilate asked at one point. “Look how many things they accuse you of.”

  But Jesus didn’t even cast a sideways glance toward the prefect. He kept his gaze fixed on the crowd, his face showing no emotion, as if he were in a trance.

  I found my sympathies shifting toward the Nazarene. I had watched him with admiration in the Temple courtyard and been drawn in by his advocacy skills. It was professional respect, one orator to another, the same way a great gladiator might develop grudging respect for a valiant foe. I had been intrigued by the things he had reportedly said to Nicodemus. But it was there on the portico of the Stone Pavement Courtyard that I saw the type of stoicism Seneca had preached about when I was just a boy.

  As the witnesses paraded forward, one by one, I was only half-listening. The words of Seneca were foremost in my mind:

  To see a man fearless in dangers, untouched by desires, happy in adversity, composed in a tumult, and disdainful of those things which are generally coveted or feared, all men must acknowledge that this can be from nothing else but a divine power that has descended on that man.

  I had seen that divine power in my few short interactions with Jesus. And I had no idea what to do about it.

  I was brought back to the moment by a particularly adamant witness who testified with flailing hands about all the trouble the prisoner had caused. “He stirs up the people,” the man yelled, “teaching throughout all of Judea, from Galilee, where he started, even to here.”

  It hit me like a lightning bolt from Jupiter. Did he say Galilee?