Son of God

by Roma Downey

  “Cover him up,” cries Malchus. A heavy blanket is thrown over Jesus to conceal his face from the many pilgrims who support him. “Tell Caiaphas we have Jesus,” barks Malchus as they lead Jesus into the high priest’s home.

  Judas follows the procession into Caiaphas’s house. Malchus, however, places a hand firmly on Judas’s shoulder and pushes him out the door.

  “Not you,” Malchus says with a sneer. “We’re finished with you.”

  Judas walks off into the night, haunted by emptiness.

  The door closes. Caiaphas stands waiting. The Temple guards march Jesus into the center of the room. Malchus removes the blanket covering Jesus and steps back into the shadows. Jesus and Caiaphas square off, though nothing is said by either man. The two are a study in contrasts. Jesus is bruised and bloodied, his hands tied together, and his simple yet elegant clothing dirty and torn. Caiaphas wears fine colorful robes, his body clean. Caiaphas looks into Jesus’ eyes and is momentarily frozen. That gaze will haunt Caiaphas for the rest of his days. Caiaphas postures, an attempt to regain his lost authority, as Jesus stands alone, not a friend in the room, surreally in command as he awaits the inevitable.

  Nicodemus and the elders enter the room. Because he has been beaten so badly, Jesus’ face is horribly disfigured. Nicodemus and some of the elders gasp at the horrific sight. “You can’t go through with this,” Nicodemus tells Caiaphas. “This is not legal. Our laws say that a capital trial should be held in court, in daylight, and in public.”

  “This is necessary,” Caiaphas fires back.

  “Why the rush?”

  Caiaphas turns on Nicodemus. His rage is a mixture of envy and anxiety. “You heard what Pilate said,” he snarls. “He’ll shut down the Temple if there’s any more disruption. We must be rid of this Jesus—or God will punish us all.”

  “But what if he really is who he says he is?” asks Nicodemus. “What if he is the Messiah?”

  “We will decide that!”

  “God decides that,” replies Nicodemus.

  “God’s guidance will be upon us,” Caiaphas replies.

  “But how can it?” questions Nicodemus. “For God commands that we obey His laws.”

  Jesus is led by a rope down a long hallway to the room where his trial will take place. The elders trail behind.

  “Let me remind you what the law says,” Caiaphas lectures Nicodemus, as the two men walk together. “It says that anyone who shows contempt for the judge or high priest is to be put to death. Anyone…” They stop.

  The two men size each other up, then continue on in silence.

  The hostile courtroom is packed. In the room where Caiaphas normally spends time alone, unwinding at the end of the day, the elders who comprise the Sanhedrin have gathered for the trial of Jesus. Makers and keepers of Israel’s religious laws, whatever these men decide is binding. The sun is about to rise. “Brothers,” Caiaphas begins, “thank you for coming at this hour. You know I wouldn’t ask if this was not such a serious matter.” Then he waves his hand and cries with mock reverence, “The one and only Jesus of Nazareth.”

  Jesus does not look up or speak.

  “Jesus of Nazareth,” Caiaphas intones solemnly, “you are suspected of blasphemy. Now let us hear from our witnesses.” Caiaphas beckons the first witness.

  “In the Temple,” says the man who steps forward, clearly intimidated. “He healed a lame woman in the Temple.”

  Nicodemus can’t bear to look at Jesus. It’s clear that this whole thing is going to be a charade. A second witness is asked to speak.

  “He said he would destroy the Temple!”

  “I heard him say that, too,” chimes in a Temple elder.

  Caiaphas points his finger at Jesus. “You would destroy the Temple! How dare you. That is rebellion against the Lord our God. Tell me, how do you answer these accusations?”

  Jesus says nothing. Nicodemus stares hard at him, willing him to speak up. But Jesus remains impassive. The outcome is already decided. Jesus gathers his strength for the ordeal that is soon to come.

  “The witnesses’ evidence is clear and unequivocal. My brothers, we have faced false prophets in the past and we will face false prophets in the future. But I doubt we will face one as false as this!”

  The room fills with murmurs of agreement.

  A new voice cries out, that of an elder. “A prophet brings us new words from God. Does he not?”

  Nicodemus is stunned. Finally, someone agrees with him.

  “If every new voice is crushed, how will we ever know a prophet when we hear one?” the elder continues.

  Caiaphas is thrown off. He chooses to deflect the question. “You are right, Joseph of Arimathea. How will we? I will tell you how: we must listen and then judge. So I invite this man—this ‘prophet’—to speak.” He turns to Jesus. “Are you the Christ, the Son of God?”

  Jesus’ head is bowed. He remains silent. Blood trickles from his wounds.

  “Nothing to say?” Caiaphas asks.

  Jesus slowly raises his head. His body stiffens. He stands tall. He looks Caiaphas directly in the eye. “You will see the son of man sitting at the right hand of God and coming on the clouds of heaven.”

  “Impostor!” Caiaphas cries, ripping his robe open to seek forgiveness from God for hearing such words. “Blasphemer! We must vote and we must vote now!” Caiaphas is so enraged he has lost his senses.

  Jesus knows the verdict and the sentence that will be read before the vote is taken.

  Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus shake their heads at the sham, feeling helpless to stop it.

  “The sentence is death,” Caiaphas cries out.

  “This is wrong,” yells Joseph. “This verdict brings shame on this council.”

  Caiaphas ignores him.

  Jesus’ followers have gathered at the Temple, the normal place for Jesus to be brought, which is exactly why Caiaphas had Jesus led to his home instead. Disciples Mary and John make their way through the crowd of tents and sleeping, uneducated, largely unsophisticated pilgrims. The Temple guards glare at them, recognizing them from their many appearances with Jesus.

  Mary Magdalene notices the distraught face of Mary, the mother of Jesus. She wanders through the crowd. They rush to her side.

  “Mary! John! Where is my son?”

  “Jesus has been arrested, but we don’t know where they’ve taken him,” responds Mary Magdalene.

  “Arrested?” replies Mary. “At night?” Ever since that day the angel Gabriel told her she was going to give birth to the Messiah, Mary has known this day would come.

  John glances around at the crowds. “He’s not here. They must have taken him someplace secret. So they won’t have any protests.”

  The sun rises low and red over the Temple.

  The doors of Caiaphas’s palace swing open. Peter is standing just outside as Jesus is dragged out. Throughout the night, his own life has been in jeopardy as he has waited to hear what has happened to Jesus, hoping somehow he can help.

  Others have come to stand outside Caiaphas’s door, as word of Jesus’ arrest has quickly traveled. This crowd of supporters is devastated by the sight of Jesus’ battered body, with blood caked on his face and bruises around his eyes.

  Malchus reads from a proclamation: “Let it be known that Jesus of Nazareth has been tried by the supreme court of Temple elders. He has been found guilty of blasphemy and threatening to destroy the Temple. The sentence is death.”

  The crowd gasps. Judas, who has remained outside all night long, hurls the bag of silver at Malchus. “Take back your money!” he screams, distraught. This is not at all what he intended. The coins clatter to the cobblestones, at the feet of Malchus.

  A large guard approaches Peter. “You… I know you.”

  Peter doesn’t scare easily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know him,” says the guard, grabbing at Peter. “I saw you call him Rabbi.”

  “No,” says Peter. “He’s not
hing to do with me.”

  “He’s one of them,” a woman screams, pointing at Peter.

  He spins around and confronts her. “I tell you, I don’t know him.”

  Peter sees Jesus being hauled away, and he is frustrated by his inability to help Jesus, who means so much to him. The rooster crows, and Peter remembers Jesus’ words that he would deny knowing his beloved friend and teacher before dawn. The rough, gruff man sobs in agony. He looks for Jesus, summoning all his courage. Peter means to approach Jesus, even though he is surrounded by guards, and make his apologies—even die trying to free him from the guards. But he searches in vain. The Temple guards have already taken Jesus away.

  “Where is my son?” asks Mary. She stands over Peter. The crowd has dispersed, and she has found the sobbing fisherman lying alone the gutter.

  “They’ve condemned him.”

  Mary gasps in shock.

  “They’ve taken him. I don’t know where, but he’s gone.” Peter slowly rises to his feet, aided by John. A look of humiliation is etched across Peter’s face. John notices but says nothing to his friend.

  “I told them I didn’t know him,” Peter says, inconsolable. He breaks away and disappears down the street.

  Mother Mary sinks to the ground, as the sun glints off the high walls of the temple complex. Her mother’s heart clearly understands that the break of day brings little new hope. The disciples are broken and powerless against the authority of the high priest.

  But Caiaphas is having problems. As he changes into his special ornate Passover robes, Caiaphas knows that he cannot execute Jesus, for such a public execution by the Jewish high council will enrage Jesus’ followers and create just the kind of disruption he wants to avoid. But the Romans can do anything. “I need to speak to Pontius Pilate,” Caiaphas barks to Malchus.

  Pilate stands before a washbasin in his residence. As he finishes washing his face, a servant hands him a towel. “Where’s my wife?” asks Pilate. “It’s past dawn. She should be up by now.”

  Just then, the maidservant of Pilate’s wife appears in the doorway. “Master, come quickly. Please.”

  Pilate follows her immediately. They run down the empty corridor to his wife’s room, where Claudia lies on the bed drenched in sweat and hyperventilating. He goes to comfort her.

  “I saw a man,” says Claudia. “In a dream.”

  Dreams are serious business to the Romans, portenders of the future that should never be ignored. “Tell me about this dream,” says Pilate.

  “I saw a man being beaten and killed. He was an innocent man. A holy man,” she says, then adds: “A good man.”

  Pilate looks to the maidservant. “Help your lady back to bed.”

  Claudia resists. “My beloved, pay heed to this dream. I believe it is a warning.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because in my dream, it was you who killed this man.”

  The branches of a giant ancient olive tree swing in the early morning breeze as Jerusalem greets the day. Its gnarled thick branches rise to a lofty height. Judas Iscariot sits atop the branch that he has chosen, in a hurry to get this done. He has located a horse’s halter. The fit won’t be as snug around his neck as a hangman’s noose, and he may struggle for longer before losing consciousness than with a rope, but every slow, miserable pain he endures will be deserved. Will God have mercy on his soul? he wonders.

  Judas slips the halter around his neck. The leather is rough against his skin. He then loops the other end of the halter around a thick branch and tugs on it to make sure the connection is taut. He takes one last look at Jerusalem. Then Judas leaps.

  Nicodemus exits the Temple, staggered by the hypocrisy and arrogance he has just witnessed. It is early morning, and the pilgrims camped on the premises are cooking their morning meals, hurrying to prepare for the Passover feast.

  “You know where Jesus is!” calls out a voice.

  Nicodemus whirls to the sound. This is most unusual. The citizens of Jerusalem don’t normally challenge a Temple elder. Nicodemus doesn’t recognize the voice of John, the disciple, and keeps walking.

  “Wait,” John cries. “Please, we know you. You came to see him. I was there. You spoke to him.”

  Nicodemus stops and turns. “He’s gone.”

  “Where… please. Please tell me.”

  “The Romans will have him soon.”

  “Romans?” John asks, confused. “He’s never said anything against Rome.”

  “Caiaphas is going to hand him over to the Romans,” Nicodemus explains with a heavy heart. “And there’s nothing we can do to get him back.”

  As the stunned John contemplates what this means, Nicodemus walks on. For what he has said is a most simple truth: once a man has been handed over to the Romans, the chance of him avoiding prison or execution is almost none.

  Pilate is tending to governmental matters inside the Roman governor’s residence when Caiaphas is announced. The high priest is prepared. He knows that his next words must be phrased as precisely as possible.

  “Prefect, we need your help,” says Caiaphas. “We have convicted a dangerous criminal and sentenced him to death.”

  “And? When is his execution?”

  Caiaphas moves closer, spreading his hands as if in explanation. “We—the Sanhedrin—cannot. It’s Passover, you see. Its against our law.” Caiaphas punctuates his tale by bowing his head deferentially. Pilate looks at him with distaste.

  “So do it after Passover,” says Pilate. “Surely the man can live a few more days.”

  “Normally, I would say yes. But this man is an urgent threat—not only to us, but also to Rome. He claims to be our king, and is using that lie to whip my people into rebellion. This man could very well tear Jerusalem apart.”

  Pilate looks at Caiaphas. He wonders how such a pompous individual became the leading voice in the Jewish religion. Pilate’s patience with the man is at a breaking point. “I am quick to punish criminals,” he snarls, “but only if they break the law. I need proof that this man has done so—or Rome will not be pleased.”

  “He has broken the law, Prefect. I assure you,” Caiaphas replies.

  “You had better be right,” snarls Pilate, fixing Caiaphas with a deadly gaze. “If you’re wasting my time, you’ll pay for this.” He looks at his guards. “I’ll see the prisoner.”

  A ragged, bloodstained hood hangs over Jesus’ head as he languishes in the cells located within Pilate’s residence. This was once home to Herod the Great, who banished his own sons to these same cells. Their fate, as decided by their father, was death. The same fate befell John the Baptist. Now Pilate will decide whether Jesus should face the same punishment.

  The Roman governor enters. A guard pulls off Jesus’ hood. The Messiah slowly raises his eyes and looks directly at Pilate, who is unnerved, just as Caiaphas was unnerved by these same eyes.

  “So,” Pilate begins after a very long pause. “Are you the King of the Jews?”

  Jesus says nothing.

  “They say you claim to be King of the Jews.”

  “Is that what you think, or did others tell you this about me?” Jesus replies calmly, for he fears no man. Pilate takes a step back and momentarily averts his eyes.

  “Your own people say that,” Pilate replies, regaining his composure. “So tell me: are you a king?”

  “My kingdom is not of this world,” answers Jesus. “If it was, my servants would fight my arrest.”

  “So you are a king?”

  “You say rightly that I am a king. I was born to come into the world and testify to the truth; everyone who is of truth hears my voice.”

  “Truth? What is truth?” demands Pilate.

  Jesus says nothing. He smiles and looks up into the single shaft of light that penetrates the dark cell. It bathes his face. The enraged governor feels like slapping the insolent prisoner—but something stops him in his tracks. He looks at Jesus for what feels like an eternity. Then he turns and leaves. There is something unus
ual about this prisoner.

  Claudia greets him as he returns to his office. “Well?” she asks.

  “They want him crucified,” answers Pilate.

  “You can’t. I beseech you.”

  “Whatever for? This man is only a Jew. They say he wants to start a revolution.”

  “I tell you, my love, this is the man from my dreams. The man you killed. Please don’t do this. His blood will be on your hands.”

  “And if I don’t? How will I explain a rebellion to Rome? Caiaphas will surely testify that it was my fault. If there is an outburst Caesar will blame me. He has already warned me once. He is not going to warn me again. I will be finished… we’ll be finished.”

  Pilate walks to the window. His wife’s pleas adding to the pressures of his office, pressures he’s never felt before. He sees the pilgrims in the streets below, with their newly purchased sacrificial animals. Pilate starts to wish that he had stayed in Caesarea, if only to be away from that wretched Caiaphas and his political maneuverings. But if he had, this Jesus character might very well have caused a riot, and by the time Pilate responded in force, Jerusalem might have burned to the ground. It had happened before, and it could happen again. No… Pilate is glad he is in Jerusalem, determined to survive the next few days and return to his villa by the sea. But Claudia is right: Pilate doesn’t want Jesus’ blood on his hands.

  Claudia places a hand on his shoulder, though she doesn’t say a word, knowing that her husband often needs to focus his thoughts before taking action.

  “Get me Caiaphas,” Pilate says after a moment. “I have a plan.”

  Pilate greets Caiaphas and the elders with thinly veiled contempt. “I have met your Jesus and have come to the conclusion that he is guilty of nothing more than being deranged. That is not a crime in Rome.”

  “He’s broken the law,” Caiaphas protests.

  “Your law,” Pilate replies smoothly. “Not Caesar’s.” The governor stares hard at Caiaphas. “Teach this man some respect. Give him forty lashes and dump him outside the city walls. That is my decree.”