by Roma Downey
“Nothing more? Prefect, I cannot be held responsible for what the people will do if you release a man who has broken our sacred laws. Especially on this day, when our eyes are on God.”
“The people?” Pilate responds sarcastically. Pilate knows his next move, even as Caiaphas tries to take control. But Pilate speaks first. “Caesar decrees that I can release a prisoner at Passover. I shall let ‘the people’ decide which of the prisoners in my jails shall be crucified, and which shall be set free.”
Caiaphas knows he’s been tricked. He’s too stunned to speak.
“Send for the prisoner,” Pilate orders.
A crowd is now gathered at the gate outside Pilate’s residence, peering through a large steel grate into the empty courtyard. Word has gone out that Jesus will be lashed. Many like to witness public brutality and revel in the carnival-like proceedings that accompany a good beating.
Jesus is dragged into the courtyard by two Roman soldiers. His face is crusted in blood, and his eyes are now swollen shut by a fresh round of beatings.
Mary, his mother, gasps. She stands outside in the crowd, peering into the courtyard through the grate.
Jesus is tied to the whipping post. His robes are ripped from his back, exposing the flesh. The soldiers now retrieve their whips. A single lash is an exercise in agony, sure to scar a man for life.
Jesus is about to endure thirty-nine.
“They’re going to kill him,” whispers Mary to Mary Magdalene, her heart breaking. John looks down at the two women protectively. The two soldiers stand ready to whip, one on each side of Jesus. They will take turns. A third soldier enters the courtyard, carrying an abacus. It will be his job to make a careful tally of the blows and report back to Rome that precisely thirty-nine were inflicted.
Jesus looks across to his mother. Her pain is enormous, but his eyes lock with hers and she feels a strong connection with him. It is as if he is reassuring her and reminding her that this is how it must be.
The lashings begin. Jesus does not cry out, even as the crowd gasps at the severity of what they are witnessing. The harrowing punishment and ordeal Jesus is to endure has been preordained. Isaiah, the prophet, once wrote that there would come a savior who “was pierced through for our transgressions. He was crushed for our iniquities. And by his scourging, we are healed.”
From a window overlooking the courtyard, Pilate and Claudia watch the ghastly proceedings. She winces with each flay of the lash, but Pilate has seen many such beatings. “Its as if he knows this must happen,” marvels Pilate.
One last abacus bead slides from left to right. Thirty-nine lashes are now in the books.
Jesus hangs on the pole, barely alive but definitely breathing. When his hands are untied, he does not slump to the ground but stands upright, beaten but unbroken.
Now he is taken back to the dungeon. The guards, never known to show kindness toward their prisoners—especially Jews—have been busy while he was away. To have this delusional Jesus in their midst claiming to be a king is the stuff of folly, and they can’t wait to take advantage. One guard has woven a crown out of thorny branches. It is gruesome to behold, with long spikes sticking out at all angles. He now presses it down hard on Jesus’ skull, drawing blood as those sharp tips bite into bone. “King of the Jews!” the soldier exults, bowing deep in front of Jesus, then dancing a little jig.
One of the soldiers who beat Jesus has just wiped the blood from his hands. He drapes the crimson towel over Jesus’ shoulders as if it were an ermine robe. All the jailers find this quite hilarious.
Pilate orders that the palace gates be opened. The crowds pour in, not sure what is about to happen. They know Pilate is allowed to release one man of their choice before Passover, in one of the many events held during Passover. They wonder who will be set free. Surely, Jesus is no longer a consideration. He has paid his penalty and has probably already been released. That’s how the law works. So they wait patiently for their options.
Pilate has skillfully deflected Caiaphas’s demand that he crucify Jesus, and given the final verdict to this mass of pilgrims.
Caiaphas remains undeterred, however, and is ensuring that the pilgrims allowed into the courtyard will vote against Jesus. The mainstream Jewish people are not given a choice in the matter. Malchus, his servant, and the Temple guards now stand at the gates, denying entry to anyone who supports the man from Nazareth. Scuffles break out as many in the crowd vent their frustration for being denied entry. They howl in protest—howls that are completely ignored by the Roman soldiers guarding the palace.
Mary, John, and Mary Magdalene are among those kept away. They watch in disbelief as a mob of pro-Caiaphas sympathizers stand ready to determine Jesus’ fate.
Pontius Pilate appears in an upstairs window and the crowd silences to hear what he has to say. “Today,” Pilate begins, “Passover begins. Caesar makes you a gesture of goodwill through the release of a prisoner chosen by you.”
A bald-headed murderer is marched into the courtyard, followed by Jesus, still wearing his crown of thorns.
“I give you a choice,” Pilate tells them. “You may choose between Barabbas, a murderer. Or you may choose this other man—a teacher who claims to be your king.”
Laughter and jeers spew forth from the crowd. Caiaphas, who now stands at Pilate’s side, yells, “We have no king but Caesar.”
Temple guards now move through the crowd, whispering instructions and receiving nods of agreement. “Crucify him!” is spontaneously shouted by members of the crowd who have remained silent until now.
Mary, mother of Jesus, is horrified. Her hands go to her face, and she covers her mouth in dismay.
Pilate sees the look on Caiaphas’s face and knows that he has an answer.
“Decide!” Pilate shouts to the crowd.
“Barabbas,” they roar back. “Free Barabbas.”
Outside the gates, Mary, John, and Mary Magdalene all shout in Jesus’ defense, as do many around them. But their voices cannot be heard over the roar “Barabbas! Barabbas! Barabbas!” from the courtyard.
Pilate is mystified. He looks at Caiaphas and then back at the crowd. “You choose a murderer,” he tells them with a shake of his head, then holds up a hand to silence the mob.
“Do it,” he says to his guards. The bewildered soldiers reluctantly unlock Barabbas’s shackles. The crowd cheers; the insurrectionist’s eyes are wild with delight.
“And this wretch,” Pilate yells to the crowd. “What shall I do with him?”
“Crucify him! Crucify him!”
“Save him,” comes the chant from outside the gate. “Save him.”
“Crucify! Crucify! Crucify!” yells the courtyard.
Pilate silences the crowd. “How can you condemn this man and spare a murderer?”
“Crucify! Crucify! Crucify!”
“Very well,” he tells them. “Crucify him.”
Pilate reaches for a nearby bowl of water and washes his hands. This is a deliberate gesture, mirroring a custom of the Hebrews and Greeks to show that he is not responsible. “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” he says, hoping to shift blame.
Pilate knows Jesus is innocent and that he can prevent his death. He has the power, and should simply disperse the mob. But instead of standing up for truth, he is taking the easier route of political expediency. It is a dangerous time in Jerusalem, the home to more than a million Jews and less than a thousand Roman soldiers. Pilate cannot risk the sort of tumult, as it would make its way back to Rome and Caesar.
Pilate dries his hands. This crucifixion is no longer his affair.
It has been just six days since Jesus was welcomed into Jerusalem. Now he is to be crucified on a hill outside the city walls, for Jewish law does not allow executions inside the city. Two criminals will also be crucified at the same time.
Crucifixion—the act of nailing a man to a wooden cross—is the standard Roman form of capital punishment. It is brutal. A man can take days to die, hanging alone on
the cross until he wastes away. To this heinous death for Jesus is added the torment of dragging the cross through the streets of Jerusalem. He staggers, trailed by a guard on horseback prepared to whip him if he falls or drops the cross. Many who were denied the chance to spare Jesus’ life line the streets, forced back by a phalanx of Roman soldiers who ensure that no one helps Jesus escape.
Jesus is in agony as he struggles toward his death. His body is bent by the weight of the cross, and the crown of thorns inflicts a new burst of pain whenever the cross bumps against it. The many beatings he has endured in the hours since his capture make it hard to breathe, for his jailers have kicked and punched him in the ribs again and again.
Yet he sees everything. Both the sympathetic and not-so-sympathetic faces in the crowd. He also sees Mary, his mother. Jesus stumbles and feels the lash of a Roman whip as he falls. He reaches out to steady himself, pressing his hand flat against a stone wall. It leaves a bloody print. As Jesus moves forward to continue his grueling march, a woman in the crowd places her own hand against Jesus’ handprint. She weeps; she knows who Jesus truly is.
The ground is cobbled, so the cross bumps along rather than drags smoothly. The distance from Pilate’s palace to Golgotha, the place where Jesus will die, is five hundred yards.
Jesus knows he cannot make it. He spits out a gob of blood and falls to his knees. He drops the cross and crumples to the ground. Roman soldiers are upon him in an instant, raining kicks and punches on his helpless body. Mary races forward to save her son, but a Roman guard grabs her roughly and throws her back.
“Please,” John says, risking his life by stepping from the crowd. “She’s his mother!”
Tears stream down Mary’s cheeks. The Roman guard steps toward John with a menacing glare on his face, but the disciple is undeterred. “Have mercy. Please!”
Mary can’t help herself. She flings herself forward and falls onto her knees, next to her son. She wraps her arms lovingly around him in what will surely be their last embrace. Jesus’ eyes are swollen shut, and he can hardly react.
“My son,” Mary sobs.
Jesus forces his eyes open. “Don’t be afraid,” he tells his mother. “The Lord is with you.” Repeating exactly what Gabriel had told her when he visited her as a young virgin. His words give her strength, and his look of love fills her with courage. She tries to help him up with the cross. If she could she would carry it for him, but she knows this is what he came to do.
Then suddenly Mary is pulled away from her boy. The soldiers whip the fallen Jesus, but it is clear that he cannot carry the cross any farther. A man, Simon of Cyrene, is chosen for his broad back and obvious strength, and he is forced to shoulder the cross for Jesus. Their eyes lock, and then their hands link to lift the heavy wood. Together, they share the burden. Step by painful step, the two complete the long walk up to the crucifixion site.
Back in his palace, Pontius Pilate continues his running battle with Caiaphas. Roman law dictates that every condemned man should have a sign placed on their cross to indicate their crime. Pilate dictates the wording for Jesus’ sign. “Post these words in Aramaic, Latin, and Greek,” he tells a scribe. “JESUS OF NAZARETH: KING OF THE JEWS.”
“He was never our king!” says Caiaphas, who stands by the window watching Jesus’ progress toward Golgotha. “Surely, it should read that he claims to be the King of the Jews.”
“The king,” Pilate corrects him. “It stays as I have commanded.” He stares across the room, daring Caiaphas to respond. But the high priest says nothing.
The crowd thins as Jesus leaves the city walls behind. Mary, John, and Mary Magdalene walk to the side of the road as it curls steeply upward, just out of Jesus’ sight but always there. This hill is known as Golgotha, or “Place of the Skulls,” because it is believed that the skull of Adam is buried here.
Choking dust fills the air, and Jesus can barely breathe. He trips and is immediately whipped. He rises and then trips again. And once more, he immediately feels the sting of the lash.
“My Lord,” cries a woman as she steps into the street. Despite the threat of punishment by the guards, she lovingly washes his face with a cloth. But when she urges him to drink from a small cup of water, the guards snatch it away and hurl it to the ground.
Jesus and Simon of Cyrene finally arrive at the place of crucifixion. Simon drops the heavy cross and quickly leaves. Jesus, no longer able to stand, collapses into the dust. The Roman guards spring into action. Coils of rope are unwound and laid flat. Spades dig out the excess earth from the holes in the ground so often used for crucifixions.
“I want to see him,” Mother Mary murmurs as she strains against the arms of a Roman guard who prevents her from getting close to Jesus.
Mary Magdalene sinks to her knees and starts to pray. Mother Mary stands resolutely upright, keeping a distant vigil over her son. John stands next to her, ready to catch her if she collapses from the stress.
Jesus is laid on the cross. The guards stretch out his arms and hammer nails into his hands. His feet are nailed to the cross, one over the other. The sound of his bones breaking fills the air, and Jesus gasps at each new burst of pain. After everything he’s endured today, nothing hurts like the moments the nails pierce his feet.
Pilate’s sign is nailed into the cross above Jesus’ head: JESUS OF NAZARETH: KING OF THE JEWS.
To raise the cross, ropes are attached, one end to the cross and the other to the horse that will pull it to an upright position. The crack of a whip, and the horse walks forward. Jesus no longer sees just the sky above. Now he sees all of Jerusalem in the distance, and his loving mother standing vigil at the base of the cross.
He can barely breathe. His outstretched arms make it almost impossible to draw a breath. Jesus knows he will suffocate. It is not the nails that kill you, but the steady weakening of the body until it becomes impossible for the lungs to expand.
The cross is upright. Jesus hangs from it. The executioner’s job is done. Those soldiers who crucified Jesus divide his clothes among them and cast lots for his garments.
Meanwhile, those who have watched the crucifixion step forward.
Mother Mary weeps with unbearable grief.
“Come to save others, can’t even save yourself,” mocks a Pharisee.
Jesus hears it all. He moans, and then speaks to God: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
The two criminals have been crucified on either side of him. The first taunts Jesus: “Aren’t you the Messiah? Why don’t you save yourself and us?”
The second criminal responds, “Our punishment is just. But this man has done nothing wrong.” He turns to Jesus and speaks softly. “Remember me, Messiah, when you come into your kingdom.”
Jesus turns to him. “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” He grimaces in pain. The Romans may have finished their work, but they won’t go home until all three of the crucified men are dead. Now it’s just a matter of time.
Mary, John, and Mary Magdalene stand at the base of Jesus’ cross. He is immobile and seems dead. It is now midafternoon, almost time for the start of Passover, just before sunset. The Roman soldiers know that his body must be taken off the cross by then, and are contemplating breaking his legs to kill him quicker, but they will not need to do that.
“My God,” Jesus cries suddenly. “My God, why have You forsaken me?” This is the opening line of Psalm 22, King David’s lament for the Jews and a cry for help. Jesus looks down at Mary. “Mother, this is your son,” he tells her, referring to John as he stands at her side. “John,” he adds. “This is your mother.”
Mother Mary stands, silent tears running down her face. John places a protective arm around her.
Jesus looks away, consumed by the pain in his mortal body. He looks to heaven as a hard wind kicks up. A rumble of thunder sweeps across the land. “I thirst,” Jesus says. In response, a soldier soaks a sponge and raises it up to his lips on a spear.
Pete
r hears the thunder, as he sits alone in the room where his last supper with Jesus took place less than twenty-four hours ago. His eyes are rimmed in red from exhaustion and tears, for he cannot forgive himself for denying Jesus. The coming thunder terrifies him, and he doesn’t know where to run.
Pilate hears it, as he awaits sunset inside his palace. Claudia does, too. She’s certain it’s an omen that her husband did the wrong thing by killing Jesus, and is furious at him. “I told you not to kill him,” she hisses as the thunder breaks.
“Hardly the first Jew we’ve killed,” Pilate responds. He lies facedown on a bench, his torso bare and a towel around his waist as a servant rubs oil into his back.
“He was different,” Claudia rails. “I told you that.”
“Trust me,” Pilate tells his wife, ending the conversation, “he’ll be forgotten in a week.”
Jesus, in a barely conscious fog of pain, hears the thunder. Black storm clouds now fill the sky as he knows that the time has come to leave this world. “It is finished,” Jesus says aloud. “Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit.”
The thunder strikes. This bundle of energy, vibration, and sheer power explodes upon Jerusalem. In the Temple, the great curtain is ripped in two, and panicked crowds race to flee the building, leaving their hard-earned sacrificial animals behind.
Mother Mary knows it is the signal that her son has died. She stares up at Jesus with a look of utter calm. All the pain she has been suffering is gone, replaced by the peace of realizing that her son will suffer no more.
The terrified Roman guards believe the thunder to be an omen, and they hurry to break the legs of the crucified so they can remove their bodies before Passover. They hastily grab metal rods and swing them hard against the two criminals on either side of Jesus. But they see that Jesus is already dead. To make sure, the Roman commander runs a spear through his side.
“He’s dead,” the commander confirms, pulling his spear out of Jesus. He looks across at Jesus’ mother, then back up at Jesus, and slowly says, “Surely this man was the Son of God.”
