A Foregone Conclusion
28
Then they took Jesus from Caiaphas to Pilate’s headquarters. It was
early in the morning. They themselves did not enter the headquarters, so as to
avoid ritual defilement and to be able to eat the Passover. 29 So Pilate went
out to them and said, “What accusation do you bring against this man?”
Pilate’s question is one that we may well be asking ourselves. Because at this point in John’s gospel, there have been no formal accusations against Jesus. There has been plenty of conflict or friction, yes, as Jesus has regularly broken with the moral and ritual conventions of his religious tradition. He has eaten with tax collectors and sinners—the outlaws and outcasts of society. He has healed on the Sabbath, showing more care for people than for rules. He has cried out against the greed of the religious establishment, many of whom exploit the poor rather than help them. But so far there have been no formal accusations against Jesus.
I’m reminded of my nephews. Occasionally, one of them will take exception with a boundary or a rule. My most recent memory is of one of my nephews becoming upset because my brother denied him a second cup of apple juice. At first, his protests were inarticulate and incoherent. There was only fierce sputtering and stammering. After about thirty seconds of this garbled griping, however, a more rational protest began to emerge. Soon there were a host of objections. “I think my brother had two cups today!” And: “Mommy said I could have a second cup.” And: “It’s a Saturday, aren’t there different rules for the weekend?” And so on.
I hesitate using my nephews so often for sermon illustrations. The last thing I want is to give you an unfavorable impression of them! But I find that, as children, they mirror a bit more honestly the very same feelings and thoughts and experiences that I have today as an adult. They help me to see myself more clearly. In this particular case, what I catch a glimpse of—and what I really would like to ponder—is the counterintuitive truth that we tend not to think our way to conclusions, but rather to feel or desire our way to conclusions. Another way to put this is that the will comes first, thinking comes second. Thinking is like a detective that arrives late at a crime scene; it must put together a rational story to explain what has already been decided. In this sense, thinking is less about reasoning our way forward to a conclusion and more about rationalizing our way back to what is effectively a foregone conclusion.
A case in point is any sports game ever. Just observe the behavior of fans when the referee makes a call that goes against their team. It is a foregone conclusion that the fans will disagree with the ref. But they disagree not because of a dispassionate, objective analysis of the call. They disagree because they want their team to win. The will comes first, thinking comes second. First, they vehemently reject the call. Then, they look for any possible rationalization to support their view—a foul here, an infraction there, a missed out-of-bounds or offside call. It’s not uncommon to get a set of fans united in their rejection of a referee’s call, only to discover that they have come up with different (sometimes even contradictory) rationalizations for what they all agree was a bad call.
With all of this in mind…watch how the Jewish leaders answer Pilate after he has asked them point-blank for a formal accusation.
30 They answered, “If this man were not a criminal, we would not have handed him over to you.”
Which…is not an answer. That’s like saying, “We wouldn’t have brought him to you if we didn’t have a reason.” But then they don’t give a reason. What is driving their request is not a reason, but an inflamed will—a visceral fear of this man who is threatening their power.
In turn, Pilate seems exasperated. He judges rightly that this is something of a family squabble, a domestic dispute. And so….
31 Pilate said to them, “Take him yourselves and judge him according to your law.” The Jews replied, “We are not permitted to put anyone to death.” 32 (This was to fulfill what Jesus had said when he indicated the kind of death he was to die.)
Finally, the Jewish leaders put their cards on the table. They still haven’t given Pilate an accusation, a reason for their request, but here they go even further and reveal their real desire. They want Jesus dead.
Why not put him to death themselves? Historical scholars debate the finer details. According to some texts, the Sanhedrin (the ruling council) would have needed a unanimous vote to enact the death penalty, and we know there were at least a couple sympathetic councilpersons (such as Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea). So perhaps the leaders fear they will not get a unanimous vote. Another possibility is that they fear the optics of putting to death a popular figure. Either way, they have decided that it is better if Jesus dies by Roman hands rather than at their own.
While Pilate still does not have a formal accusation to judge, he now recognizes the gravity of the situation. If the Jewish leaders feel so threatened by a single man that they need Rome to do their dirty work, then something serious must be afoot.
“Are
You a King?”
33 Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, “Are you the King of the Jews?”
You might remember that when Jesus was born, Herod was King of the Jews. “King of the Jews” was a role designated by Rome. Rome effectively chose a proxy or client king, someone who came from the region but would rule in the interests of Rome. When Pilate asks Jesus if he is king of the Jews, he is effectively asking Jesus if he is leading a revolution. Evidently Pilate has heard enough about Jesus’ popularity to know that some people have talked about him as a messiah, as a leader anointed by God. Pilate decides he needs to gauge Jesus’ intentions. Rome has already designated the rulers of the region. If there is an insurrection brewing, a rival king emerging, then Pilate, who is the Roman governor of the region, needs to know.
34 Jesus answered, “Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?” 35 Pilate replied, “I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?” 36 Jesus answered, “My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here.” 37 Pilate asked him, “So you are a king?”
As is often the case, Jesus does not answer the question asked him with a simple “yes” or “no.” Is he a king? It depends. He talks about a kingdom, yes. But then sharply distinguishes his “kingdom” from the kingdoms of this world. The kingdoms of this world rule by force, by violence. But he points out that his followers have not taken up arms. They are not fighting. (We might remember also how elsewhere Jesus insists to his followers that they aspire not to the rulers of this world, who lord it over others, but instead that they serve others.)
One popular contemporary conception of the kingdom of God is that it is identical with heaven. And so the kingdom of God becomes another time. Another place. This quiet dismissal of the kingdom of God quickly becomes a rationalization for us to live instead in one of the world’s kingdoms, to live by means of force, by means of violence, to lord it over others, to get our own way, to legislate ourselves. Lest we consign God’s kingdom to another time and place, to an altogether different realm of existence, I feel it’s important to note that Jesus’ gospel message—the very first words he speaks, according to Mark—is that the kingdom of God is arriving. Here! Now! And when Jesus prays to God, he pleads for God’s kingdom to come on earth. And Jesus already sees the kingdom of God breaking into our very midst in the smallest of things: things as small as mustard seeds, as small as trusting children, not the spectacular things that make people say, “Look at that!”, but the little things like a hug or a shared meal or an open door.
The kingdom of our Lord Jesus might not be from this world, but it is very much for this world. In one sense, the Jewish council and Pilate are right to fear God’s kingdom, because even though it does not take up the sword and do battle with the kingdoms of this world, it does spell their end. Not through conquest, but through care. Not through violence, but through forgiveness. When care and forgiveness reign, hierarchies of force and violence crumble. It is no coincidence that the prophets dream of all nations beating their swords into ploughshares, all nations forsaking their old ways to learn God’s way, all nations sitting together at God’s banquet table. The kingdom of God spells the end of worldly kingdoms, not by their destruction but by their redundance. By their dissolution. There simply is no place for force and violence when we are living in God’s care.
So…is Jesus a king? It depends what you mean by “king.”
Unconcerned
with the Truth
Jesus answered, “You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice.” 38 Pilate asked him, “What is truth?”
The irony of Pilate’s final words—“What is truth?” he asks cryptically—is that neither he nor the Jewish authorities really care about the truth. They care instead about power. Jesus’ trial is not about determining the reality of things, but about executing the will of powerful people who fear they’re losing their power. The will comes first.
Earlier in the gospel of John, we learn why the Jewish leaders really want Jesus dead. He’s too popular. He’s a threat to their power. “If we let him go on like this,” they say, “everyone will believe in him” (John 11:48).[1]
Pilate is little different than the Jewish leaders. He too cares about his power. When he asks Jesus if he is a king, he’s effectively asking Jesus if he’s a threat. Pilate worries about a Jewish revolt that might unsettle his reign and cause him to lose his seat of power.
What Is
Truth?:
Power versus Love
I remember that when I played soccer as a child, I was taught early on, “Play to the whistle.” That is, even if you think there was a foul, or even if you think that the ball went out of bounds, don’t stop until you hear the referee blow his whistle. The principle underlying this lesson was simple. Truth is whatever the referee says it is. It doesn’t matter if the ball actually went out of bounds, or whether there actually was a foul. It only matters if the ref blows his whistle.
Our world generally operates by a similar principle. Truth is whatever the most powerful people say it is. History, as they say, gets written by the victors. And so the cynical among us might, like Pilate, ask, “What is truth?” What does it matter if a foul is actually committed? If the ball actually goes of bounds? All that matters is what the most powerful people say or do. Just as earlier we pondered the possibility that the will comes first, and thinking comes second, so we might also consider the idea that, in our world, power comes first, and truth is determined by it.
But Jesus, who shows us God’s truth, insists on an alternative to power: Love. It’s all over his teachings. The greatest commandment, according to Jesus? “Love God. Love others.” His final instruction? “Love others as I have loved you.” Personally, I find really helpful Jesus’ little lesson about how God’s love is reflected in the sun and rain. God “makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous,” Jesus says; for this reason, “love your enemies” that you might be “children of your father in heaven” (Matt 5:44-45).
According to the dictionary, truth is the state of being in accordance with reality. When Jesus stands trial, the world powers of his day are deciding what is the fundamental reality. Power? Or Love?
They decide on power. And they think they have got their way. But here we are, over two thousand years later, haunted still by the reality of a man who loved and forgave the very people who put him to death. I say “haunted…” because our world by and large still insists that power is the fundamental reality. Our world still puts its faith in force, its trust in the sword (or the bomb). Our world would rather enforce its own way (whatever it calls the law) rather than live by the vulnerable way of love. And so Jesus haunts us or spooks us, in the way that a spirit from another world might startle us in all its strangeness or difference.
It’s my personal opinion, so you can take what you like and leave the rest…but I think that the most distinctive witness we give to our world is with our relationship to power. Is that where we ultimately place our trust? Should the church become just another pawn on the chessboard of power? Or do we play a different game entirely, one that’s not about winners and losers, but about all of us as children of a merciful God, as creatures nourished by the sun and rain that falls on us all? Do we place our trust instead in the way of love?
Prayer
Christ Jesus,Who gives flesh
To the God who is Love:
We are so entangled
In a world of power,
It can be difficult
To hear—much less trust in—
Your gospel.
…
Draw our attention
To the mustard seeds of your kingdom,
Where love is taking root.
In a world of power,
Make us believers in
And ambassadors of
Your love.
Amen.
[1] They also worry that his
popularity might attract the watchful eye of their Roman overlords. Indeed,
John has already reported that after Jesus fed the five thousand, the Jewish
crowd followed after him and tried to “take him by force to make him king” (John
6:15). Such an event—an unauthorized king—would surely cause Caesar to sit up
and take notice. The council expresses their fear in exaggerated terms: “The
Romans,” they say, “will come and destroy both our holy place and our nation”
(John 11:48).
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