Rev. David Inglis John 18:28-38

Fourth Sunday in Lent March 21, 2004

Dramatization of John 18:28-38:

What is truth? Funny. That’s a question that had never even entered my mind before. But now that I thought about it, my truth seemed clear enough. My truth was that I had a problem on my hands with this Jesus character. Actually, it was the religious authorities having a problem with him that was giving me such a headache. They were demanding that he be put to death, which I had to authorize as the Roman governor.

Would it bother my conscience to sentence one more man to die on a cross? Pfff! He would have been one of hundreds. But this case wasn’t that simple. I had learned that these Jews were not all of one mind. If Caiaphas was really threatened by this Jesus, then Jesus must have a following who regarded him as a hero or prophet or something. If I tortured to death a popular prophet who hadn’t broken any laws, that could set off riots against me during this volatile Passover season.

Did I know how to deal with riots and revolts? Of course. A few years back, the Jews had rioted against me when I took money out of their temple treasury to pay for the new aqueduct I built for Jerusalem. When things got out of hand, I had my soldiers put on their street clothes, hide their weapons inside their cloaks, get into the streets with the rioters, and at the signal, pull out their knives, swords or clubs and let the crowd have it. It stopped the riot, but complaints about my harshness went all the way to Caesar Tiberius. It wasn’t the first time the Jews had complained to Rome about me, and Caesar let me know that if I couldn’t control these people without spreading more hatred against Rome, I was finished as a governor.

So my truth was that I had to walk a very thin line between keeping order and keeping my job. And then that tightrope began to shake under my feet when Caiaphas’ people began stirring up the crowd to demand Jesus’ crucifixion. Why did the people want to see him killed? Had Jesus offended their religious sensibilities? Disappointed them in some way? I didn’t know, and frankly I didn’t really care about these people’s religious squabbles. My truth was I had to find a way to calm things down.

So I sent Jesus out to be throughly flogged. If they wanted him punished, humiliated, made to endure horrendous suffering, that should do the job. Our flogging whips were laced with sharp bits of bone and metal, and they tore a person’s skin to shreds.

When the soldiers brought Jesus back, he presented a pitiful picture of suffering. But there was something else too, and this made me pause as I tried to negotiate this shaking tightrope I was on. Even though he could barely stand, his eyes somehow maintained their radiant intensity. They showed no bitterness. They showed no fear. What they did show was an extraordinary power that even a Roman flogging hadn’t been able to extinguish.

All I could say as my soldiers put him on display was "Ecce homo"–behold the man. His beaten body and unbeaten spirit spoke for themselves.

I think maybe the unquenchable fire in his eyes frightened them. I have to admit it frightened me. Especially because my wife Claudia had sent me word not to have anything to do with this innocent man, because of a disturbing dream she had had about him. A man who will not be cowed in the face of brute power is a dangerous man. Who can control him? A man who condemns your guilt by his sheer innocence is a haunting man. Who can tolerate him? Instead of quieting the crowd, the figure of Jesus standing there, powerful in his powerlessness, was agitating them all the more. "Crucify him! Away with him! Crucify him!" they began to shout. "Our law says he should be put to death, because he claims to be the Son of God!"

At that, I felt a pang inside me. That’s something I hadn’t felt for a long time. I guess it was my conscience, suddenly wondering, "What if this man is as extraordinary as the undimmed light in his eyes, and I’m the one responsible for his death?" I had to find out more about him.

I took him back inside with me. "Where are you from?" I demanded. He just stood there, looking at me. Was he looking into my troubled conscience? But I wasn’t the one on trial–he was! "Do you refuse to speak to me?" I shouted. "Don’t you know I have the power to release you, and the power to crucify you?"

But my words melted in front of him like bits of wax held in front of a flame. "You would have no power over me unless it had been given you from above." I felt like I was losing my grip. I had gone into the thick of battle, quelled riots, and made brutish men beg for mercy. But over this broken, bleeding man, I felt powerless.

I went out and told the crowd I found no fault with him. The chief priests cried out, "If you release this man, you are no friend of Caesar’s! Anyone who claims to be a king sets himself against the emperor!" Oh, these foxes. Now they were threatening to use the only real power they had over me–their power to have me reported to Caesar again.

Well, I really had no room left to maneuver. I caught sight of my razor thin tightrope line that just might get me through this. I brought Jesus out to the judge’s bench. "Here is your king!" I proclaimed.

"No! Take him away! Get rid of him! Crucify him!" they shouted.

"Shall I crucify your king?"

"We have no king but Caesar!" they shouted.

They had taken the bait. I’m sorry, but something had to give here. It clearly wasn’t going to be the crowd, and it wasn’t going to be me, so it was going to have to be Jesus. Oh, and my conscience, that had for some reason decided to rear its pesky little head. Oh well, I could publicly wash my hands of his death and put all the blame on the Jews, if things like that mattered. So that’s what I did. The crowd would have their victim. I would keep order and keep my job. And the mysterious man with heaven’s light in his eyes was led off to have that light extinguished.

You know, part of me wanted to be there at his crucifixion, to see for myself at what point that extraordinary light got overcome by ordinary human fear and pain. But it wouldn’t do for me to be present. So when it was over, I called in Junius, the centurion who oversaw the crucifixion. I asked him, "What happened when you men nailed Jesus’ hands and feet to the cross? Did he finally say he was sorry? Did he beg for mercy? Or did he pray to bring down his God’s wrath on us all?"

"Well, he did pray to God."

"What did he say?"

"He prayed that God would forgive us, because we didn’t know what we were doing."

"He prayed for God’s forgiveness of his crucifiers?! Well, what about while he was hanging there in helpless and in agony on the cross? Did he say anything then?"

"Yes, sir. He told one of the thieves hanging next to him that he would see him today in paradise, because he said Jesus was innocent."

"He said that to a crucified thief?! Well, what about at the end? Did he say anything at the point of his death?"

"Yes, he did. He looked up to heaven and said, ‘Father! It is accomplished! Into your hands I commit my spirit!’"

I just stood there taking this in. Jesus had told me he had come for the purpose of bearing witness to the truth. What was this truth that he had suffered this agonizing death to bear witness to? What kind of truth could give him the power to face brutal suffering and death without being cowed by fear? What kind of truth could make him lay down all his self protection when he was on trial for his life? What kind of truth could make it possible to pray for God’s forgiveness of the people who were killing him?

My truth was that I was a petty, pitiful, selfish man, looking only for how I could use people to serve my purposes. I didn’t understand his truth, but could see that it was so much bigger than anything I had known.

I finally asked Junius if there was anything else to report.

"Well, yes. As soon as he died, the earth shook right under our feet."

"That’s when that happened? Right when he died?"

"Yes sir."

"So what do you make of all of this?" I asked him.

"Well sir, since you asked, I would have to say that this man must truly have been the Son of God."

"Junius, I assume you are aware that talking like that could make you lose your position."

"Yes, sir. I’m aware of that, sir."

"And yet you said it anyway. Why?"

"Well, sir, I can’t explain it, but somehow that man was connected to something very big and very powerful. And just listening to him and watching him stirred something deep and powerful in me. If I denied that, I would deny myself. I can live without being a centurion, sir, but I can’t live without being myself."

"Junius, do you know what he told me? I said that he came to bear witness to the truth, and that those who belong to the truth listen to his voice. What do you make of that?"

"Oh, sir, thank you! That helps me understand it more. I think the way he talked and carried himself and engaged people and even suffered and died were all ways he was bearing witness to this powerful, mysterious truth. I think I heard the voice of God in that somehow. There’s a part of me that wants to belong to that truth and listen to it more. But now I have silenced his voice! How could I have done such a thing as to put the voice of truth on a cross to die?!"

"Because I ordered you to, Junius. Because I couldn’t see a truth that was any bigger than my truth," I answered him. "I guess none of us could."

But it wasn’t long before we began getting reports that his voice hadn’t been silenced. The word on the street was that he had risen from the dead, made numerous appearances to his followers, and ignited their spirits with the same kind of fire that had burned in him. How did I know this? From Junius. Junius the Roman centurion had become a "follower of the Way," as they called themselves.

I didn’t remove Junius from his position. He himself came to me one day, took off his helmet, laid down his sword, and told me he could no longer be a follower of Jesus’ way and carry an instrument of death and oppression.

Somehow I wasn’t surprised. "Before you go, Junius, I just have one question." I asked him, "What is this truth that calls to you so strongly? Can you define this truth for me?"

"Not exactly, sir. It’s too big to put into human words. But when you hear parts of it, you know it in your soul. And you can see evidence of its power."

"What evidence?" I asked him.

"Well, like Matthias. He was a liar, a cheat and a drunkard, but now he has confessed all his sins, paid back everyone he cheated, and is like a father to the orphans in his quarter. And like our little group of followers. Sir, you would never believe this, but Jews, gentiles, slaves, free, beggars, merchants, men, and women, all treat each other like they’re all the same. There’s no separations between people at all! And like me, sir. Even though I can’t define this truth to you, I know it has to do with God creating me, loving me without limits, forgiving me even for putting his Son to death, and giving me a mission to help Jesus’ kingdom come into this world.

"Oh, so Jesus is a king, then."

"He’s the King, sir–with all due respect. He’s the way, the truth, and the life."

"Instead of executing you for disrespecting Caesar, I have to ask you, What does it require to follow this way, this truth and this life, Junius?"

"Everything, sir. You have to be willing to put God above everything–even Caesar, even your own life."

"That’s what I was afraid of," I said.

Then he went on, "And then you realize that when you give up your own life as you thought you wanted it, you receive it back the way God wants it. And it is a life that belongs to this truth that is bigger than words and bigger than the world. That’s why I’m giving up this sword. It proclaims the lie that fear and death are the real powers in this world. Wearing the sword enslaves me to this lie as much as it enslaves those who fear it. Jesus said, ‘You shall know the truth, and the truth will make you free.’ I’m trading my sword for freedom."

And with that, he was gone. But he left me wondering, "What is this longing for a bigger truth that stirs in my soul? What would it mean for someone like me to give up everything for a truth I can’t define and a God I can’t see? Could I ever have the courage to belong to this truth, listen to Jesus’ voice, and follow God’s call?