The Redemption of Pontius Pilate

by Lewis Ben Smith

  They sat there like that, neither saying a word, with the unconscious, whimpering child between them. Finally, after the changing of the midnight guard outside, they heard voices in the courtyard, and the outer door of the apartment opened. Pilate, now decently clad in a robe and sandals, stepped out of the sick room to see if his desperate summons had been answered.

  There in his office stood Brutus Appius and Cassius Longinus. Between them stood a young man that Pilate had last seen outside the empty tomb of Jesus of Nazareth. He extended his hand.

  “Your name is John, is it not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Governor,” said the young Jew. “The others were afraid, but I know that you are no threat to us.”

  “And I will not be, unless you become a threat to Rome,” said Pilate. “I regret the outcome of that trial more than anything I have ever done. But that is not why I have brought you here. My son is deathly ill; the doctors give no hope for him. I have heard that you and the others have been given the gift of healing your master once had. Can you help him?”

  “Can I help him?” asked John. “No. But God can help anyone. Do you believe that?”

  Pilate hung his head. “I don’t know what I believe,” he finally said. “Except that I know your master was more than a normal man. I believe that he would have healed my son if I asked, and I believe that you can, too—whether it be by the power of God, or the power of the man I crucified.”

  John nodded. “Take me to the boy,” he said.

  Pilate led him into the sick room, where Porcia looked more grief-stricken than ever. She stared at the young Jew as he followed Pilate into the room. Finally she spoke.

  “Are you one of the disciples of the Galilean?” she asked.

  John nodded. “I am a follower of Jesus,” he said.

  “Do you come here to behold your master’s vengeance on my husband?” she said bitterly.

  John gave her a look full of compassion. “My master did not believe in vengeance,” he said. “He taught us to love our enemies and do good to those who hate us.”

  She gave him a desperate look of hope. “Can this be true?” she said.

  John bent over Decimus’ tiny form. He took in the pale face, the drawn expression, the tortured breathing, and a single tear ran down his cheek. He gently laid his hand across the boy’s forehead and bowed his head. His lips moved in silent prayer.

  For a few moments nothing changed. Then, gradually, the ambiance of the room began to subtly shift. The aroma of sickness was replaced by a much more subtle scent—the hint of flowers, of springtime, of sunshine on green meadows. The shadows crept back into the corners, and the oil lamp seemed to burn brighter. Finally, the Galilean leaned forward and kissed the boy’s forehead, and then he sat back, exhausted.

  Pilate was astonished. Decimus’ face color was normal; his breathing was even, his cheeks full and ruddy. As Porcia took him in her arms, he opened one eye.

  “Mama, I’m hungry,” he said.

  Pilate hugged his son and called for broth, then kissed his wife on the forehead. By the time he turned around to thank John, the apostle of Jesus had quietly slipped out the door and was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Wait!” Pilate yelled, limping across the courtyard after John’s retreating form. The disciple of Jesus paused at the gate and allowed Pilate to catch up. Pilate got within a few feet and paused, his old injury throbbing.

  “What else may I do for you, Governor?” John asked calmly.

  “I just wanted to thank you,” said Pilate, “and give you whatever reward you ask.”

  “Thank God, and his Son, Jesus,” said the Galilean. “I did nothing but act as an instrument of their power.”

  “But it was you that answered my summons,” said Pilate.

  “A sick child needed healing, so I came.” said John. “But I perceive that your need for healing is just as great as his.”

  “Me?” asked Pilate. “No, this injury is over a year old. It is as healed as it is going to get, at my age.”

  “I do not speak of your knee,” said John. “I speak of your spirit. You are a tortured soul, in the agony of perdition.”

  Pilate stopped, stunned that this stranger could know so well what he was feeling. “I don’t know who told you this—” he began.

  “No one told me,” said John. “It is written in every line of your face. The guilt of sending the Son of Man to the cross is more than anyone can bear. But He offers you His forgiveness, even now!”

  Pilate’s face darkened. “I neither want nor deserve his forgiveness, or anyone else’s. You do not know me, Jew. My life’s path has been stained with much blood—your master’s was just the latest.”

  “You speak out of pride, Governor. All men need forgiveness,” said John. “That is why the Master came into the world—so that the forgiveness of all the sins of man could be purchased once and for all. Would you not find peace?”

  “Peace?” Pilate asked. “I don’t even know what that means. But I owe you a debt for my son’s life. What can I do to repay you?”

  John shrugged. “I want nothing for myself,” he said. “The only thing I ask is this, because I know you did your best to spare my Master. You believed in his innocence. My brothers and I are likewise innocent of any crime, as Rome reckons such things. Will you continue to let us speak of The Way without interference?”

  Pilate nodded. “As long as I am convinced that you and your fellow disciples pose no threat to Rome, I see no reason to interfere with you. I do not think that the religious leaders of the Jews share my sentiment, however.”

  John smiled. “How could they?” he said. “To acknowledge the merits of our Gospel is to acknowledge their own guilt towards our Master. But we will bear their hostility and resistance as a badge of honor, and rejoice that we have been found worthy to suffer in the name of Jesus.”

  With that, the young man smiled beatifically at Pilate. “When the burden of your sin becomes so heavy you can no longer bear it, my Master will lift it from your shoulders. All you need to do is ask. Shalom, Prefect Pontius Pilate!”

  Then John turned and was gone, leaving Pilate staring after him. He felt drained of all energy, and yet the gnawing anger and frustration that had defined his life since the death of his daughter nearly eight years before was lightened. He slowly climbed the steps back to the room, where Porcia cradled their sleeping son in her arms. Her face was still streaked with tears.

  “Forgive me, husband,” she said. “I said things in my grief that I would recall, if I could.”

  Pilate looked at her and saw the young girl he had fallen in love with so long before, looking so aged and careworn that his heart broke for her. He limped across the room and kissed her furrowed brow. “You said nothing to me that I had not already said to myself many times over,” he said. “The Galilean holds no grudge, it seems. So how can I?”

  He took Decimus’ sleeping form in his arms and looked at the calm, untroubled face of the child, seeing in its planes the faces of his beloved wife, his lost daughter, his distant brothers, and even his own youthful self. He wondered what this child of the Pontii would grow up to be one day. He kissed the tiny, ruddy face, and the boy opened one eye and gave an enormous yawn.

  “Hello, tata,” he said. “Have I been asleep long?”

  “Only a little while,” Pilate answered. “You can go back to sleep if you want.”

  “I think I will,” said the boy. “I was dreaming of the kindest man. He had a beard and funny scars on his hands, and he gave me a tiny little lamb to play with. Do you think I could have a pet lamb?”

  Pilate nodded gravely. “I believe that the governor of Judea can procure one for you,” he said.

  “That’s silly,” said Decimus. “You are the governor!” Then he let out another yawn and closed his eyes. Pilate watched him fade back off to sleep, and then laid him back on his bed. He took his wife by the hand and led her to their own bedchamber, which they had not shared since the b
oy first grew sick days before. They held each other tightly until sleep claimed them both, and for once, Pilate did not dream of the blood on his hands.

  The next few years were eventful. The followers of The Way continued to increase in numbers, boldly preaching the “gospel” of Jesus on the steps of the Temple, until finally the Sanhedrin felt forced to act. About a year after the healing of Decimus, one of the leaders of the new sect, a Greek proselyte named Stephen, was accused of blasphemy and dragged before the Jew’s religious tribunal. When the charges against him were read out, he responded with a lengthy diatribe, accusing the Pharisees and priests of perverting and distorting the laws of Moses, and of murdering the Messiah of Israel. Unable to refute his soaring eloquence, the Temple supporters stopped up their ears and mobbed him, dragging him into the streets of Jerusalem and stoning him to death just outside the city walls. Even in death, Stephen conducted himself with grace and dignity, asking Jesus to forgive the men who slew him. Bleeding from a dozen cuts and gashes, Stephen exclaimed that he could see the Messiah standing in heaven at the right hand of God—and then he collapsed beneath the barrage of deadly rocks.

  Stephen’s murder broke the strange paralysis that had kept the priests from acting against the followers of Jesus for the two years since the death of the Galilean. Suddenly the open-air meetings were targets of violent attacks by the Temple priests, and many of the converts fled the city to avoid arrest. But they were not silenced; instead, they continued to preach the message of Jesus—which they had learned from his Apostles—wherever they went.

  Pilate was angry at the flouting of Roman law—the Temple had no authority to execute anyone without his consent—and summoned Caiaphas before him at Herod’s palace, charging him with breaking the peace. Caiaphas was not in the least repentant.

  “We have repeatedly asked you, Prefect, to arrest these troublemakers!” he said. “But you have refused to do so, and their blasphemy finally angered the people so much that a spontaneous demonstration of outrage was necessary.”

  “Spontaneous!” roared Pilate. “That event was about as spontaneous as a Greek mime! You even had your oily little clerk, Saul, on hand to hold the cloaks of those who threw the stones! Understand me clearly, High Priest—there will be no more unauthorized executions! Roman law forbids it!”

  Caiaphas spread his hands with an unctuous smile. “My dear governor, I cannot control the passions of the people!”

  Pilate allowed the beast within to glare out of his eyes for a moment. “No more of Jesus’ disciples will die in ‘spontaneous demonstrations,’ priest, or I may arrange for a spontaneous demonstration of Rome’s displeasure—on one of your sons! Am I clear?”

  Caiaphas blanched in fear. “You would not dare!” he said.

  “I nearly killed Caesar’s heir with my bare hands,” said Pilate. “You think an obnoxious priestly brat would give me a moment’s pause?”

  “Fine!” snapped the High Priest. “We won’t kill any more—but we will imprison as many as we see fit!”

  “That is within the law,” said Pilate. “But know that I will be watching you, Joseph Caiaphas.”

  Over the next year, dozens of followers of the Galilean were snatched from their homes and thrown into dank prisons, to be held without charges or trial. But the “apostles” remained in Jerusalem, occasionally roughed up by the Temple guards, but otherwise unharmed. The High Priest himself seemed reluctant to lay hands on them. However, the arrests continued, and Saul of Tarsus, the young clerk of the Sanhedrin, was sent to the surrounding area with orders to arrest any followers of The Way he might find, regardless of age or gender, and bring them to Jerusalem for trial.

  Suddenly, a remarkable interruption stopped the march of persecution in its tracks. On the way to Damascus to arrest a group of believers, Saul was struck down by some sort of apoplexy and blinded. Then he suddenly showed up a few weeks later in the synagogue at Damascus, renouncing his allegiance to the Sanhedrin and boldly proclaiming that Jesus of Nazareth was indeed the Son of God and the Messiah of Israel. The Jewish leaders were thunderstruck at this defection, and then tried to have the apostate Pharisee seized and killed. But Saul slipped over the city wall and eluded them, vanishing from sight for the next three years.

  But even as the Sanhedrin paused in its oppression of The Way, Herod the Tetrarch stepped up. He had been watching with alarm and hostility the remarkable numbers of those who followed Jesus, and was not at all convinced by Pilate’s assertions that they were harmless. However, he waited until Pilate was in Caesarea to make his move against the Apostles of Jesus.

  Armed with his authority as Tetrarch of Galilee, he sent a group of soldiers to arrest any of the original followers of Jesus they could find. The unfortunate disciple that they happened across was none other than James, the brother of John the Healer. After a trial that lasted less than an hour, James was hustled outside the city walls and beheaded, according to Titus Ambrosius, who had witnessed the whole thing.

  Pilate was furious, but Herod was within his rights as Tetrarch, since all the original followers of Jesus were from his province of Galilee. Pilate nonetheless sent him an angry letter.

  Lucius Pontius Pilate, Proconsul of Rome and Prefect of Judea, to Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Galilee and King of the Jews by decree of the Senate and People of Rome –

  My dear Herod, I am deeply distressed to see you doing the dirty work of the Priests and Sanhedrin, who bear you neither love nor respect. The followers of the Galilean, Jesus of Nazareth, are a harmless lot who have done nothing to earn the abuse the Temple faction heaps upon them. They do not break the law, commit acts of violence, or seek to undermine the authority of Rome. I would ask you as a friend to reconsider this course of action; we have seen from experience that persecution does nothing to silence this sect, but only increases their devotion to their founder. Killing the Galilean’s disciples will not earn you respect but the enmity of the common people of this region, who regard them as holy men and prophets.

  Pilate received a rather brusque message in return:

  Herod Antipas, Tetrarch of Galilee and King of the Jews, to Lucius Pontius Pilate, Prefect of Judea and Proconsul of Rome –

  My dear Pilate, I am not in the habit of giving you advice about how to govern Judea, so please refrain from telling me how to run my own affairs. I know that one of the Galileans healed your son, accounting for your unusually tolerant attitude towards them. But the High Priest is right on this issue: the Nazarenes seek to overturn the ancient traditions of the Jews and destroy all respect for the religious and civil authorities of the land. I have arrested their chief, the fisherman called Simon son of Jonas, also known as Cephas. By the time you read this, his head will have parted company with his shoulders, and this pernicious sect will be on the path to extinction. I am sorry your sentimentality has blinded you to the seriousness of this situation, but out of respect and in memory of our friendship, I will refrain from mentioning this to Caesar.

  Pilate furiously balled the scroll up and threw it into his brazier, then began preparing to head to Jerusalem. He was unsure of how he would proceed when he got there, but he hoped that perhaps the big fisherman could be saved. However, a letter from Titus Ambrosius arrived by courier only a few hours behind Herod’s missive.

  Titus Ambrosius, Centurion of the Jerusalem Cohort, to Lucius Pontius Pilate, Prefect of Judea, greetings!

  You have asked me, Governor, to keep you informed of any events pertaining to the sect of the Nazarenes, or The Way, as they call themselves. The events of the last two days certainly merit a full report! First, Herod ordered the arrest of Simon Peter after seeing how pleased the Sanhedrin was with him for killing the Galilean James. The leader of the Nazarenes was dragged to prison and flogged, then informed that he would be put to death the next morning. The other disciples of Jesus were gathered at a house where they frequently meet, praying for the deliverance of their beloved leader. (In case you are wondering, my source is none other than our
former Primus Pilus Centurion, Cassius Longinus! He has risen quite high in the leadership of the Jesus cult.)

  While they were praying away, someone came knocking at the door of the house. A servant girl went down and answered and was stunned to see none other than Peter himself standing there, asking to be let in! She was so shocked she left him there and ran upstairs to tell the others. They thought she was hallucinating, but finally agreed to go to the gate and see for themselves. They were stunned to see Peter standing there alive and well! According to what he told them, he was praying and singing in his cell when he fell asleep and dreamed that an angel was urging him to stand up. He stood and found his chains were loosed, and the gates opened before him as he walked past the sleeping guards into the street. It wasn’t until he was several blocks from Herod’s palace that he realized it was not a dream, and went to the house where the disciples were accustomed to meet.

  Herod was furious the next morning, I can tell you! He did find a use for his headsman, though—all six of the guards who were watching Peter’s cell were executed before the day was out. Then Herod packed up his bags and headed for Sepphora in disgust. For the moment, at least, the followers of The Way are free of the fear of arrest, although the Temple guards are still under orders to rough them up any time they are seen in public, and to disrupt any attempts to proclaim their message about the Galilean they worship.

  I don’t know what to make of all this, sir, but you ordered regular reports, and I figured you would want to know about these events. I will keep you informed if anything else happens.

  Pilate shook his head in wonder. Someone was definitely looking after the followers of The Way—he wondered if it was their risen Master. His own feelings on the matter remained complex. The guilt of having murdered a god, or demigod, or whatever this Jesus had been, remained a heavy burden on his conscience. The dreams of the blood on his hands recurred fairly often, and he always woke up shaking and sweating from them.