History and the Pilate Routine

History.

Read it as a child.

Enjoyed it in high school

Majored in it for college.

Focused on it in seminary.

Been reading it all my life.

A joy to keep probing the dots.

And follow the lines that connect them.

But a burden, too.

I look at others, and note the absence of history.

The absence of the times.

The absence of the present mess, crisis, and whatever.

For them, sweet Elysian fields.

Platitudes and campfires.

Bible verses and cute stories.

The intricacies of dogma - what fun.

S'mores and laughter.

Fun and games.

Middle Class comfort and easy going.

Christian solace and the sweet by-and-by.

Praise God for our ease.

As for:

The Pandemic?

BLM?

Protests?

Environmental disasters?

Income inequality?

And a thousand other realities, truths, hardships, and pains.

The Pilate routine works just fine:

Wash hands.

Shake head.

Walk away.

Clean hands feel good.

Shaking the head seems so astute.

Walking away - comfy.

Damn.

The history muses won't let me alone.

I keep seeing the dots.

And all the lines.

And all the pain and sorrow.

I had a history teacher in high school.

He once scrawled on the black board.

With great drama.

Drama I've never gotten:

HISTORY = HIS STORY.

Well, maybe not HIS.

But certainly God's story.

A story unfolding.

In every season under heaven.

And to think about God, at least for me.

Is to be a student of God's Story.

A student of history.

I cannot do the Pilate thing.

Though what I do is never enough.

But a little work is better than nothing.

And I will do my little work.

For as long as I can.

And in some small way,

I hope that I am following the call of Christ.

The words of the prophets.

And the lives and hope of everyone.

Devoted to seeing the dots.

And connecting them.

For the sake of truth.

For the sake of faith, hope, and love.

For the sake of grace, mercy, and peace.

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Mother, Daughter, and Holy Love.

All that's right and good.

Strong and lovely.

Bright and beautiful.

Great and small.

For the story.

That:

We Shall Overcome!

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*Dedicated to Heather Cox Richardson ... and those historians of past and present who will not rest on their laurels, but press on to know the truth, who stir the pot and keep us disturbed.

Dangerous Holy Week

Holy Week is filled with uncertainty and danger, peopled with all sorts of characters:

~ the rich and the powerful determined to bring an end to the Jesus thing ... 

~ a man willing to betray himself for 30 pieces of silver ... 

~ another man with a hair-trigger denial when asked if knows the man from Galilee ... 

~ the Procurator Pilate, more than likely frightened of making the wrong decision, and wondering what this all means for his career ... 

~ soldiers doing their job ... 

~ merchants and mendicants ...

~ bystanders and tourists ... 

~ travelers from afar ... 

~ disciples on the verge of panic ... 

~ crowds eager to spill some blood and welcome back a champion by the name of Barabbas ...

~ and Jesus who broke bread with his friends, who knew all too well how it was ending, who choose the power of silence when confronted by his accusers, and then beaten to within an inch of his life, needing help to carry the cross ... dying between two revolutionaries who likely had blood on their hands ... he utters words of forgiveness, laments his abandonment, then cries out in loud voice and is dead!

In a world such as ours, with turmoil and trouble on every hand, politicians run amok, violent men and women eager for blood ... children suffering ... fear running high.

I find some strange assurance in Holy Week ... such is life, such is the world into which the Son of Man comes ... the cross he bears is the cross of every moment ... the death he dies is humanity's death ... 

He stayed the course and didn't relent ... the original temptation in the wilderness was defied to the end, and then some.

He's worthy of my love.

In his life, and in his death

And some say, the tomb couldn’t hold him.

Whom to Choose? Pilate or Jesus?

Pilate asks: “What’s truth?” and Jesus remains silent.

Why?

Because truth is Jesus the Christ, standing there in front of Pilate – now get the picture: here’s Pilate, wearing expensive clothing, hair well-done, in a palace, surrounded by Imperial Guards with shiny weapons, beautiful draperies, servants attending to Pilate’s every need, fine food and drink … the lap of luxury … and then Jesus, hands bound with tough leather straps, blood seeping through his tattered robe, hair tangled with spit and sweat … already half-way to death …

Between these two, you’re standing there in the corner – you’re witness to this encounter – a Jewish prophet from Galilee and mighty Pilate in his palace … and you ask yourself, “Who’s telling the truth?”

How might you answer?

Come one now, tell yourself the truth?

Might you not be inclined to go with Pilate?

Rather than this beaten and tattered man swaying unsteadily on his bloody feet.

Pilate questions him with an imperious voice.

Jesus is horse from thirst, his mouth swollen from the fists that easily found their mark.

Who might you choose?