Sharing a Son’s Suffering by Nina Faye Morey

“Which of the two do you want me to release for you?” Pilate asked the raucous crowd.

A spark of hope filled my heart, but it was instantly snuffed out by the throng’s wild shouts of “Barabbas!”

“What shall I do, then, with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” Pilate demanded.

“Crucify him!” they shouted.

I gasped, clutching my breast. My heart felt as though it had been cruelly wrenched from my chest. I’d always known this day was coming, but I’d buried that knowledge in the dark recesses of my mind. Now there was no escape. Tears brimmed in my eyes, blurring my vision.

“Why? What crime has he committed?” Pilate responded, trying to restore some reason to this unruly mob. Pilate was no fool. He knew why the chief priests and elders had brought Jesus before him. They’d whipped up the masses into this frenzied state, convincing them to demand Jesus’s crucifixion.

The seething horde simply shouted even louder: “Crucify him!”

Blinded by my tears, I tried desperately to force my way through the crush of the crowd. If only I could reach my precious son. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I made no effort to wipe them away. I needed to get to Jesus, to wrap my arms around Him and protect Him, as I’d always done.

Pilate now realized there was no hope of reasoning with this rabble. Amidst the roar of the crowd, he rose from his judge’s seat and poured water over his hands, symbolically washing away any culpability for what was to come. “I am innocent of this man’s blood. It is your responsibility!”

Afterwards, Pilate released Barabbas and ordered Jesus flogged before handing Him over to be crucified. My hands flew to my mouth to stifle my anguished cries. As the governor’s guards scourged my son’s flesh, I heard a scream in the crowd. Then I realized it had been my own.

I followed the Roman soldiers as they led Jesus to the governor’s palace. There they stripped my son of His clothes, dressed Him in a scarlet robe, and fashioned a crown of thorns they placed upon His head. I wrung my hands helplessly as blood began trickling down His forehead. Then the soldiers put a staff in Jesus’s right hand and knelt before Him, mocking Him with “Hail, King of the Jews!” They spat on Him, took the staff, and began striking His head repeatedly. My heart ached to cup my son’s disfigured face in my hands, kiss His swollen lips, and tell Him once more how dearly I loved Him.

Finally, the soldiers put Jesus’s clothes back on Him. Then they forced Him to carry His own cross as they led Him away to be crucified. Weak from the flogging, Jesus collapsed and was unable to continue up the hill to Calvary. My heart broke at the sight of my once strong carpenter son brought to His knees by the weight of that heavy timber. The soldiers pulled a man from the crowd, Simon of Cyrene, forcing him to carry Jesus’s cross. When they reached Golgotha, “the place of the skulls,” they began nailing my son’s hands to the cross.

Every time a soldier pounded a nail through Jesus’s hands and feet, I felt as though it were piercing my heart. Those hands I’d held so tightly; those feet I’d washed so tenderly. When the soldiers hoisted that heavy cross and let it fall into its moorings, sobs suddenly wracked my body. I huddled close to the foot of the cross; determined to keep vigil over my dying son despite the vitriol flung by belligerent bystanders.

I remained by my son’s side throughout the growing darkness; silently pleading with God to quickly end His suffering. How much more could Jesus endure? At last, I heard Him cry out, “It is finished.” No more pain; no more suffering. “Thank you, God!” Despite my deep sorrow at the loss of my precious son, I finally felt at peace, knowing He was now in the loving hands of His Heavenly Father.

These Hands by Susan Barclay

Pilate Washing His Hands by Thomas Hawk

His gaze met mine without a trace of rancour. And yet I held the power of life and death in my hands. The ability to order or deny his execution. 

There was peace in his eyes, and my hands felt cold and sweaty. What to do with this man who seemed to hold no fear of death. Didn't he understand the cruel punishment of crucifixion? And it seemed to me, from the little I could get out of him, that he had done no wrong, that the Jews were afraid of him, despised him for some reason, perhaps envied him. They accused him of treason, but from all I could discern, he was no political threat to Rome, and if he were, the Jewish people would surely be on board if they thought he could overthrow us. 

"Are you the king of the Jews?" I asked, clasping my hands at my waist.

"So you say," he replied.

I could see how he might aggravate, this enigma of a man, how he would rile the Pharisees, they who were all about law and order and giving the right answers. I decided to send him to Herod, to let him deal with him. The Jewish leaders weren't happy about it, but I wasn't happy about the position they were putting me in. It felt like entrapment, like no matter which course of action I took, I'd lose.

And then Herod sent Jesus back to me. Neither of us could find any fault in him. Then I remembered the practice of releasing a prisoner to the Jews at the Passover season and decided to let them choose between Jesus and Barabbas, a notorious and violent criminal. Surely they would choose Jesus, I thought.

My wife, Procula, hearing the chants and cries of the crowd, tried to intervene on Jesus' behalf and sent me a message. She'd had a nightmare involving him, and felt that no good could come of my participation. 

Through it all, Jesus stood by, his hands at his sides, those peaceful eyes looking over the people, sometimes closing as if in prayer. I rubbed my wet palms on my robe as the crowd chanted for the release of Barabbas and the crucifixion of Jesus. I called for a basin of water, washed my hands ceremonially, and told them, "I am innocent of this man's blood. The responsibility is yours!" They called back, "We will take responsibility for his death - we and our children!"

I gave the order for Jesus to be flogged and to be turned over to the Roman soldiers for crucifixion. Then I took to my quarters and told my servants that I was not to be disturbed for any reason. But after Jesus died (so quickly I thought!), Joseph of Arimathea bulldozed his way in and asked permission to take Jesus' body and bury it in his own tomb. I granted it without even looking at him, and waved him away.

For three days I could not eat, I could not sleep. I avoided Procula, her comfort and companionship. I knew I couldn't look her in the eye.

And then I heard astonishing reports - that Joseph's tomb was empty, the stone had been rolled away and Jesus disappeared! More reports came, that Jesus had been spotted alive, walking around, spending time with his disciples. How could it be? I wanted to see for myself, but was afraid and more than a little ashamed for my role in the killing of an innocent man. And if he was the King of the Jews, what might he do to me?

I look at my hands now and no matter how many times I wash them, they are never clean. His blood is on them. And for this I will be remembered. 

I long for clean hands and a clean heart. I long for the peace that I saw in the eyes of Jesus.
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Susan Barclay maintains a website at www.susan-barclay.blogspot.com and has recently returned to blogging there on a semi-regular basis.