Reliving The Passion #17

Mark 14:53–65

And they led Jesus to the high priest; and all the chief priests and the elders and the scribes were assembled. And Peter had followed him at a distance, right into the courtyard of the high priest, where he was sitting with the guards and warming himself at the fire.

Now the chief priests and the whole council sought testimony against Jesus to put him to death; but they found none. For many bore false witness against him, and their witness did not agree.

Some stood up and bore false witness against him, saying, “We heard him say, I will destroy this temple that is made with hands, and in three days I will build another, not made with hands.’” Yet not even so did their testimony agree.

And the high priest stood up in the midst and asked Jesus, “Have you no answer to make? What is it that these men testify against you?”

But he was silent and made no answer.

Again the high priest asked him, “Are you the Christ, the Son of the Blessed?”

And Jesus said, “I am. You will see the Son of man seated at the right hand of Power, coming with the clouds of heaven.”

And the high priest tore his garments and said, “Why do we still need witnesses? You have heard his blasphemy. What is your decision?”

And they all condemned him as deserving death.

And some began to spit on him and to cover his face and to strike him, saying to him, “Prophesy!”

And the guards received him with blows.

The city has not yet awakened. The night is starless now, and cold. Jesus, surrounded by a tired guard, walks back through Jerusalem’s streets. No one says anything. Jesus’ eyes are steadfastly forward, his mouth closed.

He is led through the courtyard of the high priest’s house. People glance up from firelight as he passes. He ascends the steps to an upper room, saying nothing.

This room is lit by yellow flame and oil-light. It’s crowded. All round its walls men stand and stare. The air stinks of hasty waking. No one is carefully dressed. No one cares. They number enough to make a quorum; that’s what matters: their vote will represent the whole Sanhedrin.

Jesus is led to the center, facing a table. He stands straight and solitary, saying nothing.

Caiaphas—politic, smooth, long-tenured and shrewd: High Priest Caiaphas sits at the table, presiding. He nods. Jesus does not. Caiaphas is robed in a rich red. Jesus is roped.

The trial begins.

One by one men move from the walls, formally to testify against the prisoner. But as one by one they return to their places, it becomes apparent that they are annoying the high priest. His eyelids droop with contempt. Their stories contradict each other. Their evidence is inadmissible.

Caiaphas knows the verdict he wants. Everyone knows. So why can’t two idiots agree on a single story?

His anger shows in the white of his lips, in his furious silence. Men flick glances toward one another. The air crackles with fear. Jesus gazes straight at Caiaphas, waiting.

“I…he,” says a fellow, creeping forward, “I heard him say he’d destroy the temple—”

“When?” asks the high priest.

“Well, something about three days—”

“When did he threaten to destroy the temple?”

“Oh! Well, maybe three days ago?”

“No, no, no!” says another man, trying to be helpful. “I heard that at least three years ago—”

BOOM! The high priest strikes the table, dismisses these fools, rises, and takes the floor himself.

To Jesus he hisses, “Have you nothing to say in your own defense?”

But Jesus continues to gaze at Caiaphas, steadfastly still and silent.

“What? What? What?” the high priest sneers, his voice an oil of irony: “Are you the Messiah, then?”

Nervous giggles flee through the room.

But now the prisoner speaks, and what he says stops laughter altogether: “I am.”

For an instant the high priest freezes. Everyone freezes. Then, both horror and hilarity in his small eye, Caiaphas explodes.

“Blasphemy!” he roars. He takes his robe in two hands and tears it and shows the pieces to the council. “Blasphemy, blasphemy!” he sings. “So what is your verdict?”

The council is beaming. The room is relieved. The thing will end well after all.

“Death!” says the council. “Of course.”

So heartened are folks by this turn of events, so sure of the prisoner’s folly and of their own superiority, that quite fearlessly they spit on him. And he takes it! Well, then they cudgel their brains to think up rather more complex games of scorn. They blindfold him and hit him and ask him, like some folk-tale Messiah, to prophesy: “Figure it out. Who hit you?”

Jesus looks out the window. The sky is streaked with grey. Morning is coming. He says nothing now. He says nothing at all.

Jesus, I follow you.

Whenever discipleship puts me in peril, give me the gift of a holy silence—to speak the truth, no less, no more.

Amen.