Believing he could quell the fierce anger of His adversaries without going to extreme lengths, he decided to scourge Him. It was hoped that this punishment, viewed as a balance between justice and mercy from both Gentile and Jewish perspectives, would satisfy them. Pilate left the tribunal and withdrew to the palace’s inner chambers. Traditionally, scourging preceded execution, prompting cheers from the assembly of Christ’s foes. This punishment was severe, and Roman citizens were shielded from it by various laws. However, those lacking Roman citizenship, especially in turbulent provinces, faced it without mercy. Soldiers seized Christ, and amid the jeers of the excited crowd, He was brought to the Praetorium courtyard, where the tools for punishment were gathered. The condemned was tied to a post and brutally whipped on His exposed back with special lashes affixed with sharp tips, turning His body into a singular bloody wound. It was common for victims to lose consciousness, only to awaken to unfathomable pain. This same scourging was often inflicted on Christian martyrs during persecutions. Eusebius of Caesarea notes that those present at the scourging in Smyrna were horrified, seeing their backs laid bare with muscles and innards exposed. The Mosaic Law, reflecting a spirit of humanity, limited such punishment to a specific number of blows, stating, “forty blows may be given, and not more, lest by many blows thy brother be disfigured before thine eyes” (Deuteronomy 25:3). However, this compassionate law was disregarded in the lawlessness of that time, especially since the scourging stemmed from a judicial sentence under Roman law, which imposed no limits. Typically, the judge oversaw the scourging as it was a common means of investigation, often goading the executioners with commands like “Give it to him!” It is likely that Pilate distanced himself from this dreadful task, retreating to think through his next steps and possibly speaking with his wife Claudia, who, having taken a keen interest in the fate of the Prisoner, likely shared her troubling dreams about Him, reflecting her worries concerning the Righteous One.
Meanwhile, in the Praetorium court, events continued unabated. After the scourging, with the Prisoner entirely at their mercy, the brutal legionaries—recruited from the lowest classes in the provinces—who were also among His closest enemies, indulged in mocking Him. Christ had called Himself a king, which afforded them the opportunity to deride His royalty. They draped Him in a tattered military cloak, placed a reed in His hands as a mock scepter, and crowned Him with thorns instead of a laurel wreath, likely made from a thorn-bearing bush common near Jerusalem. Satisfied by their cruel creativity, the mockers bent before Him in jest, exclaiming, “Hail, King of the Jews!” In response, the Jews echoed this mockery, crying out “shalom leka, melek ha-egudim!” while they struck Him, spat on Him, and engaged in various antics typical of the lowly and cruel nobles around them.
The duration of this humiliation remains unknown, but no cry escaped the lips of Our Lord, the Sufferer. He could have pleaded for mercy, begging for compassion with moans or cries of pain, for even the hardest hearts within the cruelest individuals might feel compassion. Yet He remained silent, aware of His infinite triumph over them. In Gethsemane, He had been burdened with the insufferable weight of longing for His soul and had earnestly prayed to His Father, “that this cup may pass away.” Now, as He began drinking this bitter cup of suffering, He exhibited the serene joy of a conqueror. His silence demonstrated His complete submission to the will of His Father. He fulfilled His earthly mission without complaint, aligning with the eternal decree of the heavenly council, out of love for His lost people and all of humanity. To the eyes of men, His royal spirit was veiled by clouds of physical pain and anguish; nonetheless, the triumphant conclusion of His earthly life was evident to Him. Approaching death, He aimed to conquer and obliterate death and sin, rising as the Life-giver and the establishment of the Church destined to save the world.
Such divine triumph amidst His profound suffering surely captured the attention of the Roman procurator. Concerned about the fate of the Prisoner, Pilate must have felt even greater awe and fear upon hearing directly from his wife Claudia concerning her troubling dreams about the Righteous One, intensifying his desire to defend the trampled innocence. However, he found himself trapped; on technical grounds, the case was already lost. The scourging alone signified guilt under Roman law, which prescribed that a person condemned to crucifixion must first be scourged. The situation was clear to both the soldiers and the Jewish assembly, rendering any attempt by Pilate to advocate a redemptive meaning to the scourging futile. Yet, despite losing on legal grounds, he clung to the hope of saving the innocent man he believed to be unjustly accused. Regaining his composure, he returned to the people and bravely declared his judgement of acquittal: “Behold, said he, I bring Him out to you, that you may know that I find no fault in Him” (John 19:4).
The crowd, taken aback by his words, could scarcely comprehend his statement when Jesus emerged from the Praetorium, adorned with a crown of thorns and a purple robe. Despite being scourged and bloodied, radiance and sovereign dignity shone through His kind and forgiving eyes, revealing a regal demeanor amidst His suffering. Even a heart of stone ought to have softened at the sight of this humiliated yet innocent King. Seizing this moment, Pilate implored, “Behold, a man!” Nevertheless, the hostility of Christ’s enemies was relentless; recovering from their initial shock, they cried even louder for His crucifixion. Had Pilate possessed more moral courage, he might have concluded the matter there. Under Roman law, the Prisoner had been found innocent, and the representative of that law had deemed the charge of treason baseless. Yet the case quickly morphed to a point of Jewish law, which was limited and could not support a sentence of death. As such, Pilate told the Jews, “Take Him you take Him and crucify Him,” subtly implying they lacked jurisdiction to demand a death sentence. All he had left to do was dissolve the assembly, but Pilate’s cowardice led him astray, culminating in chaos.
Realizing their initial accusation of political treason had failed, the Jews pivoted tactics, directly addressing Pilate: “If thou findest no guilt in Him according to thy Roman heathen law, we have our own law, and according to our law, He must die, because He made Himself the Son of God” (John 19:7). This declaration struck Pilate with profound fear. “The Son of God”—there was something in Him that suggested He was more than merely human. Claudia's dream and her warning made him acutely aware that an injustice might extend to the divine. Overwhelmed, Pilate summoned Christ back into the inner chamber of the Praetorium for further questioning. “Whence art Thou?” he asked. “Art Thou earthly, or perhaps heavenly, mysterious and formidable Son of God?” As a cultured Roman, Pilate was versed in literature that hinted at the anticipation of an extraordinary figure destined to mend a fractured world.
He was all too familiar with rumors circulating, especially in Judea, regarding some extraordinary being on the verge of confronting the entirety of the Roman Empire. Here, before him stood this incarnate deity. Pilate believed he might have grasped the essence of the matter. Should there be a divine being standing before him, who had suffered at the hands of the Jews, then He ought to reveal Himself, allowing Pilate, empowered by divine favor, to disperse the unruly crowd and align himself with the deity's objectives, possibly expecting some future reward. Yet, as he awaited an answer, “Jesus gave him no response.” His thoughts, initially sincere, became politicized in the end. Pilate's superstitious awe shifted to indignation, and he exclaimed, “Do you not answer me? Do you not know that I have the power to crucify you and the power to let you go?” His lamentable complaint hung heavy with irony. If he felt powerless amongst the Jewish assembly, it was even more absurd to assert power now, considering all authority is granted by God.
In response, Christ said to Pilate, “Thou wouldst have no authority over Me, if it had not been given thee from above; therefore even though you commit sin by lacking the courage to seek justice, more significant sin lies with him who delivered Me unto you.” Even in this moment of utter humiliation before the Roman governor, Christ remained merciful and compassionate, teaching Pilate a lesson in eternal truth while assuming the role of judge before one who was supposed to judge Him. Pilate was struck by this profound answer, one that might be expected from a wise philosopher rather than a lowly Galilean prisoner. Reflecting upon these words, he found himself uncertain of his next steps. Yet, the Evangelist shares that from that moment onward, “Pilate desired to let Him go.”
In a final attempt, Pilate sought to strike a chord with the Jewish people’s patriotism and national pride. As he took his seat at the judgment seat, he ordered Jesus to be led out once more. When the Savior reappeared, Pilate, commanding attention, declared solemnly, “Behold your King!” Yet this strategy fell flat. The religious leaders ginned up the crowd’s fervor until no appeals could penetrate; their unanimous shouts of “Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” filled the air. Bewildered by this peculiar development, Pilate asked in frustration, “Shall I crucify your king?” To which the chief priests and the crowd fervently replied, “We have no king but Caesar! If you let Him go, you are no friend of Caesar. Anyone who claims to be king becomes an adversary to Caesar.” This unexpected turn caught Pilate off guard. Those who loathed Roman rule, asserting that their only King was Jehovah—a teaching inciting rebellion against Rome—now hypocritically rallied behind the very authority they despised.
Horrified, Pilate realized the gravity of the situation. The same faction that had previously opposed Roman governance now cleverly positioned themselves as supporters of the emperor, threatening to denounce him to Rome if he allowed Christ’s release. Pilate recalled prior unrest when, in a bid to appease the emperor Tiberius, he had displayed shields with his name on them, only to face outrage from Jewish Zealots, who vehemently demanded their removal. These events haunted him, knowing the risks that came with inciting the local populace, particularly with the existing laws against insult to majesty that had recently claimed many prominent figures. Pilate had already suffered humiliation before, as Tacitus noted, “neither Tiberius nor the accusers knew fatigue,” considering denouncements to be particularly perilous.
Ultimately overwhelmed with self-preservation over justice, Pilate succumbed to the clamor of the people. “And the cry of them and the chief priests prevailed,” St. Luke notes, “and Pilate resolved to be at their petition.” Yet that miserable ruler wished to distance himself from the terrible accountability that accompanied such a grievous injustice. To ceremonially absolve himself, he engaged in the act of washing his hands, a symbol employed among Gentiles, but one with significant ritual importance among Jews, dating back to ancient traditions regarding murder. Under the Mosaic Law, if a murder were committed by an unknown person, the local elders were to wash their hands, declaring, “Our hands have not shed this blood, nor have our eyes seen it” (Deuteronomy 21:1-7). This act of washing became proverbial, referenced in the psalms of David (Psalms 25:6, Psalms 82:13).
THEOSIS