A Third Of A Mile

 Dr. Mike Murphy

 April 16, 2022

“Seven hundred and sixty-two steps.  I can still remember taking each of those steps as if it was yesterday.  The confusion and the fear that filled me, the anger and hatred that surround me.  And with each of those seven hundred and sixty-two steps, I feared each might be my last.

We had travelled so far to get to the city that day.  Days at sea, then two more days we walked to get there.  Travelling that distance so my sons might also experience Passover that year, and see my beloved city for the first time. But as we neared the city, I could all but sense the change. The bitterness and the anger greeted us before we could even get to the gates. Something had changed my city.  Something that I would later learn, would change my beloved city forever.

As we approached the gates the crowds were overwhelming.  Lining the streets in anticipation of something that was soon to occur.  I grabbed hold of each of my sons, so not to let them be separated from me by the mobs that seemed to be pouring out from every corner.  Crowds that just kept screaming words of hatred, unmercifully mocking a man whose name I did not even know. And as the crowds gathered even more, I soon realized that we were going to have to stand in the midst of that crowd until the event that had caused the mob to gather had passed.  We could simply never make our way to the Temple by trying to fight through all these people.

Suddenly, at a distance, I could see a man stumbling as he walked the street.  A man, that as he drew closer, was so beaten, so battered, that even his own family must not have been able to recognize him.  A man, who was so weak, he could barely carry himself, much less the cross they made him carry. As he approached the place my sons and I were standing, I watched as he suddenly collapsed.  Falling hard onto the stones that lined the streets. So hard, I immediately doubted he could still be alive. But slowly, I watched as his fingers began to move, and with shallow breaths, I could see the little life left in him.  As the soldiers forced him again to his feet, I thought to myself, this man cannot even carry himself, much less the weight that must come from that cross.

Before I even realized what had happened, a soldier reached to grab me, separating me from my sons, ordering me to pick up this man’s cross.  I tried to plead with them to choose another, as I had my sons there with me. But it was as if my words were silent, as the soldier continued to drag me into that street.

As I was handed that cross, all I could think of was the blood that covered it.  Blood that would stain me, leaving me unclean to attend Passover, unable to fulfill the purpose I had come for, the reason I had brought my sons to my once beloved city.  As I reached for that cross, and the soldier placed it on my shoulder, I could feel the blood completely covering me. So much blood that it was all I could do to even get a grip.  I remember thinking to myself, how could any man even have this much blood? How could this much blood pour out from a man and him still be alive, much less carry this cross?

So many steps we had taken before I looked over to see this man who was carrying this cross with me.  So many steps we had taken where I had felt nothing but anger at this man, for putting me in this position.  So many steps of having the crowd spit on me, as they spit at him. Throwing anything they could find at me, as they lashed out at this man.  With each step, I not only feared for my life, but feared my two sons might see my life taken before their very eyes. But as I glanced in this man’s eyes, the strangest of feelings came over me,  It was not hatred, denial, disappointment, or even agony I saw as I looked into those eyes. All my eyes would allow me to see was a love that pierced all the way to my soul. And as we arrived at the top of that hill, where they were preparing to crucify him, I suddenly found my eyes could not look away.  As my sons ran to me, I stood in front of them with eyes full of tears. Tears, that no matter how hard I tried, I could not make stop. I watched as they raised him on that cross I had helped him carry. I watched as he struggled in pain to take each breath. I listened as he called to the Lord, not to curse all who had placed him on that cross, but asking for their forgiveness.  I watched as he offered that same forgiveness to a guilty man who hung on the cross beside him, telling that man how hope would be his eternal. And I watched as the sky turned to darkness as his final breath left his body.

I watched that day as I saw it all, knowing in the depths of my heart, I had just seen all.  And in that moment, I could so vividly hear the words of the Lord speaking to me. Words from Him, that reminded me of the promise Isaiah had brought to my people.  Words I had not read for years, but words I would never again forget. Words that said, ‘Surely our griefs He Himself bore, and our sorrows He carried; Yet we ourselves esteemed Him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted.  But He was pierced through for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the chastening for our well-being fell upon Him, and by His scourging we are healed.’

In that moment, as I watched them take down His limp and lifeless body, I realized that I did not have to go to the Temple that day, nor ever would again. The Lord had not brought me to Jerusalem to see the lamb sacrificed, but so I might experience and witness the sacrifice of the Lamb. In that moment, I realized the blood that now covered me had not left my clothes stained, but had washed me as white as snow.  Because the Lord showed me on that day, it was not me who was carrying His cross. It was He, for each step of that third of a mile, who had been carrying mine.”

With each step, I pray you remember who is carrying your cross today.  

I Am Pilate!

Dr. Mike Murphy
April 14, 2022

“There was something in his eyes that was different.  Something separated him from all the others that had appeared before me.  So many had been brought in front of me to judge in this rebellious country, they became nothing more than faces without a face. Names spoken without a sound.  But something in his face brought his name to my lips, something in the sound of his voice caused me to speak it.”

“He was unlike any man I had ever met.  Most came in front of me filled with fear, speaking whatever words they thought I wished to hear so their life might be spared.  But in his voice, I could hear no fear.  In his eyes I could see only a certainty, as if he knew my words before I spoke them.  It was as if death had no hold over him, and my words and my judgement brought no fright or panic to him.”

“Twice that day, I tried to place his future into the hands of others, hoping both times they would do what I could not bring myself to do.  But twice that day, his future, his life, fell back into my hands.  Although I found no fault in him, my own ambitions required me to be the judge over him.  So as I sent him to his death, I washed my hands of him.  But as the hours and the days passed, I found that although I had washed my hands, I could not wash away my thoughts.”

“Since that day, I have passed judgement on more men that I could begin to count.  I have sent more men to their death than I could ever begin to number. But among all the men, among all those faces, one still haunts me.  One face, one voice, never escapes me. One set of eyes that were unlike any other.”

Many names from history stand out before us, implanted in our minds and unable to escape our thoughts.  Men and women of valor, like George Washington, Winston Churchill, and Joan of Arc.  Brilliant minds like Isaac Newton, Copernicus, Madam Curie, and Albert Einstein.  Villains of evil, like Adolph Hitler, Joseph Stalin, Ivan the Terrible, and Attila the Hun.  Men and women of God, like Moses, Abraham, David, and Deborah.  But as we approach the Easter season, a name from history always comes to our minds. One not known for his heroism or for his intellect.  One we remember for the decision he made on a day that changed history.  The name of that man, Pontius Pilate. 

Although Pilate is a name that we all know, little is truly known about the man.  From AD 26-36, Pontius Pilate served as governor of Judea for Emperor Tiberius of Rome. Besides his name appearing in the Gospels, it is also recorded by such historians as Tacitus, Philo, and Josephus.  In 1961, a famous engraving know as the Pilate Stone was found. Writings on the stone dated its’ origins to AD 30, and on the stone Pilate was described as “Prefect”(overseer) of Judea. 

In the Gospels, Pilate is mentioned solely in connection with the the trial and last events of Christ.  The Gospels portray Pilate as a man who was reluctant to send Christ to the Cross.  He stated that the charges brought against Christ were baseless, and more than once proclaimed Christ as an innocent man.  The Book of Matthew(Matthew 27:19), indicates that Pilate received a message from his wife, warning him to not be involved in the trial of this righteous man.  But despite all he saw, all the warnings given him, it was a trial that Pilate went forward with.  A trial, he is still to this day remembered for.

In the Gospel of John, we are given a very detailed account of the trial of Christ, and are told much of the conversation between Jesus and Pilate.  John tells us that Jesus acknowledged that He was a king, and that He, alone, represented the truth.  To this, Pilate replied, “What is truth?”  This question, these three words, would set the stage for all that was about to happen.  As Prefect of Judea, Pilate was set as a judge over the people.  As a judge, he was called on to seek the truth.  But here we see a judge, who by his own question, did not know or recognize the truth.  A human judge, perplexed and bewildered by the truth, would sit in judgement over the Righteous Judge of all mankind.

Before he was done, Pilate would seek a compromise to avoid the truth he did not understand.  Knowing that Jesus had been handed over to him, not out of guilt, but out of the envy of the religious leaders, Pilate decide to form a plan to get him out of the middle of this problem.  It had become a custom for a prisoner of the people’s choosing to be released at the time of Passover each year.  Pilate then picked the worst person he could possibly find, a murderer and man convicted of insurrection.  A man by the name of Barabbas. There is an interesting find in the meaning of Barabbas’ name, as the name means “son of the father”. On that day, Pilate gave the people a choice of who they wanted released. Barabbas, “son of the father”.  Or Jesus, the true Son of the Father.  

Pilate found himself amazed by the name the people yelled out.  Because the religious leaders had persuaded the crowd, Pilate heard the overwhelming cry that day for him to release Barabbas.  Unable to believe the name he heard, Pilate asked the crowd, “What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ?”. Their reply, amazed him even more, “Crucify him!”.  Knowing he could not sentence a man who had not been convicted of a crime, Pilate replied to the cries of the crowd, “Why, what evil has he done?”  Again, he heard the words, “Crucify him!”. More afraid of the crowd rioting and damaging his public reputation and standing, than he was of sending an innocent man to his death, Pilate commanded for Jesus to be flogged, and delivered to be crucified.

As tragic as the events of that day were, no tragedy was greater than what happened that day to Pilate.  He ignored his responsibilities as judge.  He disregarded the warning his wife gave him.  He chose his own selfish pride over the life of an innocent man. And he failed to acknowledge and accept the truth, when the Truth was standing right in front of him. 

So what became of Pilate?  What happened to his life after that unforgettable day? The writings of Philo and Josephus both give us information about Pilate.  Both describe Pilate as an insensitive and often brutal man, who had little regard for the Jewish people or to their religious beliefs.  Both tell us he insulted the people by placing pagan gods on their currency. Josephus wrote that as Pilate brought troops in from Caesarea to Jerusalem, he had the troops bring in idolatrous statues of Roman emperors to be placed in the courtyard of the Temple. Josephus tells us that this was done by the cover of night, so that the Jewish people would not be aware of what was happening until the statues were already in place. Philo tells us of how Pilate reappropriated Temple funds to build aqueducts.  As the Jews protested this action, Pilate had Roman soldiers disguise themselves among the people.  At his command a signal was given, and the Roman soldiers openly attacked the people in the streets.

Historians tell us, that in the year that Emperor Tiberius died, Pilate was removed from office because of charges brought against him.  It was stated that Pilate was openly executing people without ever giving them a trial.  Eusebius tells us that Pilate was exiled to Gaul, and it was here that Pilate took his own life.

As we remember Pilate today, most look at the man and see the one who sent Jesus to be crucified.  But when I look at Pilate, the image that stares back at me is a familiar one. As I look at the man who had Christ flogged, and who sent Christ to the Cross, it is not Pilate’s image I see.  It is my own.  As I look closely, I realize, I am Pilate. It was me who sent Him to be scourged, and it was me who placed the thorns on His head.

For years of my life, I sat in the judgement seat of Pilate.  Day after day, Christ was brought in front of me.  I looked directly into His eyes, and I asked the same question that Pilate once asked.  As the Truth stood right in front of me, I turned to my selfish pride and my own foolish stubbornness.  I looked into the face of an innocent and righteous man, but I only heard the cries of the crowd.

As I look even closer, I realize that I was far more cruel, and far more lost than Pilate ever was.  As Christ spoke to Pilate, He told him that those who had handed Him over were guilty of the “greater sin”.  Meaning that those who had handed Him over to Pilate, knew all the signs and prophecies that identified Him as the Messiah, that unmistakably pointing to Jesus as the Son of God.  They were aware of who He was, not ignorant of why He had come to this earth.  They knew He was God, but denied the Truth that was evident in front of them.  This was me.  I knew who Christ was, I knew He was God.  I knew the Truth that stood in front of me, but I denied that Truth because of the changes it would require of me.  I simply found it easier to hear the voices of the crowd, than to accept Christ as my Savior. More willing to follow the crowd, than to allow God’s Word to rule my life.  So not just once, like Pilate, but each day I sent Christ away, and washed my hands of what I knew and saw.

But praise the Lord, Christ is patient.  And praise the Lord, the Holy Spirit is persistent.  Praise the Lord that Christ returned to that judgement seat I sat on each day, and that each day He continued to speak the Truth to me.  And praise the Lord, that the day came when I heard the voice of an Innocent Man speaking the Truth, louder than the shouts of the crowd.

Today, Christ stands in front of you, speaking the Truth to you.  You sit in the exact seat that Pilate once sat in.  The exact seat that I sat in for so many days. Will you look into His eyes, and see the Truth that stands so obviously in front of you?  Or will you hear the voices of those who selfishly deny Him, and the crowds who call for you to send Him away? Will you fall on your knees before Him, or will you wash your hands of Him? That choice is yours, and yours to make alone. But as this day ends, I pray you will not repeat the words that haunted so many of my past days. Three words I pray you will never be heard to say, “I am Pilate”.

May you be led by the Truth, not by the crowd.