NOTES for Joh 18:19-19:16

Pilate's order to beat Christ was not an act of senseless cruelty; the order can even be seen as an attempt to save Him: the sentence had been pronounced and carried out, so under the law the case should have been closed, and no one had any further right to demand either a new trial on the old charges or, still less, the death penalty. After this, even Pilate's words to the raging accusers, ‘Take Him yourselves and crucify Him’, sound essentially mocking, since everyone knows that they have no right to crucify anyone.

But then the question arises of who Jesus is, and something stirs in the skeptic Pilate. If only Pilate had trusted more in the stirrings of his own soul, which bore witness, however dimly, to the existence of the truth he rejected! But the accusers know which of Pilate's weak points to press, and now the threat of being denounced on political grounds looms before him; faced with the emperor's arbitrary power, everyone is equally without rights. Practical considerations mixed with fear have once again prevailed. How familiar this is to us all…

In seeking a death sentence, the chief priests acknowledge Caesar as their only king. If only they had confined themselves to acknowledging the reality of imperial power, along the lines of the Gospel's formulation, ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's’ (Matt. 22:21)! But did they not understand at that moment that, by this declaration, they were renouncing the Only King — the Lord? ‘The Lord your God is your king’ (1 Sam. 12:12), ‘The Lord is king forever’ (Ps. 10:16): such is the witness of Scripture. Just as Peter denied the Teacher without understanding what he was doing, so the leaders of the Jewish people, in the grip of unrighteous anger, did what thousands of Christians and Jews steadfastly resisted for centuries: they acknowledged a pagan emperor as equal to God.

"We venerate Your Cross, O Christ..." What do these words mean for us? Boundless compassion for the innocent, beaten, naked righteous one hanging on this wood. Love for Him, limitless gratitude. And also the understanding of how infinitely lighter our own cross is. All the problems that seem impossible to carry are nothing compared with the measure of suffering He took upon Himself for our sake. "You, who so loved Your world..."

And there are other words: "Then He says to the disciple, 'Behold your mother.'" On these words the Church is built, the strongest of strongholds. We have all been made sons and daughters, and therefore we can never be orphans. Orphanhood is a word from some other life. We often enter prayerfully into the Passion of Christ, but it is much harder to enter into the passion of Mary. His inconceivable physical pain and her inconceivable pain of soul. The whole world is embraced by this pain.

Today’s reading is dedicated to the feast of the Exaltation of the Precious and Life-Giving Cross of the Lord. At its center is the veneration of the Cross, by which we have been saved “from the bondage of the enemy,” as the magnification for the feast sings.

The Evangelist John bears witness to the Crucifixion and to those standing by the Cross. The foot of the Cross is the only “right” place for each of us, because it is precisely in the Savior’s Death on the Cross that the salvation of the world is accomplished and life is granted to us all, even if it never enters our minds. The world is full of suffering, sometimes explicable but more often inexplicable, and this mystery cannot fail to concern a person. This is hard for us, so our desire to hide from suffering and turn away from it when it does not touch us personally is quite understandable. But the Gospel tells us that every genuine human suffering, not one that is contrived, is a place of Christ’s special presence. It is He who suffers in every person, and it is precisely here that we meet Him.

Who manipulates a person, and how? And what gives manipulators power over souls? Pontius Pilate, it would seem, is not one of those who can be pushed around at will: a high-ranking representative of what today would be called the "center," possessing in Palestine all the necessary authority and all the necessary power and resources, even for military intervention if needed, has no one to fear except Rome. In practice, however, everything turns out quite differently.

Pilate understands perfectly well that the Man whom the Temple leadership has brought to him for confirmation of a death sentence is guilty of nothing, at least He is not guilty under Roman law. Therefore He must be released. But to act this way means entering into conflict with the Temple. Pilate is an experienced politician. He understands perfectly well who stands behind the street crowd demanding the execution of a harmless Preacher. Of course, He calls Himself a King, but if his kingdom is only a "kingdom of truth," then for Rome He is certainly not dangerous. After all, what is truth? That is a philosophical question; it has no relation to real politics. But the Temple does have a relation to it, a very direct and immediate one. One has to stay on good terms with the Temple.

And a vague anxiety creeps into Pilate's heart: if this Man has become an enemy of the Temple and the Synagogue, will he, Pilate, become their enemy too if he supports Jesus? And then there are the unambiguous hints at a possible denunciation to Rome, which will unquestionably follow: the shouts from the crowd are not accidental, for behind them stand people for whom writing such a denunciation would be no trouble, and there, in the center, their letter would certainly receive attention...

And Pilate gives in. After all, he is a practical politician, a man of the system, and he has something to lose. He is afraid. And fear is a lockpick to the human heart. Love is a key, and fear is a lockpick. The key is in God's hand, but He does not enter the heart without asking. The enemy of God, with a lockpick, asks no permission. And he enters those hearts into which God is not allowed. He is not allowed in so that He will not interfere with "real politics." And then another enters the heart of such a "practical politician." The one who cares neither about politics nor about the politician. The one who needs only another's heart in order to settle in it himself.

The mood of the crowd is changeable: only a few days pass from "hosanna!" to "crucify!" But a crowd is a crowd precisely so that a person disappears in it. Dissolves into a large and irresponsible collective "we." Under certain circumstances it can be physically destroyed, but it is utterly useless to try to enter into communion with it. Simply because there is no one there to communicate with: in a crowd there is not a single person.

But a crowd can be manipulated. Sometimes. With certain precautions and usually up to a certain limit. And the high priest, like the whole temple elite, had mastered this art perfectly. His power rested on it in many respects. And, of course, on the political games that he, as the head of Judea, played with Roman authority. He played them by frightening Rome with religious extremists, zealots, with whom he also had his own secret game, one Rome did not know about. Or knew about but turned a blind eye, hoping in the high priest and his circle as the lesser evil. He played them by hinting at the possibility of a great religious war, toward which he himself silently pushed those who were ready to unleash it. And so, on fear that was partly real and partly phantom, he built his politics.

And Jesus was not only not a Person in his eyes; He was not even a person with a lowercase letter. Just a bargaining chip. A chance to prove his loyalty: we have no king but the emperor! And to hand over to execution a troublesome preacher who was completely impossible to control. Barabbas was another matter: a zealot, of course, an extremist, but one of their own, a patriot, a hater of the Romans, and above all someone understandable. The Temple had long been in contact with such people; with them it was clear how to behave and clear what to expect from them. But here there was one continuous surprise, unnecessary and uncontrollable, and therefore dangerous. Better to get rid of this preacher, but not with his own hands. Better with Roman hands: for the high priest, this was an almost no-lose option. And if the procurator became stubborn, the roar of the crowd could hint to him that reports might reach Rome about his indulgence toward dangerous rebels, against whom the high priest was fighting and whom he, the procurator, the emperor's hand and eye, was pardoning.

Everyone plays his own game. Except Jesus alone; He does not play any games with anyone. Such a one is needed by no one. And only one thing remains for Him: the cross. There is no other path for Him.

The Gospels tell us a great deal about the Kingdom of God, but only John sees the manifestation of this Kingdom in Jesus' suffering—it is no accident that in this Gospel Pilate questions Jesus about His kingship. For Pilate, "the King of the Jews" is merely the title of former Jewish kings, the last of whom was Herod. But Jesus speaks to him of another Kingdom, one given by God, one that is "not from here," "not of this world," and that does not operate where people do not know God and do not know "what truth is." The human person's choice is the condition for the Kingdom of God to be realized: Pilate has been "given from above" the power to kill or release the true King. Unlike citizenship in other kingdoms, allegiance to this King is voluntary, for even the priests are free to name the Roman emperor as their only king. Conversely, the One who does the will of Him who sent Him becomes the center in which His Kingdom is realized, even if outwardly it is expressed only in the inscription on the cross.

During Jesus' trial, something very important for understanding everything that is happening stands out: as a man He is of no interest to anyone. Not as Man (neither the temple elite nor the Roman procurator saw Man with a capital M in Him), but precisely as a man. The most ordinary one. The one with a small letter. The one over whom all authorities of all times, both secular and religious, habitually stepped whenever he got in their way.

They stepped over him, often without even noticing. Of course, both the high priest and the procurator had their own reasons and arguments for acting as they did. Their own interests. Often, as it seemed to them, extremely important ones. Far more important than the individual life of an individual person. The welfare of the people, for example. Or the peace of the empire.

Of course, both are worth the life of some preacher. Especially one who is dubious and not trusted by serious and authoritative people. One who can only stir up the crowd. Meanwhile, He does not even try to prove anything to them. He answers Pilate's simple questions so simply and profoundly that it is hard not to understand Him. But for a skeptic by habit, His answers have no meaning. Likewise, for that matter, the question about truth posed by Pilate himself is quite rhetorical.

There is nothing to prove or explain here. As for the rest... the value of human life for a high-ranking official is determined by the social status of the person being evaluated. Everything is simple and prosaic. And therefore frightening - for us today. If Christ had been executed by some infernal villains, we could feel relatively safe: there are very few such villains among us, if any are to be found. But it turns out that He was executed by the most ordinary people with quite ordinary interests.

True, they were high-ranking people, vested with the right to make decisions, but... in every other respect they were the most ordinary people. People like us. And all that was required for the execution of the Messiah was to place certain supposedly higher interests ahead of a human being. Not even Man with a capital M, but simply a human being as the image of God. If they had seen Him even in that way, it would have been enough for the Messiah not to die on the cross. But it did not happen. It turned out otherwise. And now, and in any other age, everything could end the same way. And that is truly frightening.

On Good Friday, on a Good Friday that is not distant from us but closer than ever, although we were not yet alive then, Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh spoke these words from the pulpit. '<...> The Mother stood by the Cross; Her Son, betrayed, reviled, cast out, beaten, torn, tormented, was dying on the Cross. And She was dying with Him… Many, surely, looked at Christ; many, surely, felt shame and fear and did not look into His Mother's face. And now we turn to Her, saying: Mother, I am guilty—among others, yes—of Your Son's death; I am guilty—intercede for me. Save us through Your prayer, through Your protection, because if You forgive, no one will condemn or destroy us… But if You do not forgive, Your word will be stronger than any word spoken in our defense… <...> Let us stand before the judgment of our conscience, awakened by Her grief, and bring a repentant, contrite heart. Let us bring Christ our prayer that He may give us strength to awaken, come to our senses, come alive, become human, make our life deep and broad, capable of holding the Lord's love and presence. And with this love let us go out into life to create life, to fashion and build a world, deep and spacious, that would be like a garment clothing the Lord's presence, shining with all the light, all the joy of paradise. This is our calling; this is what we must accomplish by breaking ourselves, giving ourselves, dying if need be—and it is needed!—because to love is to die to oneself, to cease valuing oneself and instead value the other, whether God or a human being; to live for another, laying aside concern for oneself. Let us die as much as we can, let us strive with all our strength to die, so that we may live by love and live for God and for others.' So close to us is that Friday on which the Metropolitan spoke these words, as are all the Good Fridays that have been and will be. 'I am guilty.' I was not alive then, but I am guilty. We cannot regard this day as a symbolic commemoration of events that once took place. No. For the Body and Blood of which we partake are not a symbol, but the very Body and the very Blood. Here I am, and I am guilty here and now. It is frightening when people begin to greet one another for Easter in advance—this really happens, and happens often! Today I know nothing of Easter; I know only one thing: whether woman or man, I am guilty, for He died, and I did nothing to prevent it.

Peter's denial looks like completely reasonable and sensible behavior in a critical situation. He needs to stay close and wants to learn something, and to do that he must not be recognized. At such a moment, one person runs away and hides while another tries to pass unnoticed into the place where the main events are unfolding. It is foolish to risk one's life by admitting acquaintance with the prisoner. You might be seized too, and whom would that help? We do not know, however, what drove the Apostle Peter. It is entirely possible that these first, superficial reasons, understandable to anyone, were not at all the main thing at that moment. What matters is that a moment sometimes comes when openly acknowledging that you follow Jesus is the only possible choice. On the other side, one hears the terrible word “denial.”

Christians have long held differing views on whether Peter's denial should be considered betrayal in the full sense of the word, or whether it is something else. The answer, as so often, depends on what exactly one understands Christianity to be. If Christianity is seen as a kind of new religion, then Peter's denial can be considered merely a misunderstanding, and nothing more. Indeed, the central thing that Peter and the other apostles thought their Teacher had been speaking about had failed. There would be no messianic war. It was all over before it had really begun. In denying Him, Peter was essentially betraying no one and nothing: there was no one and nothing left to betray. All that remained was loyalty to what had once been and was now gone. To former relationships. To former goals and ideals. Of course, someone who keeps such loyalty even in the face of possible death must be considered a hero.

But we can hardly demand such heroism of everyone. Especially since it was important to Peter to keep watch on the high priest's courtyard, on what was happening to the Teacher. His personal relationship with Him remained absolutely important to Peter in any case. And now people were pestering him with awkward questions about something that no longer made any sense, but could prevent him from doing what he was doing. He brushed the questioners away like annoying flies: I know nothing; leave me alone. What difference did it really make now? What had been the meaning of life only an hour before had now collapsed, and there was no point recalling it. If, however, Christianity is seen as a new life, then the denial does turn out to be betrayal.

It is no accident that the crowing rooster reminds Peter of the promises he made to the Teacher. In reality, nothing is over yet. On the contrary, everything is only beginning. The most important thing lies ahead. And for that, nothing matters more than the relationship linking Peter to Jesus. Peter alone went into the high priest's courtyard — seemingly without any particular purpose, since there was nothing he could do to help the Teacher. In reality, it was his sense of the depth of the relationship binding him to Jesus that made Peter go where he did.

And now he casually brushes aside what had been the foundation of that relationship only a short time before. Of course, Peter himself does not yet understand what is happening. He understands only that it has all turned out to be more serious than it seemed to him at first: the rooster really has crowed, just as the Teacher predicted, and the denial really has been uttered. True understanding will come later, at his encounter with the Risen One. Then true repentance will come too — repentance that fully restores Peter's relationship with the Teacher. This time forever.

As we have often done on great feast days, today we will quote the words of medieval Orthodox poets that have become part of this day's worship. The authors of the texts we quote today are not known with certainty, but their authority is supported by almost twelve centuries of liturgical use.

‘He who clothes Himself in light as in a garment stood naked at His trial and received a blow on the cheek from the hands He had created; lawless men nailed the Lord of glory to the Cross. Then the veil in the Temple was torn, and the sun grew dark, unable to bear the sight of God being insulted, before whom all creation trembles: let us worship Him.’

‘When [You] were led to the Cross, O Lord, [You] cried out thus: for what deed do you wish to crucify Me, O Jews? For raising up the paralysed man, or for awakening the dead as from sleep, healing the woman with the flow of blood, showing mercy to the Canaanite woman? For what deed do you wish to kill Me, O Jews? But in the One whom you now pierce, O lawless ones, you will see the Christ.’

‘Your life-giving side, O Christ, waters Your Church like a spring from Eden, as a spiritual paradise; from here, as from its source, [the spring] divides into the four Gospels, quenching the world's thirst, gladdening creation and teaching the nations to worship Your Kingdom in faith.’