A Letter from Pontius Pilate

No doubt you are surprised to hear from me. An opportunity to send you a message does not often come, you know. And while you probably seldom think of me, I hope you will read this nonetheless. I want to get some things off my mind, and would also like to offer an explanation for my action.

You don’t know anything about me, really, for I am almost a total stranger to you. For you to attempt a character reference of anyone you knew so slightly would be unthinkable. Yet I understand you are all very quick to damn me to Hell—just because of one small decision I made.

Believe me, a man doesn’t know when he is well off. In my early manhood in Rome, I had thought of nothing else than being a member of the legal profession. I was well bred according to standards of my day. My parents did not force their religious beliefs upon their children. They let them decide for themselves whether they wanted to become religious when they reached adulthood.

I found no interference from things of morals or religion. I wanted and got power, position, and wealth. I was reputed to be one of the best young lawyers in Rome. I enjoyed confusing witnesses. When they (and I) knew that my client was guilty, I delighted in seeing them doubt what they knew was true. Of course, not all my clients were guilty, but when they were, they paid more. What I did was not wrong! Isn’t every man entitled to a fair trial and the best lawyer possible? Am I to blame because stupid jurors were easy to fool?

Of course I made money! I had great desire for wealth, but I don’t need to tell you about greed and selfishness. You put us to shame in that regard. But like you, I never made enough and my wife reminded me of this constantly. This is one reason I was so pleased to hear about my appointment as procurator of Judea, Samaria, and Idumea. It would give me a better position, more power and a chance to make more money. We hear you still use political office for personal gain, and change your moral standards after you get in office. I only did what is common practice for you, too. Yet you blame me, and I really can’t understand why.

Life in Rome was very fine, but I had reached the top in my profession. The only better thing was to get the office of procurator in one of the provinces. I would not have chosen Judea for myself, but some bad gambling debts (I laugh when I hear you say there’s nothing wrong in matching for a Coca-Cola), and quite a few enemies, made us glad to leave Rome. However, Caesarea was just about the end! After Rome, it was horrible! My wife was so displeased at first that she almost regretted having nagged me so constantly to get the position. Time helped, and we settled down to the life of a Roman governor in a strange land.

We lived in a large castle-like house in Caesarea, that was very beautiful and quite comfortable. We had a number of servants and a few slaves. Friends came in quite often, and many times we had fabulous parties. I understand some of your parties are about as wild as ours were.

Being the procurator of a local province is much different, legally, than being a lawyer in Rome. In Rome we had juries and had to appeal before different bodies. Previously I had defended others; but in Judea I had complete judicial authority. I was never questioned and my decisions were never opposed. I acted on cases as I saw fit. I will admit that in certain instances I did not know all the facts, but pressing social engagements made it necessary to act quickly, and perhaps I did make a mistake occasionally.

I alone stated, pronounced, and confirmed death sentences. This authority gave me great power over the people. I was respected and I must say feared by many because they knew their lives were in my hands.

Not long after my arrival in Judea I began to hear small rumors about a man named Jesus, who came from a place called Nazareth. I understand he made some rather extreme claims about his relationship to his own God. On several occasions he claimed, or at least was blamed for believing, that he was a king. I paid no attention. He was just a peasant-carpenter. He never came near the political leaders and I saw no reason to fear him in any way or to be upset by his teachings. Little did I suspect that one day he would stand before me for my judgment on his life and that throughout the remaining history of the world I would be blamed for condemning him to death. One never suspects such things, they just happen.

The thing that amazes me most now is that every time I am thought of, it is always in connection with this man called Jesus. I myself really seem to have no place in history except where he is concerned. I wish you could understand what a small place he occupied in my life. I never thought of him. The supposedly extreme things he claimed about himself were of no significance whatsoever to me.

At the trial I spent only a few minutes with him. I knew something of the turmoil and disturbance that was going on among the people. One can hardly be governor of a land without feeling the pulse beat of the people. I thought the whole thing would blow over in a few days. When he was brought to me, I investigated. You have a record of the questions I asked him. He answered me directly and without hesitation. I had no intentions of being cruel, unkind or unfair. I just did as was my custom. I listened to the facts and drew a conclusion. In this case I believed the man was innocent.

You know about the crowd. But no! You don’t really know about the crowd. You blame me for listening to them. But you didn’t hear them. You didn’t hear the din and the constant demand the overwhelming emotion of their cry, Crucify Him, Crucify Him! How was I to know that he was so important? Did I know he was the son of God? You know these things. You see both sides. All I had to go by was what he said and what the people wanted. You blame me for my decision. I had at my side one man who was apparently innocent. I had before me hundreds of people that clamored for his death. I knew this man was innocent of the charges made against him, but I was afraid of the people. You ask how could I, a man of such important political stature, be afraid of them? Put yourself in my place. How many of you follow this man’s teachings instead of those of the crowd? How many of you obey his laws of morality and purity instead of following what the world advertises as being a good life? Yes, I made a mistake. But I wonder if you people who read this letter have any right to judge me.

When Jesus left me I was alone with my thoughts. My wife came in. She told me about a dream she had had the previous night and urged me to leave this man alone and let him go free. I was interested but I could not be bothered with a woman’s dream and foolish advice. I simply thought, “He is an innocent man. I have a responsibility to him. He ought to be freed.” And then I began to think of myself and my wife. Had I not worked hard for what I had? Do you condemn me? Do you expect me to throw away my wealth, my power, my position, just because of one innocent man who was entirely insignificant to me? I confess, this was not the first time I had seen innocent blood condemned. (But this case has come to mean so much in history, and especially to you!) I thought, “What are you going to do, Pilate?” I looked for a way out, just like many of you try to free yourselves from difficult decisions—a way, I should add, that is never successful. It was then, and still is, the cowardly thing to do. I didn’t understand it then, but I felt that since Jesus was a Jew and the Jews wanted this judgment against him—I was a Roman, you know, and had no personal feelings in the matter—I would let them be responsible in making their own decision. How vividly I remember calling in my slave and asking for a bowl of water. I washed my hands in it in the presence of the multitude and said, “I wash my hands of the blood of this innocent man!” Occasionally I get enough courage to look at my hands. They still are red. Sometimes they are covered with crimson blood. Right now they seem on fire. Whenever I begin to defend myself with logic that excuses my behavior, they become almost white. But always around the fingernails is that stain which never washes off. There is always that bright redness of blood. Will these hands ever be clean? Never since that day have I looked at them and seen them free of the telltale blood of Christ. I hear some say that I am now washing my hands in a bowl of fire. I wish it were fire! I could bear the pain of the fire more than the sight of the blood of the son of God!

I am miserable here. If I tried to describe the terrible conditions, you wouldn’t believe me. There is no escape from here. And time passes so slowly. But what matter? I have long since stopped wishing I had another chance. It is too late now.

I am haunted by Jesus’ face. I remember how he looked when the trial began. He had not an ounce of fear or of haughtiness either. His face was perhaps a bit tired, but otherwise expressionless. But his eves! They seemed to see right through me and to lay open every evil deed I had ever done! He never stopped looking at me. In but a moment I knew I was on trial and not he. To condemn someone to death and Hell is one thing; to condemn yourself is quite another. And that’s exactly what I did, and what you are doing. You don’t get off any lighter now for your denial of Him than I did then! There is plenty of room here for others who decide to come.

I remember his face when I saw him last. Still there was no trace of fear. He seemed to look at me with pity, and in my sinful arrogance I remember thinking he should pity himself. But now I understand. I was on trial. I was the one who received the death sentence. Oh, what a death! And I know what his face expressed. He loved me. How ashamed I am! If only he would hate me. I hate myself for what I did and for my denial of his love.

It is easy enough to look back and say “IF!” Maybe that is why I am writing you. Please, set the standard straight and high and stick to it, no matter what may be the cost. If I had known he was the son of God, I would have decided differently. Don’t make my mistake! Don’t make the mistake of turning him away!

I am one of the most despised persons of all time. I am condemned and scorned by all. I don’t have a single friend. Even here people hate and shun me. Certainly, I dislike their hate and scorn. But the hardest part of my existence is knowing what might have been, if I had not been so selfish. His face! It is the only one full of perfect love for me. The worst hell of all is realizing he is not with me, and never will be; I will never really see him. All I have, and I wish it would go away, is the memory of a face!

PONTIUS PILATE

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