I killed him.

That’s right.  I felt caught between Caiaphas, Caesar, and the mob–and so, I killed him.

On the steps of the Praetorium, I sentenced this tall, rabbi-prophet to crucifixion. I had him scourged and tortured first, forty lashes with a leather whip strung with pieces of bone and metal.

You know me.  If not, my name is Pontius Pilate. Google my name, enlighten yourself.

I washed my hands of Yeshua’s innocence at his public trial.  I tried to free him in a way that wouldn’t reflect poorly on me, but I couldn’t. The chief priests had incited the crowd to free Barabbas, a murderer, instead.

“Release Barabbas to us!”

“Crucify him!”

I had to do something before an insurrection broke out. Still, over the centuries their furious cries ring in my ears, my memory. I can’t erase them.

“If you don’t kill him,” Caiaphas, red-faced shouted, “you’ll be seen as an enemy of Rome.  Yeshua calls himself the King of the Jews.  He’s a traitor to Rome and Israel.  Will you allow a traitor to Caesar walk amongst us?”

What could I say? I had to crucify Yeshua or Caiaphas would’ve reported me to Caesar, and I would’ve ended up crucified or worse for granting freedom to a traitor.

Rome knew how to torture people.  Rome held the trophy for eliciting pain. I know, I crucified rebels. I plunged my gladius into the guts of conspirators. And now I felt the blade cutting me.

It was either this young man, or me, and perhaps my wife, Claudia, who would end up staked to beams beside me.

Claudia had pleaded with me to release him.  She had had a nightmare.  “Have nothing to do with that righteous man.  For today I have suffered a great deal in a dream because of him.”

Wretched soul am I.  For all eternity I pay for my cowardice. Has it been worth the price?  Better I had died on the cross instead of Him, King of Kings and Lord of Lords. 

I wish now, to the depths of the fibers of my heart, soul, and spirit, I had had the courage to set him free. Oh to have another opportunity!  Nothing worse than the lack of honor and integrity.

And Claudia?  She believed Yeshua. She believed he was the fulfillment of the ancient prophesies, that one day a redeemer would rescue his people. I, on the other hand, didn’t swallow stories meant for children.

Every time I gazed into her eyes afterwards, I felt her accusations. You killed an innocent man. You killed the Prince of Peace!

She stopped loving me after that.  I couldn’t bear it, along with other military matters that weighed upon me. 

Rome also bears the guilt.  Caesar sent me to Israel to quash rebellion.  I obeyed, to my everlasting torment, I obeyed.

And you, how do you judge me?  What would you have done in my place?

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