Pilate: What shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?

Face to face with the God who made him, Pilate couldn't shake His hand because God's hands were tied; he couldn't say how glad he was to see Him, because he wasn't. He wasn't expecting Him-not here, not now. What on earth was the God of Heaven doing inciting a riot in Jerusalem anyway? Pilate couldn't offer Him a seat because there was only one seat: his judgment throne. This was his province and he was the governor. So just what was it about this exhausted, haggard prisoner that made Pilate want to stand up, change places, and plead for his own life? Somehow he knew he ought to thank Him for the gift of life itself, but turmoil had paralyzed his mind. He was being forced to decide to put the Giver of Life to death.

Pilate: What shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?

Pilate’s Wife: Ignore Him!

Have nothing to do with that just man. I fell asleep and dreamed a dream, a terrible fantasy, and how glad I was to wake and find Him gone! Ignore Him and He will go away. Pretend it is only a dream that He doesn't really exist at all; refuse a confrontation.

Pilate: How can I? I, too, have been so glad to wake from Christ-filled dreams to my realities... my solid, harsh, pragmatic world. But now the dream is real; He will not go away.

What shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?

I'll send Him to Herod! He needs Jesus so much more than I do! That old fox could do with a bit of religion to straighten him up! If I send Him to Herod it gets me off the hook; it gives me time.

Do you send Him to Herod? Do you sit in church, confronted by the preaching of God's Word that pierces your soul and demands a response, and look around as Pilate did for someone worse than you, whose need you think is greater than your own? You are sending Him to Herod. But you'll find He'll be back, mocked, and scorned and spat upon by those who made their sport at His expense; and still He'll stand and pray that you will release His life, untie His hands and let Him touch you. Whatever you do with Christ, as Pilate found, God will let you do.

Centurion: What shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?

I watched His mockery of a trial and then I had to execute His punishment, and for what? We scourged Him first. To strip His back of flesh, to mock Him and make sport, to spit into His face and ridicule His kingly claim, to pluck the beard from off His cheeks and drive the thorny crown upon His brows, these are punishment for the vilest deed alone. But then to crucify, and for what? To throw the cross upon His back, to see Him stumble forth His great strong-muscled arms adjusting to the weight of it, the hate of it, was more than I could take! And when He fell, the black man took the beam and carried it for Him. The whole world seemed to tramp at my feet. And Simon of Cyrene, at first outraged, became the willing helper to this man, who every now and then would look at him as if to say, "The cross is yours-not mine, but all I ask of you is that you carry it for me. When the time arrives you may give it up, and I will die on it for you."  The, hill, at last!

Centurion: Stretch Him out upon the cross! You'll need to keep Him from struggling! Get His arms! Pass the nails and hammer! Hit hard! Drive them into the center of His palms!

Soldier: That's strange, He doesn't try to struggle. Maybe He's exhausted.

Centurion: Now His feet! This'll sound good.

We don't want all you rulers disappointed. Raise the cross and drop it in!

Soldier: Ah, grotesque sight, all major bones disjointed! God bless this fellow.

Centurion: No howls of pain? No craving calls for mercy? I've killed

before; what's wrong with me?

Soldier: Crucifixion is so ghastly slow! The silence of this man is louder in my ears,

than the two thieves' screams.

Centurion: I take your life. You seem to make a gift of it to me, your murderer, almost as if you want to die, as if it were prearranged I'd meet you here.

Soldier: I'm losing my reason. I can't look away from your eyes.

Thief: This cross seems shaped to fit my life, not yours. The darkness, too, is somehow mine. You saved my crucifixion. Man, truly you are the Son of God divine!

Centurion: I've killed you, God! God is no more. You send your spirit home, not just to heaven. Oh, let me have a part!

I killed your body, Son of God, and so released your spirit for my heart!

Nicodemus: What shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?

I came by night to ask Him for eternal life. By night I came to take His impaled body from the cross. By night I wrapped Him in fresh linen and by night I laid Him in the garden tomb. I came by night because I am afraid. A believer in mourning, I came to do for Him, the Lord of Heaven, my last service. I am a "by night disciple" because my God is dead!

Mary Magdalene: What shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?

I came by day to bury Him. I fear no man when I have known the company of demons. I only fear existence without Jesus, and my day is night, my world a world of tears. I watched Him on the cross; I missed not one tortured movement, neither word, nor forgiving prayer. I watched Him die, tormented by the demons He cast out of me. My Jesus! And now I seek His body and find it not-as if He never was. As if it were a dream. As if He never touched me, healed me, loved me, and compelled me to lay down my sin.

She knew He was dead; she'd watched Him die,

Hanging between earth and sky.

She knew He was dead; she'd heard Him scream

As the filth of our sin had come in between,

Himself and His God, as the punishment rod

Fell to chastise His choicest prize.

She knew He was dead, so pardon her

For thinking Him only the gardener!

He called her name; He was just the same,

Save the holes in His hands and His spear-pierced frame.

The love and fire in His eyes were too much,

The strength and the thrill of His risen-life touch

Dear Lord! Dear Lord! Oh, pardon her

For thinking You only the gardener!

Many folks that I know have a Jesus of gloom,

Alive, yet confined to His garden tomb.

Yes, He came alive, but was never the same,

He never called them by their very own name!

He lives in His tomb and He tends His grave,

Confined and helpless to seek and to save.

Look into His face, let go of His feet,

Stop trying to wrap Him in that winding sheet!

He isn't the gardener, a ghost, or a fake,

He's Rabboni, your Master and He rose for your sake.

What will YOU do with Jesus who is called Christ?

What will you do with Jesus who is called Christ this Easter? Face to face with the God who made you, you cannot shake His hand because His hands are tied by you: tied to keep them off your life, to stop them from interfering, to give your spirit liberty to sin. You cannot say how glad you are to see Him because you're not--not here, not now. You, too, can do without the God of Heaven inciting a riot in your capital city, disturbing your peace, challenging the religion that is devoid of the reality in your life. You will not offer Him a seat. There is only one, and it is your throne. You have become His judge, His governor; this is your province; but if you would take only one look into the haggard face of your prisoner, you, like Pilate, would feel compelled to change places and plead for your life. 

Will you wash your hands and stain your soul, or will you refuse a confrontation with this just man? Will you, angered by His silence, cover up His person with a dark cloak of mockery and scorn? Or will you, like the soldier, recognize that it was you who crucified the Son of God and fearlessly voice it to the world? Are you a disciple of the night, burying with reverence in your tomb of doubt the great teacher you had hoped was God? Or are you a disciple of the day, convinced He is alive because you met Him in your garden of despair?

The choice is yours; for, whatever you do with Jesus who is called Christ, God will let you do.