The affair concerning Jesus was no longer tedious to Pilate. Crowds of agitated Jews gathered. The thing had become a dangerous spectacle, disturbing the governor. During the Jewish Passover Feast, it was a Roman custom to release a prisoner as a gesture of mercy and redemption. Mercy and redemption be damned! The gesture had political benefits, nothing more. The Roman militia and governance knew nothing of redemption, and mercy bored them. Pilate was himself inflexible, merciless and obstinate and showed little sensitivity to Jewish idiosyncrasies. Still, the feast carried with it what they called redemption. Hence, the release of the prisoner--usually of their own choice--a token to appease an unruly populace. Strange, primitive people!

In his dungeon the governor held an infamous criminal. This troublesome petty thief and murderer Pilate had finally captured and incarcerated. Called Barabbas, he was a particularly odious man, fomenting rebellion using the most offensive and obscene tactics. He was particularly offensive to Pilate owing to vehement hostility toward Rome and, by extension, toward the governor himself. He looked forward with vengeful anticipation to the satisfaction of seeing for himself that this horrible man was crucified. He hated the Passover, the Day of Amnesty for prisoners incarcerated by Rome. It wasn't so much that the Jews treated Barabbas with respect or admiration; he was regarded rather as an embarrassment. For it was Barabbas who had brought such quantities of hostility from Rome toward the Jews and Israel. It was he who had incited numerous attacks on Roman outposts. It was he who had slain Romans without regard to consequence either to himself, those who followed him or, yet, even his own people.

Now Jesus stood accused of this same sedition, but in Pilate's view, this prophet was no Barabbas. The governor would give them a choice. They could not possibly choose a murderer over such an irrelevant religious leader. So he announced in a tone which suggested that he knew the answer already, "Which one of these two do you want me to release to you, Barabbas or this Jesus, who is called your 'Christ?'"

As the Jewish religious leaders briefly considered the question, Pilate knew it was out of envy that they were after Jesus. These intellectually impoverished religious prigs were actually jealous of this peasant. The man clearly possessed leadership skills. Such things happen rarely among these obstinate, weak people. They could only envy a man like this.

While Pilate was thus musing on the judge's seat, a boy, obviously a messenger, approached him. "Noble sir," whispered the boy into Pilate's ear, "a message from mistress Claudia Procula."

"Yes boy, what is it?" said Pilate annoyed at the interruption.

"She sent me to beg you, sir, not to have anything to do with that innocent man! She said to tell you, 'I have suffered a great deal today in a dream because of him.'" Pilate massaged the bridge of his nose with his hand in exasperation. My wife and her dreams, he sighed thoughtfully, Great Caesar, deliver me!

Thus burdened with his wife's superstitions he turned back to the Jews and repeated, "Which of the two do you want me to release to you?"

"Barabbas!" they answered.

Pilate checked himself warily, concealing his surprise. He held the Jews in high scorn and barely tolerated their impertinence. He could not fathom the depth of their consternation with this prophet. How could they possibly choose Barabbas? This murderer had caused him much consternation. He was loath to hand over a hardened criminal. He had been maneuvered into offering something he did not intend to be taken seriously. Yet he must take care or he may find himself being favorably disposed toward someone they despised. These Jews, however their lack of political relevance and regardless of his antipathy toward them, could not be ignored. Better to distance himself. He would maintain a posture of cool detachment.

"Barabbas? Most curious, indeed. Do you mean that you would prefer a criminal such as this jackal to your king?" Pilate smiled. He was most pleased with himself. He knew that it wasn't that they preferred Barabbas; it was that they hated Jesus. The expressions on their faces revealed their contempt. He did not wait further for an answer. "What shall I do, then, with this Jesus, this Messiah of yours?"

The response was immediate. "Crucify him!"

"Why?" asked the governor with mock generosity. "What crime has he committed? What evil has he done?" He was now enjoying this. He loved to see this odd assemblage of religious fools squirm. Pilate was not one to be squeamish about taking a life. Jesus meant nothing to him, and as for Claudia, she knew better than to interfere in his official duties. She could do nothing more than sulk. Besides, she had long ago ceased to interest him. He was, nonetheless, appalled at what was random, meaningless bloodlust on the part of the Jews.

The distinction of plausible innocence was lost on them. They shouted all the louder, "Crucify him!"

And then, as if it were something he did every day, Pilate gestured to his soldiers to have Jesus lashed with a Roman scourge of cords, the kind commonly used on a condemned criminal. His gesture was a command that they were eager to obey. A soldier stepped forward, a guard of the Temple contingent who had, among others, been given the task of escorting their prisoner back and forth between Annas, Caiphas, Herod and Pilate. In his hands he held a scourge, its leather strips trailing on the ground, its shards of bone and metal gleaming, its belaying-pin handle gripped firmly. "So, prophet, or whatever you are," spoke he to Jesus, "you thought to rid the Temple of parasites; you also will be disposed by the artifice of your own making."

A whipping post about ten feet high stood in the palace courtyard. Routinely, a prisoner was tied to a rusted ring near the top, arms raised above him. To this appliance, they tied Jesus. His back was laid open with the first tearing sting of the whip he, himself, had crafted. A scourge crafted and once used to rid the house of God of evil, now used to expurgate the Temple of God's Son.

Thirty-eight lashes later, his back had been reduced to raw, bleeding tissue. Strips of torn flesh dangled grotesquely down his back. What the world, what the cosmos, had it conscious awareness, could not comprehend; that with each stripe, with each laceration came another blow to the pain and disease of humankind, came another stripe by which we are healed. This instrument, crafted to cleanse the house of God, was crafted instead to heal our sins. Cutting him loose, Jesus slumped to the ground and lay in bloody dirt, groaning in pain, marginally conscious.