Doré 4

In our fourth woodcut from La Grande Bible de Tours, Gustave Doré illustrates John 19:18-19—

There they crucified him, and with him two others—one on each side and Jesus in the middle. Pilate had a notice prepared and fastened to the cross. It read: Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews.

Pilate doesn’t care if you’re a god. But the common folk must have no king but Caesar.

Jesus is arrested for blasphemy, yet the Romans have no dog within this fight. They care little for matters of Jewish Law. Religion, for them, is a complicated thing, yet so long as people pay their taxes and allow the trade to flow, Rome will let them worship as they like. This proves doubly true for Judea, as the Romans respect little so much as antiquity, and the Torah certainly boasts an impressive pedigree.

Where others must offer their pinch of incense to Caesar, Judeans shall be allowed to sacrifice for the Emperor rather than to the Emperor. It’s a handy little loophole. But if there’s one thing that Romans cannot stand, it’s kings. Their founding myths involve the Republic rising up to overthrow the monarchy. And for as many titles as the later Emperors would accrue, “king” shall not be one of them: “god,” yes; “king,” no.

Pilate will not kill the Christ for blasphemy. He could be Dionysus, for all that Pilate knows. But rebellion is a different tune entirely. On a good day, Judea is a powder keg, what with all the Zealots and Sicarii about. At Passover it’s downright volatile, as religious fanatics from all the lands around descend upon the city to celebrate liberation, the overthrow of a tyrant, the promise of an imminent Messiah.

Jesus, they say, tried to start an uprising. Jesus, they say, claimed to be a king. Jesus, they say, is an enemy of Caesar, and so those who would stand with Him must be enemies of Caesar. Pilate doesn’t seem to buy any of it—yet neither does he care. This irksome Rabbi has become a problem, a nucleation point, a political liability. Best to do away with Him, innocent or no. Just be done with it, and wash your hands of the whole affair.

And so Christ is crucified with bandits, one on His left and one on His right. Luke tells us that the one berated Him, whilst the other repented: Dysmas and Gestas, tradition calls them, the good thief and the wicked. Jesus dies a rebel, a criminal, focal point of a failed coup. He dies for challenging Caesar, not for claiming He was God. Pilate’s sign makes the charge against Him clear—while also conveniently covering the governor’s rear.

Today we don’t care whom you worship: the Invisible Hand, Lady Liberty, all-encompassing Mammon. Just so long as one bows the knee to the gods of the state. And who might these be, we ask? Well, what would we kill Jesus for today? Without question we would crucify Him all over again, though perhaps with different tools; a missile fired from a drone, I should think, and with a camera live-streaming the strike.

Think of all the crimes with which we’d charge the Christ today, and that shall surely show to us the nature of our gods.