The Dream of Pilate's Wife
I've been seized once again.
Little sleep has passed my eyes this night.
My thoughts have been haunted with the figure;
the figure which stands before me as I enter my dream.
It is a man;
a man whom I have assuredly never met,
yet
his presence here feels so similar to feelings I've understood before.
I know I can never properly explain it. The best I can say is that he feels like family.
But,
it is so much more!
I cannot say...
He is bleeding...
He bleeds so much
and it doesn't stop!
He stands in a garden and the red from his hands and his feet drench the fertile soil beneath.
Still,
he stands.
He does not move: he is facing me.
I do not look to his eyes, but I know he stares deeply into mine.
I can feel the gaze.
Despite this pain that he feels
his stare does not break.
In this time that I have been before him, I've been preoccupied with his hands, his feet,
the blood.
I've been too timid to look to his face:
too ashamed.
I am frightened that the look I receive from this man is a look of condemnation,
anger,
blame,
hatred..
I feel responsible for this man.
I cannot explain it, but I do.
And perhaps I am..
Somehow, my eyes now lock to his.
With all of my best effort to avoid the confrontation of our eyes, I succumb to the temptation;
the curiosity.
I risk damnation..
His eyes.. are love!
Everything has disappeared now, and this is the first that I notice the absolute serenity of this place:
It is so silent, and all that is left are his eyes which stare deliberately and intimately into my own..
I am scared.
More scared than I would've felt had he looked at me in hate.
I'm scared because of my guilt,
and I realize as I look into his unfailing eyes that it is because I condemn myself that I feel this guilt.
I've felt his look before.
There are times, rare though they may be, that my husband shares it with me.
When I receive those eyes from my husband, I am filled with joy.
But not this time.
Not from this bleeding man;
This man for whom I feel responsible;
This bleeding man that looks at me with recognition.
He looks at me as though he knows me.
But he can't;
he couldn't possibly know me.
If he knew me, he would be staring at me in the way I expected;
in the way that he should;
with anger,
condemnation,
judgment,
hatred..
But he doesn't.
I scream at him!
He only stares back with his love.
I am speechless,
even in thought,
and I stare back...
Seconds,
perhaps even minutes, passed,
and though my thoughts had ceased, my emotions continued to pace.
I felt guilt and doubt.
His eyes remained there.
I cursed this man in my heart.
Is he so naive to look at me in this way?
So gullible to love me despite myself?
He remains unchanged,
and staring blankly into his face, I know he can read the pondering of my heart.
I know he sees the doubt I have in myself; the doubt I have in him.
He sees my guilt! He sees that I accuse him of naivety for looking at me. Loving me!
He knows me.
He does know me!
I don't know how, but he does! And if he knows me, then his look is genuine...
He loves me!
I have felt it from him this whole time, but now I understand it! He sees me! I accept it! He knows me! He loves me!
I am caught in this blessed moment, and it looks like this man who bleeds and pains on account of me, who loves me despite everything is about to speak.
Until the turn.
A small thought flits through my mind.
It tells me,
“You are wrong.”
I look away.
The confidence I felt in this man, in myself..
it's gone.
This tiny seed of doubt has bloomed.
I now question myself once more.
How do I know this man loves me?
Because he looks at me?
Because I feel something in his eyes?
Because he bleeds?
No.
That is ridiculous.
Any love that I “feel” is unfounded. I've never seen this man.
Regardless of how familiar he feels,
how familiar he looks, even,
he cannot know me.
And if he cannot know me, he cannot love me.
I cannot accept him...
I look again to the bleeding man's face.
His eyes still express that impossible love, but they are not the entirety of my focus any longer.
My focus returns to the expanded view of this figure,
standing in a garden.
His hands and feet continue to pour on the soil.
But only one thing has changed.
In his eyes,
I still see love,
But there is more now.
There is a sadness.
He is not angry with me, he is not even frustrated.
He's just sad..
Sad and in love.
Parting his lips, he utters a statement;
“You never knew me.”
Darkness.
All I can see is black, and the absolute silence I experienced while in the garden has been replaced by a single cry.
The cry is myself.
This is how I have awoken countless times this night.
The words of the man haunt me: “You never knew me.”
I cry because he is right.
He looked at me with recognition as though he knew me..
Perhaps he did..
Even if,
one thing is certain,
I did not know him.
That is why I cry..
He is right.
..........................................................................................................
Barabbas, Son of the Father
“Goddamn that door!”
I shout in darkness toward the heavy door strapped thick with lock and chain.
“You are a terror, a dangerous evil that deserves this captivity; You are a murderer.”
These are the condemnations which the door squeals to me every day as it rides its worn hinges ajar. A wicked man, as myself, does not have the right or the use for witnessing daylight. The time in which they open my cage to offer my slop for the day is the nearest I come to it. A back wall, unveiled by the opening of this door, is hit by a light in the upper right corner. Provided this corner is unblemished by the figure of the soldier who delivers my rations for the day, I can observe it. However, I have long ago stopped trying.
“Curse you, maggot! I see you've come to feed the pigs! Save your pods for something that eats them!”
The slop hits the bowl anyway, splashing the dirty stone floor beneath it as the soldier tips the bucket and pours. The sound of pukish liquid ceases, the bucket placed on the ground. The soldier unties a club from his belt, raises it, and brings it swiftly down across my shoulder. Without a sound the soldier refastens his club, picks up his bucket, exits the room, squeals the door shut, and locks it. I squirm in agony. This is how I number my days.
Without the sun, I do not know the morning. All I know is darkness and the door. My father, curse him, once told me that a man who sleeps is no better than one who is dead. I know nothing of when I sleep and wake; they are the same to me. And I do not dream. When I sleep: black. When I wake: black. Therefore, I am dead. I have no hope for life. For this, I have no remorse; I deserve death. I took life from another, my life should be taken from me. I give no excuse for myself, and it matters little whether the man I murdered was deserving of death. The fact is: I killed him. That is all anyone cares about: the fact. The fact is truth. I killed a man. I am a murderer. Murderers deserve death. Truth; all of it.
Straining from my crippled arm, I reach toward the bowl of slop. I scratch the dirty stones of the floor and slowly finger my way to the goal. I eat.
As I consume the contents of the bowl, thunder rumbles. The sound grows. It gets louder and louder, and it is more prolonged than I've ever heard. Louder.. Louder!... LOUDER!... This is not thunder! My heart churns! I reach for the door and pound with my fist.
“Guard! Guard! What is going on out there!”
I receive no answer, but as I continue to listen to the thunderous noise, I hear something distinct. The sound, once random and chaotic begins chanting. These angry tones and volumes fuse and begin working in unison. These are voices! I can now make out what they say;
Barabbas!
Barabbas!
Barabbas!
Barabbas!
Barabbas!
Barabbas!
I am gripped! Fear has viced my heart and it strangles! This striking terror cackles to me;
“They come for you.”
My imprisonment was not enough for them, they want my painful death. They want torture and suffering. The angry mob begins chanting something else, another wish of vengeance;
Crucify him!
Crucify him!
Crucify him!
Crucify him!
Crucify him!
Crucify him!
My fate is sealed. It was already foregone that I was dead; dead in this prison cell. But this, this is different. They wish for me destruction! They want my crucifixion! Stripped naked and pinned to a tree by thick nails through my hands and feet! They want for me a death fit for a monster! A beast! I am no better than a crazed animal that they captured and are set on fastening to a tree to kill. They want to rid themselves of this curse; myself. I am too wicked to breathe any longer! I must be torn down and destroyed! The crowd offers more;
His blood be on us and on our children!
His blood be on us and on our children!
His blood be on us and on our children!
His blood be on us and on our children!
His blood be on us and on our children!
His blood be on us and on our children!
They take ownership of me and of my blood that they will soon spill. They act on behalf of their people and their children. When my hands are pounded into the wood; it is their women, their men, their sons, their daughters. When my feet are pounded in; it is their children, their husbands, wives, mothers and fathers. They hate me with such a hate that they claim ownership of my demise!
I wait in wailing. I do not wish to suffer this, this public embarrassment. But I will. I deserve this. This is what I have earned from a life, as mine. The day has come.
I hear the chains on the door. The lock has been opened and the door squeals for the last time I will ever hear it. The silhouette of the soldier stands there. He is illuminated like I've never seen. The light behind him covers the entire back wall. It hurts to look at. What's more, the soldier moves away revealing the entire wall of sun which pierces my eyes. I look away and ball onto the floor of my cage. It will only be a moment until they drag me from my cell to do as the crowd delights, but now I lay. My mind gathers anything it can. I consider my life full of mistakes and pain. I consider my captivity. I feel remorse now. I feel wicked. I deserve this. It is right that I die for my life. The guard has still not grabbed me to throw me out to my fate, but he speaks something to me now in his gruff voice. He says;
“Barabbas, you have been freed.”
I am at a loss. This cannot be so. This is a trick. They lie to me. They are lying in wait to strike. He says to me again;
“Barabbas, you are free.”
What is this? Why this torment? The imprisonment, the judgment of crucifixion, and now they toy with me? I deserve no less. He says again;
“Barabbas! Exit your cell. You have been set free!”
I do not believe it but, on account of his order, I stumble to my feet. Forward; I walk with a hitch in my step toward the lit back wall which assails my eyes. For the first time in ages, I cross the threshold that has owned me. I look to the guard. He appears neither angry, nor gleeful. I continue to stumble in the direction of the noise. It grows as I near it. I limp to the crowd that promises death. Finally, I come to an opening that I can step outside. I witness the thunderous mob for the first time, but they aren't looking at me. They look at another man.
The man stands with the governor, his hands bound.
The governor announces that this man will be flogged and then released to the crowd for crucifixion.
This man with the governor is dying my death, and I don't know who he is.
As though he knew my thought, this man turns his face to me.
For the first time in my life, someone looked at me with love in their eyes.
And I am free.
..........................................................................................................
Matthew 27:1,11-26
1 Very early in the morning the leading priests and the elders of the people met again to lay plans for putting Jesus to death. 2 Then they bound him, led him away, and took him to Pilate, the Roman governor.
11 Now Jesus was standing before Pilate, the Roman governor. “Are you the king of the Jews?” the governor asked him.
Jesus replied, “You have said it.”
12 But when the leading priests and the elders made their accusations against him, Jesus remained silent. 13 “Don’t you hear all these charges they are bringing against you?” Pilate demanded. 14 But Jesus made no response to any of the charges, much to the governor’s surprise.
15 Now it was the governor’s custom each year during the Passover celebration to release one prisoner to the crowd—anyone they wanted. 16 This year there was a notorious prisoner, a man named Barabbas. 17 As the crowds gathered before Pilate’s house that morning, he asked them, “Which one do you want me to release to you—Barabbas, or Jesus who is called the Messiah?” 18 (He knew very well that the religious leaders had arrested Jesus out of envy.)
19 Just then, as Pilate was sitting on the judgment seat, his wife sent him this message: “Leave that innocent man alone. I suffered through a terrible nightmare about him last night.”
20 Meanwhile, the leading priests and the elders persuaded the crowd to ask for Barabbas to be released and for Jesus to be put to death. 21 So the governor asked again, “Which of these two do you want me to release to you?”
The crowd shouted back, “Barabbas!”
22 Pilate responded, “Then what should I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?”
They shouted back, “Crucify him!”
23 “Why?” Pilate demanded. “What crime has he committed?”
But the mob roared even louder, “Crucify him!”
24 Pilate saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere and that a riot was developing. So he sent for a bowl of water and washed his hands before the crowd, saying, “I am innocent of this man’s blood. The responsibility is yours!”
25 And all the people yelled back, “We will take responsibility for his death—we and our children!”
26 So Pilate released Barabbas to them. He ordered Jesus flogged with a lead-tipped whip, then turned him over to the Roman soldiers to be crucified...........................................................................................................
this is phenomenal. an awesome read to start off good friday.
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