Sermon by Shannon J. Kershner | April 2, 2023

Palm/Passion Sunday
April 2, 2023 | 10:00 a.m.

I Believe in Jesus Christ, Who Suffered under Pontius
A Sermon Series on the Apostles' Creed

Shannon J. Kershner
Pastor, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 118:1–2, 19–29
John 19:1–10, 16b-22

I believe in Jesus Christ … who suffered under Pontius Pilate. Today, on this Palm Sunday that shifts into Passion, we continue to work our way through the Apostles’ Creed. Last Sunday, Pastor Joe spoke about the power of having Mary’s name, her personhood, as a part of this creed and some of what that means for all of us. But what I realized this week is that one other historical figure is also named: Pilate (as noted by Elizabeth Cole Goodrich in an unpublished paper for The Well). Now notice, we do not hear about Moses or Abraham or Peter or Paul. Just Mary and Pilate. Good and evil, sitting side by side every week. How could I have missed that before?

But before we can explore that stunning dichotomy more fully, in a time when, as numerous news outlets have been recently reporting, antisemitic attacks have hit an all-time high in our country, we need to again remind ourselves of what the Gospel of John means when it talks about “the Jews.” Let’s first say what it does not mean. This Gospel is not saying that Jewish people are the enemy of Christian people. Jesus was a Jewish man. Full stop. Furthermore, this Gospel is not saying that all the Jewish people killed Jesus. There is not some universal stain against all those who share Jesus’ Jewish religious tradition.

We have to say that part out loud, because as you know, the Christian church has an awful and violent history of using this particular Gospel as a rationale for being antisemitic and for committing violent acts against Jewish people. In our collective history, Good Friday became a day on which Christian violence against Jewish people greatly increased. This is why again and again as Christians we must say no to such a dangerous, violent misinterpretation.

For when we sink down into the Gospel of John and get a fuller understanding of the historical time period in which it was written, we discover that the Gospel writer was addressing his own Jewish Christian religious community, which had been expelled from the synagogue for reasons that are not entirely known. Yet Jewish New Testament scholar Amy-Jill Levine claims there were a variety of good reasons that would have led to their expulsion. For example, she writes, considering this Gospel was probably written down around the year 90 CE, it might have been that Jews feared being associated with Christians, even Jewish Christians, because they could be rounded up and persecuted alongside them (Amy-Jill Levine, The Misunderstood Jew: The Church and the Scandal of Jesus, pp. 102–110).

Harvard Divinity professor Francois Bovon expands on Dr. Levine’s theory by focusing on the actions of the Jewish religious leaders in the Gospel of John. He reflects how, in chapter 11, they basically stated that if they kept letting Jesus go unchecked, then inevitably his preaching, his ability to gather crowds, and his proclamation that God’s kingdom was arriving in him would strongly provoke Rome. And in response to that kind of provocation, the Romans would undoubtedly try to destroy the Jewish people’s holy places as well as their entire nation. In other words, Bovon posits the Jewish religious leaders portrayed in this Gospel had very good reasons for wishing to retain order and to avoid any further disturbance instigated by Jesus (Francois Bovon, The Last Days of Jesus, pp. 32–33). They were afraid for their people. Part of their task, then, was to do their very best to keep out of Rome’s crosshairs. And to them, that meant they had to get rid of the threat. They had to get rid of Jesus.

Regardless of their reasons, though, the expulsion clearly angered the Gospel writer a great deal, an anger we see expressed in his generalized language about “the Jews.” Frankly, John’s language sounds like reactionary rhetoric, something we understand far too well in our own day and time. Clearly the Gospel writer was angry with those whom he felt had betrayed him and his community.

But what about Pontius Pilate? We can easily imagine the Gospel writer was angry with him, too. The early church must have been, to include his name in the Apostles’ Creed — a liturgical marker to signal his participation in the crucifixion of Jesus. So here is what we know about Pilate: he was the Roman regional governor of Judea from 26 to 36 CE. It’s worth noting that a lot was expected from these governors in terms of keeping the people in line and loyalty to Rome strong. Roman functionaries who didn’t do their jobs to Rome’s satisfaction could be called to come to Rome to answer for their shortcomings.

Sometimes, if someone wasn’t doing their job well enough in Rome’s eyes, a soldier was simply dispatched to spare Rome the trouble and go ahead and end the governor’s life. So while someone in Pilate’s position might enjoy a great deal of wealth and privilege, the specter of Rome always loomed large, and fortunes could shift like the wind (Elizabeth Cole Goodrich).

Yet before we start feeling sympathetic for Pilate, we should also know that he is described by nonbiblical sources, both Jewish and Roman, as a harsh and meanspirited ruler who disdained his Jewish subjects. His role in the trial and crucifixion of Jesus is well documented, not just in John’s Gospel but in all of them, along with outside sources.

So while we can’t say for certain what his motives were in reference to Jesus — whether he was patently cruel or a bureaucrat caught between a Roman rock and moral hard place — at the very least he was a man with a certain amount of power who had the opportunity to show mercy but did not have the inclination. Now, I do think we have some clues about his motives that we see in the text I just read. One primary clue is that he put a sign on the cross of Jesus, the state’s tool of execution: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.” And he had it written in all three common languages so that everyone, no matter who they were, could read it. It was a sign meant to mock the Jewish people and their messianic hopes. It was a sign meant to ridicule the common rabbi named Jesus and his willingness to suffer such a humiliating, undignified, violent death.

It was a sign writ large for anyone to see and for all to understand. Now, of course, Pilate did not realize that what he was announcing to all the world is actually true — that Jesus is Lord, Savior of this broken world. No, to Pilate, the sign was just one more way he could ridicule all those he felt were beneath him, while at the same time pandering to the Roman government to increase his own value.

Yet there he is, right there in this ancient liturgical creed of the church: I believe in Jesus Christ, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate. And as I have pondered that throughout the week, I have wondered if part of the reason the early church included Pilate’s name was not simply to mark his role in the suffering and crucifixion of Jesus but also to acknowledge that, in some ways, they were still suffering under Pontius Pilate. Maybe they imagined that we would also still be suffering under Pontius Pilate.

Because let’s be honest, there are some days on which it sure feels like Pilate — an actual historical figure who now symbolizes greed, a lust for power regardless of who gets hurt, a desire to use whatever it takes to maintain one’s own status, a person placed in the position of authority who regularly abuses the public’s trust — is winning. The New Testament would call all that Pilate symbolizes “the powers and principalities” — the spiritual sludge that still lurks in our world even as God continues to work out God’s purposes.

This past Friday, the first memorial service was held for one of the children killed at the Covenant School in Nashville. Yesterday, two other services were held at the Covenant Presbyterian Church, including one for the senior pastor’s nine-year-old daughter. I hope he did not have to preach it. Another service will be held this afternoon for another child. And the final two memorial services will take place on Tuesday. Day after day after day in Nashville they are burying babies and dedicated school staff. And though I doubt it will be made public, the shooter’s parents will also have to bury their own child, as they are left to wrestle with all the damage that has been done.

In 2022 the number one cause of death for our children and youth was gun-related accidents and violence (Nina Shapiro, “The Leading Cause of Death in Children and Youths Is Now Guns,” Forbes, 18 April 2022). Not motor vehicle accidents, since we mandate seatbelts and car seats. Guns. And in thirty years, only one bipartisan gun control bill has passed. Every time there is another mass shooting, especially when it is at a school, I know to expect a text from my college senior daughter. This time, it was a phone call: “Mom, they were nine years old.” “I know, sweetie. I am so sorry” was the only thing I could say. She has told me before that she and her friends live with an assumption that at some point it will happen to them or to people they know. Our children are still suffering under Pontius Pilate.

What do we do in the face of it all? Pray? Absolutely. Yet as conservative columnist David French wrote in the New York Times this past week, “For the faithful believer, prayer isn’t a substitute for action; it’s a prerequisite for action. It grounds us before we move to serve others. It grounds us before we speak in the public square. … God have mercy, we ask. Lord, have mercy, we plead. But then” he continued, “we must act — to heal wounded hearts, to bear one another’s burdens, and to address the terrible scourge of violence that scars our land” (David French, “In the Face of Tragedy, Petitioning God Is an Act of Faith,” New York Times, 29 March 2023). Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you what your actions need to be. I trust your prayerful discernment.

But I believe there was a reason why the early church named Pilate and put him right beside Mary that goes beyond simply locating Jesus in a particular time and historical space. A reason that goes beyond tying him to the death of our Lord. I think they named Pilate to serve as a liturgical marker. A way to remind us, every time we say the creed, that because of Jesus — the very one we will follow to the table, to the cross, and to the empty tomb during this Holy week — because of the one who is our brother and our Savior and the promise of God’s constant presence, we know through him, because of the one we call Jesus our Christ, we have the holy power to stand up to Pilate.

We have the holy power to stand up to greed. We have the holy power to stand up to the lust for power-over no matter the cost. We have the holy power to stand up and to act out on behalf of those whose little voices are not yet strong enough to be heard or for those whose voices have been far too long silenced.

In the end, as we will mark next Sunday on Easter, we know that Pilate did not and will not have the last word. Only God does. And indeed, that word will be a word of life and healing and new creation. But that does not mean that we do not have an active part to play to ease the suffering that still happens under Pontius Pilate. We have the holy power to do so. So every time we say his name in that ancient creed, may we remember that charge, that call, that commission. And may God give us courage. I believe in Jesus Christ, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate. Amen.