The Chief Priests, Teachers of the Law, and Elders (Part Two)

As we envision the next part of our text, verses 39–44, we can be guided in our reflections, to some extent, by the Italian artist Tintoretto, whose painting, The Crucifixion, was produced in 1565. This masterful work currently hangs in the Scuola Grande di San Rocco in Venice. It was chosen above all because it is a very broad and sweeping canvas, a panorama, and it therefore ably displays the little battalions or squads of people who railed against Jesus. It also invites the use of our imagination which, in this setting, will be very helpful to appreciate the “thickness” of the scene.

The first group, which our text simply identifies as “Those who passed by,” hurled insults at Christ while shaking their heads in disdain. Employing an artistic technique that entails the movement of vertical lines, Tintoretto directs the attention of the viewer, with one set of lines, to the center of the painting, where Christ hangs elevated above the chaotic activities taking place below. In another set of diagonal lines, however, evident in the illuminated ground beneath the cross, the artist directs attention to the foreground of the painting, where the passersby should be clearly evident, but they are nowhere to be seen. This may have been intentional or else this first group could be identified with a number of people to the right of the cross, that is, those who will eventually make their way before it.¹ In any event, though this little squad likely thought that they were merely a part of a small drama, of a Jew being put to death by the Romans, it was actually a grand tragedy much larger in meaning than they had imagined. Centuries earlier, Psalm 22 had depicted the very role that these insulters would play: “But I am a worm and not a man, scorned by everyone, despised by the people. All who see me mock me; they hurl insults, shaking their heads” (vv. 6–7).

Not content with the verbal abuse and the wagging of their heads, these passersby then hurled a couple of challenges at Jesus: “You who are going to destroy the temple and build it in three days, save yourself! Come down from the cross, if you are the Son of God!” Misconstruing the words of Jesus in terms of the destruction of the temple (see John 2:19), whether intentional or not, we then hear a familiar refrain in their voices, one that we encountered earlier in the mouth of none other than the Devil: “If you are the Son of God . . .” (see Matthew 4:1–11). How might Jesus have heard these words? Was he being tempted by the Prince of Darkness once more, even here in this dark place and at this very moment, to use powers that would extract him from the torment and agony of the cross, but in a way that would depart from the will of his Father? Was the aggravation and danger of temptation now upon him? Did Jesus suffer this as well?

The second squad—the chief priests, the teachers of the law, and the elders—are off to the left side of the cross in Tintoretto’s work, and they are identified by their rich attire and headdress. As our text indicates, they too joined in the mocking of Christ and they taunted him with three affirmations which they, as the religious elite of Israel, found to be preposterous. We can almost hear the cynical and wry tone of their voices: “‘He saved others,’ they said, ‘but he can’t save himself!’” But if these religious leaders were willing to admit that Jesus did, after all, save others, then why did they doubt who he is or what his signs of power had shown him to be? Could Jesus have done any of these things unless God was with him? In other words, why hadn’t the religious leaders’ acknowledgment of “saving others” led to their own faith in Christ? The second taunt of the religious elite—“He’s the king of Israel! Let him come down now from the cross, and we will believe in him”—hardly sounds sincere. Signs of wonder, as great as they can be, don’t necessarily result in faith. We already know that. Recall the raising of Lazarus from the dead once more. The Gospel of John chronicles the reaction among the religious leaders in the wake of this astonishing event:

Therefore many of the Jews who had come to visit Mary, and had seen what Jesus did, believed in him. But some of them went to the Pharisees and told them what Jesus had done. Then the chief priests and the Pharisees called a meeting of the Sanhedrin.

“What are we accomplishing?” they asked. “Here is this man performing many signs. If we let him go on like this, everyone will believe in him, and then the Romans will come and take away both our temple and our nation.” (11:45–48)

In a similar fashion, Jerome, a Christian scholar who died in AD 420, doubted the sincerity of these same religious leaders in their claim that they would, after all, believe in Jesus if only he would come down from the cross. In making his case, however, Jerome went beyond our text and made a connection to a future event, one that these same religious leaders would later learn about as well. Jerome reasoned in this way: “‘Let him come down from the cross, and we will believe in him.’ What a deceitful promise! Which is greater: to come down from the cross while still alive or to rise from the tomb while dead? He rose, and you do not believe. Therefore, even if he came down from the cross, you would not believe.”²

Like the passersby of the cross, the second little platoon—the chief priests, the teachers of the law, and the elders—were hardly aware of the larger drama in which they dutifully played their roles, doing exactly what had been prophesized about them so long ago. And so, they sallied forth with yet another cry: “He trusts in God. Let God rescue him now if he wants him, for he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’” As they spoke these words, the religious leaders were oblivious to the reality that they were actually quoting the very similar words of Psalm 22:8: “‘He trusts in the LORD,’ they say, ‘let the Lord rescue him. Let him deliver him, since he delights in him.’”

The last group of revilers, composed of only two, corresponds to the rebels who were crucified with Jesus. In Tintoretto’s painting, these two men are still being affixed to the cross with nails and ropes. The one is looking toward Christ, in what appears to be a sympathetic gaze, the other is looking away. The Italian artist suggests a touching scene in his composition between Jesus and one of these rebels who evidently found his way to faith after his earlier harsh words. Perhaps he had witnessed the humble resolve of Christ, who patiently endured his suffering with a remarkable spirit, or perhaps he was moved by the gracious forgiveness of Christ offered for all to hear, himself included. This account, which is only found in the Gospel of Luke, is as follows:

One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him:

“Aren’t you the Messiah? Save yourself and us!”

But the other criminal rebuked him. “Don’t you fear God,” he said, “since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.”

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

Jesus answered him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” (23:39–43)

Though Jesus knew that paradise awaited him and the erstwhile rebel, his current condition was anything but that. Earlier the criminals had insulted Jesus in a manner similar to the passersby and the religious elite. The very lowest dregs in this first-century society, whom their enemies probably referred to as the scum of the earth—it was precisely these abject and despised offenders who thought that even they had something on Jesus, that even they had grounds for their animated complaints and insults. This was a low point to be sure. The darkness was palpable.

If we consider the horizontal dimension of life, that is, the various relationships with family, friends, and acquaintances, then this last scene at Golgotha looks like desolation. However, it was not actually so. The cross was a region, so to speak, near the horror of desolation—close to the neighborhood, but not within it. It was near desolation.

Though perhaps all of the apostles (see Mark 14:27) had abandoned Jesus, clearly Peter and James of the inner circle were nowhere to be seen. The beloved disciple (see John 13:23–24), whom tradition has identified as the apostle John³ (though many scholars today disagree⁴), was at the cross, along with Mary, the mother of Jesus. The problem here, of course, is that we don’t know just who this beloved disciple was.⁵ The answers from an earlier tradition are hardly satisfying. What we do know, however, is that there were several other people present, some women in particular, those for instance who had remained faithful, and who had likely accompanied Jesus from the time that he began his death journey outside the praetorium and on to the site of his crucifixion at Calvary. This little flock remained at Golgotha through it all: faithful, supportive, and loving. Their very presence surely meant so much to Jesus.

So then, the women at the cross were especially prominent, and undoubtedly played an important role, in that some of them are specifically named in the Gospels with the notable exception of the Gospel of Luke, in which they are referred to only in a very general way as “the women who had followed him from Galilee, stood at a distance, watching these things” (23:49b). Consider then, for a moment, the more detailed account found in the Gospel of John: “Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother, his mother’s sister, Mary the wife of Clopas, and Mary Magdalene. When Jesus saw his mother there, and the disciple whom he loved standing nearby, he said to her, ‘Woman, here is your son,’ and to the disciple, ‘Here is your mother.’ From that time on, this disciple took her into his home” (19:25–27). Add to this testimony the witness found in the Gospel of Mark: “Some women were watching from a distance. Among them were Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joseph, and Salome. In Galilee these women had followed him and cared for his needs. Many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem were also there” (15:40–41).

A clear picture has now emerged. Jesus was not utterly alone at Golgotha. He had not been abandoned after all. That’s a myth. The light of love was standing right in front of his eyes in the form of a band of courageous women and of a mysterious and beloved disciple. It was not all darkness.

THE PRAYER