Christ In His Suffering, Trial, and Crucified by Klaas Schilder: Schilder, Klaas - Vol 2 - Christ on Trial: 28. Chapter 28: Christ Caricatured By the World

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Christ In His Suffering, Trial, and Crucified by Klaas Schilder: Schilder, Klaas - Vol 2 - Christ on Trial: 28. Chapter 28: Christ Caricatured By the World



TOPIC: Schilder, Klaas - Vol 2 - Christ on Trial (Other Topics in this Collection)
SUBJECT: 28. Chapter 28: Christ Caricatured By the World

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C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - E I G H T

Christ Caricatured By the World

Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the common hall, and gathered unto him the whole hand of soldiers. And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe. And when they had platted a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying Hail, King of the Jews! And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head.

—Mat_27:27-30.

WE concluded our previous chapter with a reference to Christ as one who faithfully works out His own ideas. Even to say this is a very serious matter. For Christ to feel it was far more serious still, for it required scourging and called across into being. Very serious, yes. And that is why it is so severely profaned by the brutal mockery conveyed by the statement: Christ is being caricatured.

Do not shun that word—an admonishment I would give myself also as I pronounce it. The incarnation of the Word, the concealment of God—those are things accompanied by the most extreme consequences conceivable. To name the word caricature is to be reminded of cartoons, of libelous pamphlets, and, as we think of these we do indeed feel like saying: Do not introduce that word into this discussion. However, you must not forget that the age of Augustus and of Tiberius was an age in which caricaturists— and very good ones they were—abounded. Moreover, even if this had not been the case, the age in which Christ was born knew how to make use of its own devices for mocking and ridiculing Him.

Whoever wants to appreciate the meaning of that mockery is compelled, accordingly, to translate the forms which the soldiers employed to give expression to their enmity against Jesus into the language of his own times. Hence, when I think of those soldiers of Pilate who are busying themselves around the Saviour I think of my own world, of its presses, of its cartoonists, and of its jesters. For one who speaks of the Eternal One-in-Hiding, the scientific repudiation of an “anachronism” is anything but scientific. In the modes of expression of our own day, the game which the soldiers played over against Jesus would have been carried on in the press, on the stage, and in the revue.

Yes, He who realizes, who works out, His own ideas is being caricatured. This must have constituted the severest conceivable suffering for His spirit, for the caricature which is conceived and executed at the prompting of enmity always represents a working out of false ideas, and, in this case, a distortion of the ideas of its suffering victim. In the preceding chapter, we saw the majesty of Christ Jesus subjected to the tyranny of the rod. Now that majesty recedes behind cartoons. This, too, represents the Suretyship; in this also the Word battles against the false word, and God’s expressed Image is buried under the symbols of caricature. There is not a single form which life can assume in which the labor of the Surety does not operate.

I hear someone say that this is not the first time Jesus was caricatured. That is true. He was caricatured in the Sanhedrin. There Christ as a prophet was subjected to caricature. But the Sanhedrin is after all only a regional institution; it has no international ramifications. The Sanhedrin was even less than regional in character; on this day we should have to say that it became definitely regionalistic in its insistence upon peculiarly local emphases. Hence Christ cannot be brought into world-caricature before the Sanhedrin. But, says someone, how about Herod-Esau? Yes, he also caricatured Christ. However, Esau, no more than the Sanhedrin, bestrides the world. His gorgeous robes will never be shown at the world’s fair, unless . . .

Not unless Rome sends it on—to the world’s stage. For Rome is the world empire. We have discussed that before, see pp. 222 (Chapter 11), 298 (Chapter 15), and 419 (Chapter 22).

And that is exactly what is about to happen. Christ is being robed in the garments of caricature by the soldiers of Pontius Pilate. It is possible that they have taken over Herod’s robe. If they did not actually use his, they certainly imitated it. Hence when Christ is being mocked in this way inside of the private chamber of the official representative of the world-empire and of the world-might, He is being inducted into the world-caricature. Naturally, this does not make sense to a person who says: But a soldier, after all, is only a soldier. However, he who sees that prophecy is active in the passion of Christ will never say that.

The Saviour is inducted into world-caricature. Rome represents the world. And this happens to Him in the moment of perfect seriousness.

In respect to that seriousness, this: the blood of Christ has been forced out of Him. First in Gethsemane, now here. In the garden of Gethsemane God exacted the blood of Jesus in perfect seriousness, in the terrible tension of awful judgment. At that time the angels held their peace, and covered their faces. Such was the holy seriousness of the matter! Now, however, Christ’s blood is being taken and driven from Him by human beings. This was the sequel to what had begun in the garden. And now we hear the laughter of mockery. It is diabolical laughter, it is the brutal ridicule of soldiers, and it is mocking the perfect outlaw.

The blood of Christ was first placed under the pressure of God; now it is being laid on the table of Satan. The guests at that table are toasting each other in it. Meanwhile He, who is called Adam, approaches His cross on which He will offer up His blood to God and to people, and on which He will lay it before Satan’s eyes in the scales of God. The Bible tells us what happened after the scourging. When Pilate had surrendered Christ for that scourging, and when these “penalties” had been inflicted, the soldiers decided to have some further fun with this prisoner, Why not make a joke out of the event of the day? You can read from their faces the disdain they have for all Jews in general and for this Jew in particular. They arrange a scene in which their eagerness to mock this self-vaunted king can be satisfied. They call together “the whole band of soldiers.” This means that they call together all those who happened in that moment to be present in the neighborhood. They are an ingenious lot. Why not caricature that self-arrogated king? Caricatures are cheap. The soldiers hit upon the idea of dressing the Nazarene pretender to the crown in the garb of a king. Why in that of a king, you ask? Well, the trial had repeatedly raised that point. Pilate’s interview, the accusation on the part of the Jews, and Christ’s own apology all tended to accentuate the office of king in reference to the Christ. A pretty incident, indeed. A prisoner who had wanted to be king. Look! he is a ridiculously pathetic figure. They know all about it.

Just notice. Over there someone is already fetching Him a scarlet robe, a soldier’s robe. The garment is not a “new, freshly dyed cloak”[1] but very probably a “worn-out, badly faded and dirty one” whose color—purple or a kind of crimson—could no longer be recognized.[2] Yes, this coarse soldier’s uniform makes a rather good imitation of a king’s robes. With the help of a little imagination it might very well be regarded as the cloak which a king wears.

[1] Groenen, op. cit„ p. 382.

[2] Groenen, op. cit„ p. 382.

Come to think of it, though, a king must have a crown too. Where get the crown? No difficulty about that at all. The neighborhood afforded reeds having barbs on them which would serve the purpose beautifully. It is not unlikely that they made use of “a low, densely thistled reed, which resembles heather, and which grows so rank on the uncultivated bottomland of Palestine that it is used now and was used long ago as fuel. This helps us to understand how the soldiers had those thorns on hand for their purpose.[3] From these reeds one of those present—be careful, man, you might hurt your finger!—begins weaving a crown. It is put on Jesus’ head. The idea, in the first place, is not to “cause Jesus pain, but to mock Him by this gift of a king’s crown.”[4]

[3] Groenen, op. cit., p. 383.

[4] Grosheide, op. cit., p. 347. He refers to Dalman, Orte und Wege, p. 210.

But the king is not yet fitted out completely. He has to have a sceptre, too. Otherwise the resemblance is not complete. Accordingly, they give Him an imitation of a sceptre; they put a reed into Jesus’ hand; a very neat sceptre it is! Some think that this reed by its very pliability perfected the mockery. After all, a true sceptre always retained its firmness and rigidity. But others suppose that a kind of sea-reed was employed which, in contrast to the reed that grows in swamps such as we know it, is pronouncedly rigid. The fact that the soldiers later used this reed to beat Him makes the second supposition more tenable.

Thus the matter of the caricatured king is quickly “dispatched.” The rest of the fun is up to the soldiers. Look, they are already standing at attention; they go through their paces before Jesus; they bow their heads as they pass Him; give Him the military salute. And with a mock display of respect in their voice they shout: “Hail, king of the Jews!”

Notice, Jews, that in the first place this is a defeat for you. You have hardly “won” your game before your joy in the victory returns as a boomerang to strike you. True, these soldiers are mocking the Nazarene, but in Him they are mocking your people. You have rejected Him, but they continue to count Him as one of you.

As for Christ, how does He find it possible to locate His Father among all these murderers? How can His hand find the altar, when His head is being wounded by thorns, and when a reed is being pressed into His hand? It has been said that Christ did not keep the reed in His hand, inasmuch “as Matthew alone tells us that the reed was put into Jesus’ hand as a sceptre, Mark speaking only of a reed which was used to strike the Lord. In this respect again we need look for no significant difference between the two presentations. It may be that they attempted to put the reed into the Lord’s hand, but He certainly did not want to keep hold on it, inasmuch as in no single respect could He take an active part in the mockery directed against Him. . . . Hence we may suppose that the Lord’s refusal to hold the reed in His hand is what induced the soldiers to strike Him on the head with it.”[1] This interpretation has its appealing features especially because it shows us how Christ’s active obedience immediately leads Him to His passive compliance. For if He does not keep the reed in His hand, He is beaten with it.

[1] Groenen, op. cit.

Now each of the several threads involved in the trial meets at a point in this induction of Christ into world-caricature. Herod is here again. The soldiers have conducted their sport in imitation of Herod. Naturally, a few of the soldiers went along on the visit to Herod, and they told all about it to their fellows. Besides, Herod permitted Jesus to go when the garment of mockery was still hanging over His shoulders. In other words, these Roman soldiers simply take over Herod’s method of mocking. That is why this mockery represents a collaboration of Esau with the enemy against Jacob.

In the second place, the idea of Christ, the outlaw, after it has first been officially worked out by the judge, as we noticed before, is now taken over by the soldiers. Pilate should never have allowed this to take place. His discipline should have kept the men from doing it. But Christ has once and for all been placed outside of the law, and the soldiers cannot be expected to deal differently with Him than the others. The trial of Christ begins with the mockery of a servant of Annas, who strikes Him on the cheek. At the conclusion of the trial that one servant has become multiplied. And so have the blows.

In the third place, we have here another instance of the forgotten chapter to which we alluded. The only thing the soldiers can think of ridiculing is Christ’s kingship. Matters concerning kings are more in their line than are matters involving prophets or priests. They are attracted to what is immediately before their eyes. Hence Christ appeals to them solely as an ill-fated king. That is all they can understand about Him. Again, you see, only the kingship of Christ’s threefold office is given any attention. The Sanhedrin’s way of putting the issue, of talking about the messianic question in a purely political sense, has its logical conclusions, for of Christ’s three offices only that of the king is now being preserved. And this means that He is being torn asunder, that His soul is being scourged.

In connection with this third point, we should name a fourth. By means of the mockery on the part of the soldiers the universal Christ is being driven into a sectarian corner. Just who is it that is receiving these blows? A second Jacob? A second David? A second Melchizedek? A second Joshua? No, He is the second Adam. Nothing could be more universal, and nothing more cosmical. He wants to be the second Adam, the founder of the new mankind; He wants to be the king, not of a provincial group, not of a sect, not of a closed club, but of the world. He would be king of that new mankind. But all this does not take away the truth that in the world-caricature He appears solely as the king of the Jews. In this feature, you see, Christ’s ambition to a universal kingdom is made ridiculous by those who degrade Him to the plane of an ill-fated potentate over a handful of Jews who had already for some time counted for little in the world. Oh, the wonder of clinging to the feast of Pentecost under such circumstances, the wonder of His farewell addresses in all of their cosmopolitan sweep!

In the fifth place, we have in this instance the phenomenon of Christ’s first shedding of blood. In our preceding chapter we called this instance of the shedding of the blood of Christ the beginning of that divine deed which will reverse the course of the blood and point the way from death back to life. Now the blood of the Lamb begins to flow. This is the meeting place of all epochs, the turning point of the ages. But in this meeting place of the centuries, and at this crossroad of all times in reference to both nature and spirit, Christ finds the company of Psalms 35 in the society of drunkards and scoffers. When this blood began to flow, wise men were present, and shepherds, and a star. Now there are only devils around Him; they grin maliciously; and the God of the stars holds His peace. Pray, where is Thy God? It has been said that “the scourging which was inflicted upon Jesus dishonored Him, drove Him out of the society of human beings. Involuntarily we think of the angel which drove Adam and Eve out of Paradise.”[1] But if Adam had been here, He would have said to the second Adam: It is better to fall into the hands of God than into those of men. When Adam was driven out of Paradise by the angel, no one was there to mock. The hush of awful seriousness lay on the face of heaven and of earth; the clouds penned a piece of secret writing: mene, tekel, upharsin: weighed, numbered, and found wanting. The breach, the break had come but today while the second Adam is being driven out of Paradise, and even out of the wilderness, now that He is shown the door even in the house of common grace, and now that He accordingly is being humiliated far worse than the first Adam was—now heaven makes no threat, and the clouds write nothing. No, the sun shines at its brightest, is eager to make its circuit. Besides, this is the day of the Passover. The seriousness with which the first Adam was sent out far outweighs that which overhangs this byplay of mockery with which the second Adam is accompanied on His journey to a dry and arid death. Yes, that whip is but an extension of the drawn sword which defended the gate of Paradise. But this appendage has been dipped in the poison of Satan and of Cain. Jesus must discern the sword of God in that whip. Here, in this inner room into which they have conducted Him, He must confess that He is the great Samson, battling against the angels and the drawn sword, and laying His hand on the gate of Paradise. Here in this inner room, the tree of life must beckon Him; He must go there as the second Adam to eat and to give of His fruit.

[1] Grosheide, op. cit p. 346.

That is why faith is necessary for Christ when, as the second Adam, He confesses that He is the Mediator. He must have that faith now. The Baptist is not here to say: I dare not baptise. Christ is not in the wilderness where Satan tells Him: Come now, let us have a serious talk together. The angels and the animals do not come to Him now to serve Him. Simon Peter does not pose his satanic objections. Moses and Elias are not here as they were upon the mountain. And, hence, to believe under those circumstances, that He is the second Adam, the central man, the world symbol, the greater-than-Abel and the pleroma of all that was real in the ages gone by—that was very difficult. To believe that when there is nothing but caricature around Him and when all prophetic, priestly, and kingly mountains and all accursed and withered fig trees recede from His sight—yes, that is infinitely difficult. It was grievously hard labor for Jesus Christ to unravel His faith in His own importance and in the sublime power of the cross from these clever caricaturists. This represented a marvelous active obedience governed by passive obedience.

But He believed, nevertheless. Therefore we say of this Surety and Mediator: ecce deus. For even as He stood in that inner court, and even while He was being mocked by the soldiers, He saw God, the angels, Paradise, the vistas of open fields and the mountains and valleys of Genesis 1, 3. I cannot prove that: fortunately not. I can only believe it. For He both speaks and holds His peace about that which He has seen and heard. He is my God (John 3). Moreover, I can only believe that He saw Himself also in the state of His spiritual nakedness. He believed Himself to be God when He was being made a lesser one than Abel by the soldiers of Pilate. Had it not been told Him long ago that His blood would be counted as less than Abel’s blood? He knew that, and He nodded imperceptibly with His head. Now He had become inferior to Abel. God still takes some pains about the blood of Abel; a theophany can issue from that. Glorious Abel, favored of God, beautiful in death. Abel—an appropriate burial, a funeral oration delivered from heaven, and sublime seriousness. But for Jesus? Quiet everywhere, and devoted attention to the caricaturists. My God, my God, why dost Thou forsake me? Nay, do not answer yet: “My mouth shall I not open, while the ungodly is over against me; but a fire is kindled within me; my grief is increased.”

Thereupon the Christ took courage, the courage of the Surety’s heart. I cannot prove that, fortunately not. I can only believe it. He confronted His people so that He might see them. He knew that only upon the condition that this hour should sometime come, had common grace spread out a tolerable bed for Adam to lie upon instead of a bed of thorns. Of this He was very sure. Hence He bore the thorns and kept an awful silence. He would put a judicial basis under the structure of common grace and would kindle the fire of grace under the floor of the common judgment. He bore it all. There He stood in that poor inner court upon which the sun beat down. There He stood, greatly forsaken. Thereupon He in His spirit strode through the whole world and in His spirit saw the great separation. In His vast dream the thorns were being plucked out of every rosebed. Only roses remained. And even the corn poppies were being plucked out of the stubble fields on the other side of the world’s area. There only the thorns remained. With a grim earnestness Christ drew His schism through all the worlds. He did it with His will and with His word. Of the mingled sphere of common grace—tough, persisting interplay of thorns and roses as it was—He made a hell and also a heaven, an unmixed hell and also an unmixed heaven, places giving rise solely to thistles and places giving birth only to roses.

Thereupon He was in great haste to reach His cross. To Pilate He had nothing more to say. He felt Himself to be very strong. For He had seen His own. He knew that they were scoffers, foolhardy rebels against God, Satan’s objects of caricature. With His eye fixed upon them He said:

You caused me all this pain;

Know well it was your deed,

The insult, mockery, disdain,

The crown of thorns, the reed!

It is true. I have been the one who caused this. For my sake He was mocked. He endured our caricaturing.

Now love, and faith, and hope also proceed to write upon the clouds the sign of the Son of man, and the sign is this: the very head which now wears the crown of thorns, and the very hand which now holds a reed, will some day wear a golden crown and carry a sharp sickle (Revelation 14). Hence we would remember Him long, Him and His crown of thorns. We would weep and would laugh. For His being mocked earns for us the crown of honor. Christ, we will remember Thy crown of thorns, and Thy being caricatured, when we sing

We raise our heads in confidence

For we shall wear a crown of glory

For Thy Name’s sake, 0 Lord, for Thy Name’s sake alone.

We would laugh, not in consonance with the soldiers, but in harmony with the believing Abraham.[1]

[1] The author concludes the chapter with a sonnet of Heiman Dullaart in which the poet presents the spectacle of the caricatured Christ in Herod’s court. The authentic art of the poem defies a faithful translation—The Translator.