“What is truth?” asked Pilate, of the echo of a man standing before him. “I am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life,” the echo murmured, but Pilate had already turned away.
First, he battered the Truth, to alter his appearance, in order to be able to call into question his scarred and swollen features. Then, he washed his hands of Truth altogether, and handed him over to be killed.
It seems, still, as though when we have beaten the truth into our own image, and still it insists on speaking its own mind, we wash our hands of it. We make enemies of purveyors of inconvenient information. We shoot the messenger.
My hope is in the resurrection, but how many more crucifixions must we witness? Again, the pounded nails echo like gunshots reverberating through the cross, and the coffin, telling their terrible truth.
Featured image: By Gustave Doré [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons