Brutality
“Then the governor’s soldiers took Jesus into the Praetorium and gathered the whole company of soldiers around him. They stripped him and put a scarlet robe on him, and then twisted together a crown of thorns and set it on his head. They put a staff in his right hand. Then they knelt in front of him and mocked him. ‘Hail, king of the Jews!’ they said. They spit on him, and took the staff and struck him on the head again and again. After they had mocked him, they took off the robe and put his own clothes on him. Then they led him away to crucify him.” (Matthew 27:27-31)
Last year, I watched Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ for the first time. I had always avoided watching it in the past. But I had mentioned to one of my good friends that I couldn’t seem to feel the sorrow for Jesus that I believed I should be feeling during Lent. She recommended that I try watching the events rather than reading about them.
My friend was right. It was impossible not to feel sorrowful. I cried throughout most of the movie. For Jesus and His suffering. For the brokenness of humanity. And for myself, knowing that I have the same potential for evil inside of me. I wanted to turn the movie off the entire time I was watching it. During one part of the flogging, I couldn’t help but close my eyes. I couldn’t watch any more; I could barely even force myself to listen.
Why the brutality? Why wasn’t it enough to simply kill Jesus?
The flogging, although horrible, was normal procedure and can almost be seen as a mercy. The terrible beating before the crucifixion was intended to weaken the victims and hasten their deaths. Ordinarily, a Roman death squad consisted of five soldiers—four to do the work of killing and a centurion to oversee them. But, according to the gospel of Matthew, Jesus had already been flogged when the governor’s soldiers took Him to the Praetorium and gathered the whole company of soldiers around Him. This was far above and beyond the call of duty. What was happening?
Perhaps, if we put ourselves into the Roman soldiers’ shoes, we can make sense of it. These men are far from home, removed from their families, and living in the midst of an unfamiliar culture and language. They face constant conflict with the Jewish people, who claim to serve the one true God and avoid them as being unclean because they don’t.
Now, they are given a chance to unleash their frustrations. Here is a Jewish scapegoat on which to vent their anger and disappointment, a chance to repay a representative of the people who have always made them feel less than. By nature of their profession, Roman soldiers have been trained in violence. And in this moment, there seem to be no rules that they have to abide by. Because Jesus has been handed over to them by His own people, the soldiers are free to do their worst, one-upping each other in their mockery and brutality.
