Today’s Roman villain, Pontius Pilate: in some corners of Christianity, he’s considered a saint. The Coptic Church, for instance, thinks he’s a saint, the Ethiopians too. They think he later converted and was martyred.

I’ve always thought that a curious thing, that Pilate might very well be a saint, this infamously wicked man. It’s rooted in ancient legend, ancient apocryphal texts, this curious belief in Pilate’s sanctity. The problem—at least for me—is that these ancient texts are also antisemitic. On trial, standing before Caesar, for instance, Pilate says in one text, “Almighty Caesar, I am innocent of these things…it is the…Jews who are guilty.” It’s also a quite fantastic story; supposedly after his beheading, angels carried his head up to heaven as his wife Procla swooned and died at the sight. In other accounts, demons wouldn’t let his body rest in peace; wherever his body was, demons would gather, so the legends go; and so he was moved again and again until the demons finally stopped once he was laid to rest in Switzerland of all places (Mount Pilatus it’s called today).[1] It’s a curious thing, as I said.

Now, I have no idea if Pilate is really a saint or whether he knows better now in hell. It’s not really any of my business. It is, however, interesting to me—spiritually helpful even, hopeful even—to think such a man could be a saint, that he could have converted, that he could have given his life for Jesus Christ. If it seems strange that a man like Pilate could ever become a saint, think about how strange it is for you to become saint, how strange for me. I don’t know, I like the idea—Saint Pontius Pilate. What good is grace for anyway if not for miracles like that? What else is Good Friday for?

But how would Pilate have had to change to become a saint? In John’s Gospel, in the exchange between Pilate and Christ, it’s interesting what the Roman governor thinks he understands but doesn’t, what he thinks he sees but doesn’t. “Are you the King of the Jews?” Pilate asks. “My kingdom does not belong to this world,” Jesus answers. Pilate has no idea what Jesus is talking about; Pilate’s way thinking, his vocabulary, his imagination is entirely conventional, captured completely by standard accounts of power. Jesus talks about a kingdom comprised of those who listen to his voice and who thereby “belong to the truth.” “What is truth?” Pilate asks.[2] At that moment, by the way, it’s no longer Jesus on trial, Pilate is. What does he make of Jesus? Who is he? And that’s what would have had to change in the man: the way he imagined the world, his conventional wisdom, the very meaning of the words he took for granted—all of it he’d have had to call into question, to unlearn the world and relearn truth, beginning, of course, by recognizing in this arraigned Galilean, standing bound right there in front of him, the Son of the Father. What is truth? That’s not a question Pilate wants to think about, much less answer. There’s a line in Dante—in the Inferno—some have thought a reference to Pilate, a line about cowardice and the “great refusal.”[3] Now, the line’s probably not about Pilate at all, but that was Pilate’s crime, that he refused to engage the question, that he refused to worry about truth. I don’t know, it’s just this remains a haunting question. What is truth? It still is haunting. And it’s what would have had to change about Pilate if he were ever to become a saint. It’s what would have to change about us too.

In the moment though, of course, Pilate didn’t change. Rather, he tried to play the political game, the game of power and manipulation and violence. He tried to remain in control. This is the other lesson we should learn from Pilate, whether he’s sainted or damned. Maybe, he thinks, if he gives them another prisoner, Barabbas; maybe if he has Jesus scourged and mocked, then maybe he’ll keep the peace. None of it works. If you read John’s Gospel closely, you’ll notice Pilate grows more and more desperate. Back and forth between a silent Jesus and the volatile crowd, Pilate clearly loses control. “Where are you from?” Pilate asks Jesus; Jesus does not answer. “Do you not know that I have power…to crucify you?” All power is given from above, Jesus answers. Jesus has nothing else to say to him after that. And with the crowd he fares no better. “If you release him, you are not a Friend of Caesar,” they cry out.[4] As he boasts more and more of his power, he weakens; he gets backed into a corner. At the end of it all, he can do nothing else but wash his hands of it like some bureaucratic coward. I don’t know, perhaps you can sympathize with Pilate here—all those games you play, those compromises you make, anything but give up power. I sympathize with the man; it’s chilling to think how much I do. This too would have had to change in Pilate if he was ever to be a saint. In us too.

In just a moment you’ll be invited to come near the crucifix—to adore it, some to kiss it. “Behold the Lamb of God,” I usually say; today, it’s “Behold, the wood of the cross.” And again, I don’t know if Pontius Pilate ever became a saint. I guess we’ll all find out one day; it doesn’t really matter. But the idea it’s even possible makes possible hope—for me, a man as sinful as Pilate ever was; for you too. And as I come forward to kiss this image of the Crucified, I will ask myself how I should change if I really want to become a saint—how I should think differently, what foolish games I should give up, what I should do differently in my life. May your prayer too be whatever it needs to be, but may it be a prayer worthy of the saint God wants you to be. May it be a holy prayer. I don’t know, maybe Pilate was converted; maybe he did give his life to Jesus Christ. Maybe I can too. Maybe you can too. I mean, what else is Good Friday for but to save us, to make us saints? And not just the best of us but the worst of us too. Pilate and me and you and them: “I will draw everyone to myself,” Jesus said.[5] Let yourself be drawn to him; may we be drawn to the Lord together. It’ll be like heaven, you know, what you’ll see in a moment: we sinners adoring the cross, begging to become saints—Pilates, all of us. It’s beautiful. It’s holy. It’s grace. And I’m pretty sure it’s what Good Friday is for. Amen.

[1] Acts of Pilate in New Testament Apocrypha, vol. I, 449-484

[2] John 19:33-38

[3] Dante, Inferno 3.60

[4] John 19:9-12

[5] John 12:32

© 2023 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield