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At this point we must pass from considerations about the person of Pilate to the
trial itself. In John 18:34–35 it is clearly stated that, on the basis of the
information in his possession, Pilate had nothing that would incriminate Jesus.
Nothing had come to the knowledge of the Roman authority that could in any way
have posed a risk to law and order. The charge came from Jesus' own people, from
the Temple authority. It must have astonished Pilate that Jesus' own people
presented themselves to him as defenders of Rome, when the information at his
disposal did not suggest the need for any action on his part.
Yet during the interrogation we suddenly arrive at a dramatic moment: Jesus'
confession. To Pilate's question: "So you are a king?" he answers: "You say that
I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I have come into the world, to
bear witness to the truth. Every one who is of the truth hears my voice" ( Jn
18:37). Previously Jesus had said: "My kingship is not of this world; if my
kingship were of this world, my servants would fight, that I might not be handed
over to the Jews; but my kingship is not from the world" (18:36).
This "confession" of Jesus places Pilate in an extraordinary situation: the
accused claims kingship and a kingdom (basileía). Yet he underlines the
complete otherness of his kingship, and he even makes the particular point that
must have been decisive for the Roman judge: No one is fighting for this
kingship. If power, indeed military power, is characteristic of kingship and
kingdoms, there is no sign of it in Jesus' case. And neither is there any threat
to Roman order. This kingdom is powerless. It has "no legions".
With these words Jesus created a thoroughly new concept of kingship and
kingdom, and he held it up to Pilate, the representative of classical worldly
power. What is Pilate to make of it, and what are we to make of it, this concept
of kingdom and kingship? Is it unreal, is it sheer fantasy that can be safely
ignored? Or does it somehow affect us?
In addition to the clear delimitation of his concept of kingdom (no fighting,
earthly powerlessness), Jesus had introduced a positive idea, in order to
explain the nature and particular character of the power of this kingship:
namely, truth. Pilate brought another idea into play as the dialogue proceeded,
one that came from his own world and was normally connected with "kingdom":
namely, power — authority (exousía). Dominion demands power; it even
defines it. Jesus, however, defines as the essence of his kingship witness to
the truth. Is truth a political category? Or has Jesus' "kingdom" nothing to do
with politics? To which order does it belong? If Jesus bases his concept of
kingship and kingdom on truth as the fundamental category, then it is entirely
understandable that the pragmatic Pilate asks him: "What is truth?" (18:38).
It is the question that is also asked by modern political theory: Can
politics accept truth as a structural category? Or must truth, as something
unattainable, be relegated to the subjective sphere, its place taken by an
attempt to build peace and justice using whatever instruments are available to
power? By relying on truth, does not politics, in view of the impossibility of
attaining consensus on truth, make itself a tool of particular traditions that
in reality are merely forms of holding on to power?
And yet, on the other hand, what happens when truth counts for nothing? What
kind of justice is then possible? Must there not be common criteria that
guarantee real justice for all — criteria that are independent of the
arbitrariness of changing opinions and powerful lobbies? Is it not true that the
great dictatorships were fed by the power of the ideological lie and that only
truth was capable of bringing freedom?
What is truth? The pragmatist's question, tossed off with a degree of
scepticism, is a very serious question, bound up with the fate of mankind. What,
then, is truth? Are we able to recognize it? Can it serve as a criterion for our
intellect and will, both in individual choices and in the life of the
community?
The classic definition from scholastic philosophy designates truth as
"adaequatio intellectus et rei" (conformity between the intellect and
reality; Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I, q. 21, a. 2c). If a man's
intellect reflects a thing as it is in itself, then he has found truth: but only
a small fragment of reality — not truth in its grandeur and integrity.
We come closer to what Jesus meant with another of Saint Thomas' teachings:
"Truth is in God's intellect properly and firstly (proprie et primo);
in human intellect it is present properly and derivatively (proprie quidem
et secundario)" (De Verit., q. 1, a. 4c). And in conclusion we
arrive at the succinct formula: God is "ipsa summa et prima veritas"
(truth itself, the sovereign and first truth; Summa Theologiae I, q.
16, a. 5c).
This formula brings us close to what Jesus means when he speaks of the truth,
when he says that his purpose in coming into the world was to "bear witness to
the truth". Again and again in the world, truth and error, truth and untruth,
are almost inseparably mixed together. The truth in all its grandeur
and purity does not appear. The world is "true" to the extent that it reflects
God: the creative logic, the eternal reason that brought it to birth. And it
becomes more and more true the closer it draws to God. Man becomes true, he
becomes himself, when he grows in God's likeness. Then he attains to his proper
nature. God is the reality that gives being and intelligibility.
"Bearing witness to the truth" means giving priority to God and to his will
over against the interests of the world and its powers. God is the criterion of
being. In this sense, truth is the real "king" that confers light and greatness
upon all things. We may also say that bearing witness to the truth means making
creation intelligible and its truth accessible from God's perspective — the
perspective of creative reason — in such a way that it can serve as a criterion
and a signpost in this world of ours, in such a way that the great and the
mighty are exposed to the power of truth, the common law, the law of truth.
Let us say plainly: the unredeemed state of the world consists precisely in
the failure to understand the meaning of creation, in the failure to recognize
truth; as a result, the rule of pragmatism is imposed, by which the strong arm
of the powerful becomes the god of this world.
At this point, modern man is tempted to say: Creation has become intelligible
to us through science. Indeed, Francis S. Collins, for example, who led the
Human Genome Project, says with joyful astonishment: "The language of God was
revealed" (The Language of God, p. 122). Indeed, in the magnificent
mathematics of creation, which today we can read in the human genetic code, we
recognize the language of God. But unfortunately not the whole language. The
functional truth about man has been discovered. But the truth about man himself
— who he is, where he comes from, what he should do, what is right, what is
wrong — this unfortunately cannot be read in the same way. Hand in hand with
growing knowledge of functional truth there seems to be an increasing blindness
toward "truth" itself — toward the question of our real identity and
purpose.
What is truth? Pilate was not alone in dismissing this question as
unanswerable and irrelevant for his purposes. Today too, in political argument
and in discussion of the foundations of law, it is generally experienced as
disturbing. Yet if man lives without truth, life passes him by; ultimately he
surrenders the field to whoever is the stronger. "Redemption" in the fullest
sense can only consist in the truth becoming recognizable. And it becomes
recognizable when God becomes recognizable. He becomes recognizable in Jesus
Christ. In Christ, God entered the world and set up the criterion of truth in
the midst of history. Truth is outwardly powerless in the world, just as Christ
is powerless by the world's standards: he has no legions; he is crucified. Yet
in his very powerlessness, he is powerful: only thus, again and again, does
truth become power.
In the dialogue between Jesus and Pilate, the subject matter is Jesus'
kingship and, hence, the kingship, the "kingdom", of God. In the course of this
same conversation it becomes abundantly clear that there is no discontinuity
between Jesus' Galilean teaching — the proclamation of the kingdom of God — and
his Jerusalem teaching. The center of the message, all the way to the Cross —
all the way to the inscription above the Cross — is the kingdom of God, the new
kingship represented by Jesus. And this kingship is centered on truth. The
kingship proclaimed by Jesus, at first in parables and then at the end quite
openly before the earthly judge, is none other than the kingship of truth. The
inauguration of this kingship is man's true liberation.
At the same time it becomes clear that between the pre-Resurrection focus on
the kingdom of God and the post-Resurrection focus on faith in Jesus Christ as
Son of God there is no contradiction. In Christ, God — the Truth — entered the
world. Christology is the concrete form acquired by the proclamation of God's
kingdom.
After the interrogation, Pilate knew for certain what in principle he had
already known beforehand: this Jesus was no political rebel; his message and his
activity posed no threat for the Roman rulers. Whether Jesus had offended
against the Torah was of no concern to him as a Roman.
Yet Pilate seems also to have experienced a certain superstitious wariness
concerning this remarkable figure. True, Pilate was a sceptic. As a man of his
time, though, he did not exclude the possibility that gods or, at any rate,
god-like beings could take on human form. John tells us that "the Jews" accused
Jesus of making himself the Son of God, and then he adds: "When Pilate heard
these words, he was even more afraid" (19:8).
I think we must take seriously the idea of Pilate's fear: Perhaps there
really was something divine in this man? Perhaps Pilate would be opposing divine
power if he were to condemn him? Perhaps he would have to reckon with the anger
of the deity? I think his attitude during the trial can be explained not only on
the basis of a certain commitment to see justice done, but also on the basis of
such considerations as these.
Jesus' accusers obviously realize this, and so they now play off one fear
against another. Against the superstitious fear of a possible divine presence,
they appeal to the entirely practical fear of forfeiting the emperor's favor,
being removed from office, and thus plunging into a downward spiral. The
declaration: "If you release this man, you are not Caesar's friend" ( Jn 19:12)
is a threat. In the end, concern for career proves stronger than fear of divine
powers.
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