"I wash my hands of this ... "

Pilate had always been in control.

Calm.
Cool.
Collected.

Everything the world says we should be. A perfect example of everything the business books tell us we should strive to become.

Then the "incident" occurs. The religious snobs he overseas come knocking on his door. They can't come in, of course, because another one of their religious holidays prevents them from entering the praetorium lest they be unclean for their holy day.

Even to a non-religious Roman official their request seems a little strange. They can't enter a building lest they become unclean, but they can come to call for the murder of a rival and not be sullied by THAT. Like a mafia family praying and crossing themselves before the meal when they decide who's going to axe Big Guido from across the river. Pilate hears them out and offers a political sidestep. They step back, and soon the group is foxtrotting together. When the Jewish leaders let it slide that this Jesus fellow is claiming to be God, Pilate knows he has to take action. He has plan A and a plan B waiting in the wings.

And then he meets this Jesus of Nazareth and his footing shows to be a little weak. He really didn't see any fault in Jesus, but he couldn't let the people think that they could challenge Caesar as the one true God. Suddenly Pilate found himself unsure, emotive, and wishing to pardon this humble carpenter turned teacher.

Suddenly Pilate wasn't so much in control. He tries to sidestep, to re-phrase questions, and to filibuster. All for naught. This Rabbi makes him choose. While Pilate had always relished the power to hold life and death in his hands, suddenly he wasn't sure what to do.

He washed his hands.

He would make the hard decision, but only if he wouldn't be held accountable for it.

But this Jesus of Nazareth came to wash hearts.

It's interesting that history (including extra-biblical accounts such as Josephus) remembers Pontius Pilate for this one encounter and ONLY for this one encounter. Nothing else he ever did - no power grab, no consesus-building decision - ever measured up to his part in crucifying Jesus.

I sometimes wonder how long this even re-played in his mind. How many times did he think back to this encounter? Had he done the right thing? Had he made the right call? When the rag-tag bunch of disciples led the greatest people movement ever to hit the Roman Empire, did Pilate ever think about joining in?

Did he ever see that all the water in the world could never wash away his sins - not just the whole "killing the Son of God" thing - but all the sins he had ever committed. Did he ever understand that only the blood he had spilled could wash hearts?

Dirty

I believe Jesus had dirty hands.

When I first arrived in Mongolia, I was surprised at how quickly my hands became dirty. Every time we wash our hands the rinse-water becomes visibly dirty, like after rolling pennies or sorting newspaper back home. Helen told me that when she goes back to the states she doesn't see the point in washing her hands as often because the water always rinses clear.

In the ger district, where most families don't have running water, hands are dirty as a rule. Sometimes when the kids are playing with us, I can't help but see the beauty in their dirty fingernails and think, "I believe Jesus had dirty hands."

In Bible study this week we read the story of Jesus healing a blind man as found in John chapter 9. I'm struck by the fact that Jesus spits in the dirt to make a mud paste to heal the blind man's eyes. I'm in awe of the Great Physician, who uses dirt to heal this man.

In John chapter 2 Jesus performs his first miracle. Jesus helps a family avoid embarrassment after they run out of wine by turning water into wine. Now, I love a good glass of wine and particularly like this story because if nothing else disproves the teetotalers - this story does.

But, I've always felt that perhaps this miracle doesn't quite fit with the others. Maybe it's that Jesus gets thrown into the situation by his mother and wouldn't have chosen to perform this miracle on his own. Or perhaps it's that I want my Jesus to be just a little more social-justice-liberal and I want his miracles to directly help people. I love it when He miraculously heals people, when He raises people from the dead, when He feeds large crowds of people - I love the miracles that give me hope for the moments when I look out my window and see unswerving poverty. But this miracle seems a little less heroic.

I felt this way until I got a little closer to the story.

In the middle of the desert, where the water is undrinkable, after days of entertaining guests -- How much water would a family have on hand who didn't even prepare enough wine for the celebration?

Not much.

What water would they have on hand?

The water that had been used for the ceremonial washing.

Dirty water.

The water that had rinsed all the "unclean" off the party guests.

Unclean water.

So Jesus, thrown into this particular miracle somewhat against his will, looks around the room and sees these large bowls of dirty water - and He sees the possibility.

And the servant follows along; taking this dirty water in a chalice, he serves it to the man at the head of the table - who in turn rejoices that the family has saved the best wine until last.

Perhaps the miracle wasn’t only that Jesus could turn one thing into another, but perhaps the miracle was that He was willing to use what others consider dirty and unclean and to turn it into something truly great.

Jesus spits into the dirt and gives sight to the blind. Jesus takes dirty water and serves the finest wine ever had. This is the miracle.

Jesus still performs miracles. He still takes the dirty, unclean, and unwanted things of this world and uses them to heal the sick, give sight to the blind, and to change the world.

Jesus takes us, in all of our sin - dirty, unclean, and unwanted - and uses our lives to heal the sick, to give sight to the blind, and to change the world.

This is the La Choy dragon, the character Big Bird was modeled after. I like seeing the genius of Jim Henson long before he came into his element. I like the idea that a big, silly dragon that encourages housewives to buy a product that is as good as (as good as!) takeout can morph into the big, silly childhood icon we know and love.

He played on.

An old, old man used to play the accordion most nights while sitting on a bench in front of my apartment complex in Konakovo, Russia. I can't imagine he's still alive, but if he is I assure you he would still be out playing; long after dark he would begin his mournful-pop melodies. His voice was other-worldly, but his words were never enunciated quite enough for me to understand. The other neighbors would yell and fuss. Even the crazy old woman who called "Vassya, Vassya, Vassya..." for hours on end to retrieve her long-dead-cat from the out-of-doors would join in the chorus against this old, old man and his lovely music.

I loved the music. I loved every second of it. So deeply authentic and heartfelt - a melody and mood that could paint a portrait - I felt I knew him. His fingers cascading along the white and black dots so quickly, his soul played the notes his fingers missed.

More than anything else, I loved his music because he played on when the world told him to stop. He didn't check the public-opinion polls before making decisions. He played on. He didn't aspire to make the charts or any other such non-sense. He played for the one he loved (and how long had she been dead? Years? Decades?) and it was beautiful.

Sometimes I begin to play my own melody; but when the world crushes in, I stop abruptly. I make sad attempts at apologies to my neighbors and go back inside. The song still rages on in my heart, but my fingers and voice remain still. I make sad attempts at apologies to the one I love and try to change the subject.

Perhaps I'll never play the best or be the best at really anything. Maybe I'll always fall just a little short of "good enough" to serenade the world. But perhaps some day, I'll sit outside at night and play and sing with all my heart. Maybe some will tune it out, others might find it beautiful, and still others will scream and shout. But at least I will have held the courage to make the music for the God I love.

Perhaps some day.

Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance,
and there is only the dance.

T.S. Eliot

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