How Much Is Jesus Worth? (26:1-16)

How Much Is Jesus Worth? (26:1-16)

Cf. Mk 14:1-11; Lk 7:36-50; 22:1-6; Jn 11:47-53; 12:1-8. Matthew concludes his grand eschatological vision of the exalted Son of Man with the harsh reality of present suffering (25:35-36), leading directly into the Passion Narrative. As Mark intimately connects Jesus’ suffering (Mk 14–15) with that of the disciples (Mk 13) in a climax that fits the rest of his narrative, so for Matthew the Passion Narrative reminds disciples in this age of their present testing until their eschatological deliverance (e.g., 24:42-43; 25:13; 26:41). Because the Passion story provides the historical record of their once-for-all redemption, it reveals in intimate detail both the concrete expression of God’s love for his people and the awfulness of their rebellion against his will. Matthew thus expands the irony already latent in the Passion Narrative: the travesties of justice, the confessions of Gentiles like Pilate and Roman soldiers, the recollections of Satan’s testing in the words of the religious leaders at the cross, and so forth. But whereas Matthew teaches about the historic passion of Jesus, this is not his only concern. Because Jesus’ sacrifice becomes the model for that of his disciples (16:24), it invites Matthew’s audience to count the cost of discipleship in a world hostile to God’s purposes and agendas.

Excursus: Historical Tradition in the Passion Narrative

Because both address the unjust death of the righteous, the Passion Narratives repeat some themes also appearing in martyr stories (e.g., 2 Macc 6–7; Wis 2:12-20; cf. Sisti 1977; Acts of the Alexandrian Martyrs in CPJ 2:55-107, §§154-59), as many scholars have properly emphasized (e.g., Dibelius 1971: 201; Donahue 1976: 65-66; Weeden 1976: 66; Nickelsburg 1980; Aune 1987: 52-53; Robbins 1992: 173, 188).

Of the other motifs both share, many are no more distinctively characteristic of martyr stories than of other ancient literature. For example, where possible, Diogenes Laertius ends his discussions of the lives of eminent philosophers with their death, for example, with Cleanthes in 7.5.176. Martyr stories of course could vindicate their protagonist’s devotion and so packed more impact than other death accounts; a legendary figure might even receive a legendary martyrdom (cf. Life of Aesop, end, in Drury 1976: 29).

Nevertheless, we can hardly suppose that Jesus’ execution was merely fabricated to fit this genre (most biographies that reported their subjects’ death did not conclude with martyrdom, and nearly all scholars concur with good reason that the basic kerygma arose shortly after Jesus’ execution). Jewish accounts stress martyrdom as an example of commitment, but despite the use of Jesus’ death as a model in the Gospel narratives (16:24), summaries of the earliest gospel (e.g., 1 Cor 15:3-4) suggest their very early kerygmatic function as well. In other words, martyr stories may explain the form in which some cohesive Passion Narrative or Narratives circulated, but they would not indicate their composition as fiction. Theissen 1991: 123 concludes, “There is no analogy to the Passion narrative in all of ancient literature. Elements of Hellenistic acts of the martyrs and Jewish tales of martyrdom have been melded into something quite new.” If he overstates their uniqueness from a formal standpoint, he nevertheless corrects an overemphasis on parallels that explains less than is sometimes claimed. The vast majority of ancient biographies concluded with the subject’s death, funeral, and related events (Burridge 1992: 146-47, 179-80); the roughly 15 percent of Matthew’s narrative devoted to the passion is comparable to the length devoted to such matters in contemporary biographies (Burridge 1992: 197-98).

Mack at times substitutes suspicion of motives (suggesting that scholars have gone easy on the Passion Narratives from faith prejudice) for actual evidence that the narratives are unreliable (1988: 249; for arguments, see 249-68). Despite this confidence, he cites Jeremias (a “conservative” scholar, 254) only three times, and never Blinzler, Stauffer, Hengel, or other more conservative continental scholars. In contrast to Mack and his naive dismissal of previous scholarship on the Passion Narratives as uncritical (Perry wrote as early as 1920; cf. Lietzmann’s skepticism on some points in 1931), we have no record of any Christianity where the basic structure of the kerygma was missing, whether or not Christians had yet constructed full Passion Narratives.

But more specific evidence favors the substantial reliability of the Passion Narratives. Theissen 1991: 166-99 argues for the most part (and sufficiently) persuasively that the pre-Markan Passion Narrative as a whole was in use by A.D. 40 in Jerusalem and Judea. Thus, for example, Mark preserves names (such as the sons that identify the second Mary and Simon) that serve no recognizable function in his own narrative — but which may well have been recognizable to the traditionaries of his early Jerusalem source (Mk 15:40, 43; Theissen 1991: 176-77). Place names like Nazareth, Magdala, and Arimathea would mean nothing to audiences outside Palestine (Theissen 1991: 179; I should add here that the Galilean names may have meant little to the Jerusalem church as well, who may have preserved them for the same reasons that Mark did). Although one normally identifies local persons through their fathers’ names, most persons in the Passion Narrative (which identifies more people “than elsewhere in the synoptic tradition”) are identified by their place of origin instead. This practice makes the most sense in the church’s first generation in Jerusalem, when (and where) it consisted of people from elsewhere (Theissen 1991: 180). Mark presumes his audience’s prior knowledge of Pilate and (more significantly) Barabbas and other insurrectionists, despite Pilate’s numerous confrontations with such revolutionaries (Theissen 1991: 171, 182-83).

Markan editing of the Passion Narrative (for Markan structuring, see, e.g., Beavis 1987) also does not challenge the authenticity of the prior tradition;

The Passion Narrative fits what we know of the period in question. Thus Craig Evans (1995: 108) compares Josephus’s account of Jesus ben Ananias, who similarly entered the temple area during a festival (Jos. War 6.300-301). Like Jesus, he spoke of doom for Jerusalem, the sanctuary, and the people, even referring (again like Jesus) to the context of Jeremiah’s prophecy of judgment against the temple (Jer 7:34 in War 6.301; cf. Jer 7:11 in Mk 11:17).

Matthew’s Passion Narrative starts with the events of the last supper. Because 51 percent of his words follow Mark, some scholars, like Taylor, suppose that Matthew simply embellished Mark with popular stories, lacking other sources (Taylor 1935: 54; cf. Senior 1987). That Matthew calculated that much of his manuscript remained and would have followed standard rhetorical techniques for amplification (which could draw on sources) is quite likely; but given Matthew’s dependence on other Palestinian sources elsewhere, one need not suppose that his sources here — admittedly largely oral — are unreliable. One would expect much of the Passion Narrative (those parts with many witnesses) to have been the best-remembered part of Jesus’ ministry, especially given the plurality of disciples. While strictly oral sources might lend themselves to freer adaptation, Matthew’s familiarity with Palestinian views and language that elsewhere allows him to “re-Judaize” (or, more accurately, “re–Palestinian Judaize”) Markan accounts also suggests to us that he retained Palestinian traditions about his Lord’s passion.

The extravagant anointing at Bethany (26:6-13) is framed by a plot to arrest Jesus (26:3-5, 14-16).

First, knowing that death was his mission, Jesus faced God’s calling obediently (26:1-2). By adding another passion announcement here (contrast Mk 14:1-2), Matthew reminds his audience that whatever the power of those who plotted against Jesus (26:3-5), Jesus moved according to his Father’s plan and not theirs. Matthew may thereby also encourage his community that no matter how strong the forces arrayed against them, God would ultimately fulfill his purposes among them (cf. 16:21-26). In contrast with Judas in this passage (26:14-16), Jesus obeys God’s calling at great cost to himself, and provides a model for those who would follow him. (That Jesus’ death would coincide with the Passover — 26:2 — was also significant, on which see comment on 26:17-30.)

Second, not all those who are supposed to lead God’s people follow the rules (26:3-5). Matthew’s audience may have experienced repression from a sociopolitical elite, but anyone in the ancient Mediterranean could recognize this narrative’s abuse of power. In Matthew’s view, the Jerusalem aristocracy (21:46) as well as Pilate (27:24) concern themselves more with political prudence and crowd control than with justice (26:5). Matthew can employ the expression “take counsel” (26:4) for unjust “plotting” (12:14; 28:12; cf. 27:1, 7). A first-century audience would respond to this sort of “taking counsel” as negatively as most audiences today would (Jos. Life 236).

Although the plan to arrest Jesus away from the crowds was politically prudent, it was the stratagem of those who could not win by persuasion or demonstrations of God’s power. Throughout the Mediterranean, the wealthy, especially those wealthy by heredity, formed a ruling class; Judean tradition bestowed this role especially on aristocratic priests (Sanders 1990: 79). The high-priestly office constituted the most powerful religious, and one of the most powerful political, positions in Jewish Palestine (see excursus, below).

Annas held power from A.D. 6 to 15 and retained considerable political influence until his death in 35; he may have dominated the two high priests (his successors included a son-in-law and five sons) who followed (Reicke 1974: 142-43; Jos. Ant. 20.198). The current high priest, Joseph Caiaphas, was Annas’s son-in-law; that he remained in office nineteen years (A.D. 18-36) — longer than any other first-century high priest — suggests his political acumen in keeping the Romans content (Schnackenburg 1980: 2:348; Sanders 1993: 265). In the case of threats to the political stability of Jerusalem, of course, that would mean dealing with them swiftly and efficiently. And someone who caused a commotion in the temple in the dangerously crowded period just before Passover was clearly a threat to the public order (so Vermes 1993: ix-x, though he doubts that Jesus saw himself in messianic terms, 5). Despite his otherwise high opinion of Caiaphas, Sanders 1993: 265 thinks the high priest probably wanted Jesus “dead for the same reason Antipas wanted John dead”: public order. That Caiaphas and Pilate would have cooperated in the matter is likely; “That is the way the gospels describe the events, and that is the way things really happened, as the numerous stories in Josephus prove” (Sanders 1993: 269).

Excursus: High Priests

Elsewhere in the Roman Empire, the title did not always bear the prestige it held in Palestine (cf. Lewis 1983: 47; Reicke 1974: 147). Perhaps under foreign influence, Jewish writers came to speak of the priestly aristocracy or high-priestly family as high priests, rather than merely the ruling chief priest, the kohen hagadol of the Old Testament (e.g., 1QM 2:1; Jos. War 2.243, 316, 320, 342, 410-11; 4.151, 315; Life 197; Mk 2:26; Acts 4:6; Stern 1974/76a: 601, 603; Sanders 1993: 327-32; Jeremias 1964c: 51).

Even Pharisaic tradition respected the office of high priest (m. Hor. 3:1; p. Sanh. 2:1, §2; Acts 23:5-6), though Sadducees dominated it. The priesthood as a whole reportedly included both those committed to extrabiblically stringent purity rules (probably Pharisees or their sympathizers) and those who were not (p. Ter. 6:1). Jewish high priests held considerable political authority (Smallwood 1962), recognized even among Gentiles (Diod. Sic. 40.3.5-6). Contrary to Israelite law, however, Roman officials freely gave and revoked the office of high priests; thus Quirinius installed Annas (Jos. Ant. 18.26); Vitellius retired Caiaphas after Pilate’s recall to Rome (Jos. Ant. 18.95).

Josephus experienced the opposition of high priests he considered corrupt (Life 216). He especially regards the chief priests as corrupt during the period of Agrippa II (A.D. 59-65; Sanders 1993: 324), but this specification may reflect his own uncomfortable experiences and suggest broader corruption within the aristocratic ranks from which such priests were drawn.

Excursus: The Sadducees

Though some aristocrats were not Sadducees (some, like Gamaliel, were Pharisees), nearly all the Sadducees belonged to the aristocracy (see Sanders 1992: 318, 332). Probably a priestly sect, they were likely the well-to-do priests who had remained loyal to the Zadokite line during the Maccabean era (while other Zadokites fled to Qumran and elsewhere — cf. 1QS 5.2; 6.3-4; CD 5.5), returning to positions of power under the Romans (see Baumbach 1971).

Later rabbinic tradition links them with “Boethusians” under the special charge that they denied the resurrection from the dead (ARN 5 A; 10 B; cf. m. Ber. 9:5; Bowker 1973: 53-76).

Excursus: The Sanhedrin

Although Matthew describes the assembly of representatives from the ruling class as a “sanhedrin” only in 26:59 (cf. Mk 14:55; 15:1), the group likely overlaps with what we otherwise know as Jerusalem’s Sanhedrin. A synedrion was a ruling council, equivalent to a boulē, or a senate.

The Sanhedrin may well have held seventy-one members, as tradition indicates;

According to rabbinic (and probably Pharisaic) ideals, judges who proved themselves locally could be promoted to the Sanhedrin (t. Sheqal. 3:27), but in actuality the Sanhedrin in Jesus’ day probably consisted largely of members of the Jerusalem aristocracy and wealthy landowners in the vicinity. Rulers could use sanhedrins, or assemblies, the way some politicians today use committees: to secure the end one wants without taking full responsibility for that decision. In Josephus, rulers like Herod appointed the Sanhedrin members they wished and consequently obtained the results they wished (see Sanders 1993: 482-83; cf. Ant. 15.173; 20.216-18). Before Herod came to power, the Jerusalem Sanhedrin exercised significant authority (Jos. Ant. 14.177). In Pilate’s time, without Herod the Great’s interference and with the Romans expecting local aristocracies to administer the business they could (cf. Jos. War 2.331, 405; Ant. 20.11), we should not be surprised that the chief priests would convene a sanhedrin (Jos. Ant. 20.200), especially since the priestly aristocracy constituted a large portion of it (cf. Sanders 1993: 484-87; Jos. War 2.331, 336; Ant. 17.160, 164; 20.216-17; probably the municipal aristocracy in Ant. 14.91, 163, 167, 180; Life 62). We should also not be surprised if the Sanhedrin sought to please Rome (cf. Kennard 1962).

Less than four decades after the events the Gospels describe, Jerusalem’s aristocracy continued to act as a body. When the high priest and the leading Pharisee allegedly acted without the approval of the rest of the assembly, they provoked that assembly’s anger (Jos. Life 309).

A small minority of scholars, wishing to preserve both the later rabbinic portrait of the Sanhedrin and the one found in Josephus and early Christian sources, have opted for two Sanhedrins — the religious Sanhedrin of the rabbis and the political Sanhedrin attested in first-century sources. Some of these scholars came to argue that the political Sanhedrin tried Jesus, thereby exonerating the religious Sanhedrin of the rabbis. One scholar favoring the rabbinic picture has even argued that the Gospels and Acts are late sources on this matter, with changes into the fourth century (Mantel 1961). Nevertheless, even apart from textual evidence to the contrary, evidence within the early Christian texts refutes this theory: later writers fail to clear up conflicts and to impose later theology (Sutcliffe 1963). In the final analysis, it is simply anachronistic to reject all our first-century portraits on the basis of later, idealized rabbinic accounts, although reliable tradition may remain in the latter at points. Few scholars have therefore accepted the double Sanhedrin thesis (see Blinzler 1959: 15, 140; Brown 1994: 343-48).

After examining Josephus’s three mentions of “Sanhedrin” and five of boulē (Jos. War 2.331, 336; 5.142-44, 532; Ant. 20.11, 200-201, 216-17; Life 62), Brown 1994: 342-43 concludes that Josephus’s portrait of the Sanhedrin is quite close to that of the Gospels and Acts. They judge, consist of “chief priests, scribes, and rulers or influential citizens (= elders),” sentence those found guilty of crimes, and constitute the leading Jewish body with which Roman rulers would deal. Clearly they “played a major administrative and judicial role in Jewish self-governance in Judea.”

Some commentators have observed the incongruity between the leaders’ stated intention not to arrest Jesus at the feast and their arrest of him before the festival has ended (e.g., Anderson 1976: 304-5). From the Gospel writers’ perspective, these leaders may not have known Jesus’ God well, but they knew the Romans and their people (cf. Jn 11:48)

Third, Jesus is worth the best that disciples can offer (26:6-13). Matthew forces his audience, grieved by the failure of every one of their male spiritual predecessors to stand with their Lord in his time of testing (26:40-56), to find solace in the love shown Jesus by the women disciples (26:7; 27:61; 28:1; cf. Mk 15:40-41). Although the threat to their safety may have been less grave, the devotion of women in the Passion Narrative nevertheless puts the male disciples to shame for their cowardice. Although disciples are supposed to let their “good works” shine (5:16), Jesus commends only this woman for a “good work” (26:10).

Indeed, it is male disciples here who actively oppose the woman (more emphatically than in Mark, who does not call the opposers here “disciples”); the disciples become “indignant” (26:8), as they did in 20:24 (there following Mark). Their objection to her behavior in 26:8-9 recalls Jesus’ opponents’ charges against his disciples earlier in Matthew’s narrative (12:2; cf. 9:11, 14; 17:24; 21:16). Particularly in contrast to Judas, who seeks only what he can get from Jesus (26:14-16), this woman seeks what she can offer to Jesus. The extravagance of a disciple’s love is but infinitesimal compared to the price of his love for his followers (cf. 26:26-29, again expressed symbolically), but Jesus both accepts it and grants such devoted disciples all the more (26:10, 13).

Hosts of banquets customarily provided oil to anoint the heads of guests of notable social status (Lk 7:46; Bailey 1980: 8; Lachs 1987: 400), but the outpouring of love here is more costly than the mere use of oil in customary acts of hospitality. People often used expensive alabaster bottles, which were semitransparent and resembled marble, to store the most costly ointments (commentators cite texts like Pliny N.H. 13.3.19; 36.23.60; see Argyle 1963: 195; Lane 1974a: 492).

Because people anointed kings on their heads (e.g., 2 Kings 9:6), some scholars suspect that Matthew and Mark or, more arguably, a stage in the tradition they report, may have seen a royal anointing, alongside Jesus’ emphasis on an anointing for burial (which probably appears independently in Mark and John; cf. Dibelius 1949: 96; Hooker 1983: 98). In any case, the disciples did not catch either possible christocentric nuance of the anointing (Fenton 1977: 412). That Jesus knew he would not be anointed later may suggest that he would be executed as a criminal (Lane 1974a: 494), although the Gospels suggest that Joseph circumvented custom on such matters (27:58), and women came to anoint him appropriately after the Sabbath (Mk 16:1).

Different versions of the anointing story occur in the four Gospels (Mk 14:3-9; Lk 7:36-50; Jn 12:1-8), where the mixture of different traits suggests that the various writers may have conflated two different anointing stories,

As Sanders observes, “These stories probably rest on memories, though details have been exchanged and possibly confused” (1993: 127). It would have been only natural that in the oral tradition some conflation between two anointing stories would occur; it would be equally natural that each evangelist, reporting only one incident, would employ the most suitable features of the anointings for his own account.

From Matthew’s account, we might not guess that the woman is known to Jesus; but in any case, his host’s home was probably open for other people from the village to enter and leave at will (Lk 7:36-38; cf. Malina 1981: 78; Koenig 1985: 16-17; Witherington 1984: 55; Talbert 1982: 86). Especially in the Lukan and Johannine versions, where the woman lets down her hair (Lk 7:38; Jn 12:3), her action would appear sexually loose to outsiders, making Jesus look bad for embracing it (cf., e.g., Jeremias 1972: 126; Witherington 1984: 113; Mack 1988: 200-201). (Ancient stories could combine women’s heroism with traditional feminine qualities like meekness and modesty, as in Wiersma 1990; despite her submissive act, however, letting down her hair would appear immodest.) But Matthew follows the shorter Markan version, which focuses on her sacrifice and Jesus’ anointing in advance for burial.

When Matthew emphasizes that Jesus responds because “he knew the [male disciples’] thoughts” (26:10, rightly interpreting Mark’s “said to themselves” in Mk 14:4), readers will recall that Jesus elsewhere had to respond to the religious leaders on the same basis (22:18). As in the final Matthean discourse, Jesus here speaks to disciples who have the potential to become like the very establishment that was hostile to Jesus. Some modern readers take Jesus’ reproof in 26:9-11 as playing down the priority of the poor. (That the disciples would actually have thought of the needs of the poor shortly before Passover fit their culture’s custom — m. Pesaḥ. 9:11; 10:1; Jeremias 1966a: 54; Jn 13:29; cf. Tob 2:2). Jesus never played down that priority, however (e.g., 5:42; 19:21), and his very words about the poor remaining with them allude to Deuteronomy 15:11, where the context demands caring for the poor (Deut 15:1-10).

Finally, Judas provides an example of those who follow Jesus for what they can get out of him rather than for how they can serve him (26:14-16). Ancient narrators sometimes contrasted positive and negative moral examples; as Judas contrasts with Peter in 26:69–27:10, he contrasts here with the woman who displays extravagant love in 26:6-13. Judas’s motivation for “silver” links him with the deceitful guards (28:12), a disciple who does not care for the master’s funds (25:18), or a disciple who worries about preserving one’s own (6:19-24; 10:9). Ancients despised those who would betray a tie of loyalty for the sake of a bribe (e.g., in the case of loyalty to one’s people, Demosth. For the Liberty of the Rhodians 23; On the Crown 46-49; On the Embassy 120).

Jesus has continued to discuss his death (26:2, 12), and perhaps at least Judas has now caught on. But when Judas finds that Jesus’ kingdom will not profit him materially (and may even cost him his life),

The Meaning of Jesus’ Death (26:17-30)

Cf. Mk 14:12-26; Lk 22:7-20, 39; Jn 13:1, 21-30; 1 Cor 11:23-26. As Jesus’ death approaches, he instructs his disciples more fully regarding the meaning of his mission. The disciples could not guess that their teacher’s death was part of God’s sovereign plan, and would scatter in fear once it came; but by reinterpreting a familiar ritual Jesus gave them a new way of looking at God’s purposes that would make sense to them once he had risen.

Excursus: Was Jesus Executed on Passover?

Whereas in the Fourth Gospel Jesus is executed on the day of the Passover sacrifice (18:28), the Synoptics present the last supper as a Passover meal, presupposing that the lamb has already been offered in the temple. Both traditions — a paschal last supper and a paschal crucifixion — are theologically pregnant (cf., e.g., Byron 1993; Boring 1995: 147), but I suspect that Jesus, followed by the earliest tradition, may have intended the symbolism for the last supper, whereas John has applied the symbolism more directly to the referent to which the last supper pointed.

Many scholars have argued that John is historically correct (e.g., Oesterley 1925: 158-67; Blinzler 1959; Stauffer 1960: 143; Grappe 1985; Meier 1991a: 395-401; Brown 1994: 1351-73), noting that the last supper narrative mentions no lamb and that an execution on the first day of the feast was inconceivable, and suggesting that the disciples could have celebrated Passover early, according to a sectarian calendar (Reicke 1974: 179-82; Meier 1991a: 396), or that Mark inserted Passover references for theological reasons (Jewett 1979: 27; cf. Meier 1980: 316). Other details of the Passion Narrative behind Mark, such as the Sanhedrin’s originally wishing to kill Jesus before the feast (Mk 14:1-2), Simon’s coming from the fields (15:21, which some take as coming from work), or burial on a “preparation day” (which in Mk 15:42 is preparation for the Sabbath, but some take as preparation for Passover; Theissen 1991: 167), can support the Johannine chronology.

But the priestly aristocracy might act even on Passover to preserve public order, Pilate would care little for calendrical matters, and an execution on the day on which the lamb had been eaten would deter crowds no less than the day on which they were being slaughtered, if the site of execution were not far outside Jerusalem’s walls. The minor details “behind” Mark’s Passion Narrative could also be explained in other ways that fit the narrative equally well. Mark could simply be correct that the preparation was for the Sabbath;

Thus many scholars suggest that the Synoptics are historically correct; the Synoptics certainly portray the last supper as a Passover meal, even on details that their audiences would no longer have recognized as relevant (Jeremias 1966a: 20-23, 62-84; Hagner 1995: 772-73; cf. Hill 1972: 336-37).

One attempt to harmonize the Johannine and Synoptic dating, originally associated with a proposal of Annie Jaubert in 1957 (Jaubert 1965), has commended itelf to a number of scholars. According to this proposal, Jesus followed a solar calendar like the one used at Qumran, but Jerusalem’s official Passover, and the one followed by John, occur afterward. Given sectarian calendars (cf. Jub. 49:10, 14; Herr 1974/76)

But would such an important disagreement with the temple authorities have gone unnoted in the tradition (cf. Benoit 1973: 1:87-93)? It is also possible that John followed a Palestinian and the Synoptics the Diaspora reckoning of Passover (Shepherd 1961),

First, Jesus’ mission signifies a new Passover (26:17-20, 26). The “first day of unleavened bread” (26:17) had come to be applied in popular parlance to the Passover as well (see Gundry 1982: 524); popular religion had combined Passover proper and the following feast of unleavened bread (cf. Philo Spec. Leg. 2.150). Passover pilgrims tried to find refuge with Jerusalemites during the actual Passover celebration, to eat the Passover within the city walls as tradition demanded (m. Pesaḥ. 7:9; Lane 1974a: 497). Although Mark is relatively clear that Jesus’ selection of the host, as with the donkey for the triumphal entry (Mk 11:2-3), represents prophetic revelation (14:13-16; pace Anderson 1976: 310), a reader of Matthew could be forgiven for thinking that Jesus was simply presuming on the hospitality of someone he already knew there, a disciple (Argyle 1963: 198), and the response of the host suggests that this might be the case (Edersheim 555).

If the home’s owner had already had the lamb taken for slaughter in the temple, the disciples sent to prepare the Passover would make ready the bitter herbs and other food, bring out the bread and wine already purchased by their host, and perhaps roast the lamb (Lane 1974a: 500; Stauffer 1960: 115-16). Otherwise, two of them would also need to slaughter the lamb in the temple (which merely required being clean, as, e.g., in CD 11.18-21). Since the lambs were being slaughtered continually to accommodate the large crowds, we cannot narrow down the time to the afternoon offering ca. 2:30 p.m. (pace Edersheim 556-57); the three groups of m. Pesaḥim 5:5 may also be suspect as too orderly. Worshipers probably brought lambs continuously (Sanders 1992: 136). Ten to twenty people shared each lamb, gathering together as households for the purposes of the festival (Jeremias 1966a: 47; Reicke 1974: 167).

Whereas supper normally fell in late afternoon, one meal in the “evening” (26:20; cf. 1 Cor 11:23; Jn 13:30) was Passover (m. Pesaḥ. 10:1; t. Pisha 5:2; b. Pesaḥ. 107b; Jeremias 1966a: 44-46; cf. b. Ber. 9a), starting after sunset around 6 p.m. (Stauffer 1960: 115); likewise, Jewish people customarily sat for normal meals, but by this period normally reclined at banquets (e.g., Sifre Deut. 41.2.5; t. Ber. 4:20; b. Ber. 37a, 42b-43a), including Passover (m. Pesaḥ. 10:1; b. Ḥag. 14b; Pesaḥ. 108a; Ex. Rab. 20:18; cf. Daube 1963: 45), in typical Greek fashion (e.g., Ep. Arist. 183; Plato Rep. 2.372D; Mart. Epig. 3.30.1; Athenaeus Deipn. 1.18ab; Jeremias 1966a: 48-49; Horsley 1981: 9; idem 1982: 75); Luke is explicit that this is a Passover meal (Lk 22:15). Men would normally recline on their side, supporting themselves by their left elbow; the couches were arranged so that one’s head was nearest and one’s feet furthest from the table (Cary and Haarhoff 1946: 96; Brown 1970: 551). When women dined in the same room, they would sit (Dupont 1992: 98-99).

Because traditions like those that developed into the Passover liturgy probably remained fairly stable, it is likely that the celebration included most of the following elements: The father or host offered the blessing for the festival and the first cup of wine (m. Pesaḥ. 10:2);

Second, even some who now claim to follow Christ may ultimately betray him (26:21-25). Scripture indicated that the Son of Man’s destiny included betrayal, but this did not relieve from responsibility the particular betrayer, who acted from personal choice (26:24). Jesus’ “woe” (cf. 18:7) that the betrayer would have been better left unborn resembles both biblical (Job 3:3-26; Jer 20:14-18) and Greek (e.g., Hom. Il. 18.86-90; 22.481; Od. 8.312; 18.79; Contest of Homer and Hesiod 315, end; Eurip. Daughters of Troy 636-37; perhaps Hom. Il. 3.40) lamentations; other Jewish teachers also uttered such sayings; for example, if one’s first words after waking are not from Torah, “it would have been better for him if the afterbirth in which he lay had been turned over his face, and he had never been born and beheld the world” (ARN 29A, trans. ; cf. Lev. Rab. 35:7). “Better never to have been born” was a pronouncement of frightful judgment (b. Qidd. 40a; Urbach 1979: 1:253; 1 Enoch 38:2; 4 Ezra 7:69; 2 Bar. 10:6; 2 Enoch 41:2; Gk. Ezra 1:6, 21; cf. perhaps Sib. Or. 3:310). The woe to “that man” might contrast Judas with the “son of man” whom he betrays, underlining the heinousness of betraying a fellow human being. In any case, Matthew clarifies Mark to show that Jesus here foreknows the specific betrayer (26:25).

The language of interchange between Judas and Jesus is significant. In contrast to Jesus’ true disciples who consistently address him as “Lord” (e.g., 26:22), Judas calls Jesus “Rabbi” (26:25); although “my rab” and mari, “my lord,” may have been interchangeable in popular parlance, the Matthean nuance here is significant (cf. Bornkamm 1963a: 41): Judas regards Jesus only as a teacher. Also significant is Jesus’ roundabout manner of reply (26:25), characteristic of responses given to his opponents on that night (26:64; 27:11). (Judas’s greeting “Hail” in v. 49 may likewise link him with those who ridicule Jesus in 27:29 — Gundry 1982: 537.)

Yet Judas would not alone betray Jesus; the betrayal of all the disciples serves as a warning to Matthew’s community about the weakness of potential disciples, despite their own disclaimers (26:33, 35; 26:69–27:10). The joyous occasion of Passover here becomes a sorrowful one (26:22; cf. 17:23; 18:31; 19:22) through the announcement of betrayal (more like the solemn Samaritan Passover, merely repeating the exodus rather than celebrating liberation — cf. Jeremias 1966a: 205; cf. also Pesiq. Rab Kah. Sup. 2:8, but this may be ad hoc explanation of a tradition). By dipping his hand with Jesus in the bowl containing the sauce of bitter herbs (26:23), the betrayer had shown himself a treacherous person indeed; rising against one with whom one had eaten violated the sanctity of tradition (cf. Ps 41:9).

Third, Jesus’ body and blood provide a new covenant, the ultimate act of redemption (26:26-30). Disciples who experience redemption freely by God’s kindness must not forget the great cost of that redemption; Jesus had become the new Passover lamb.

Excursus: The Context of the Last Supper

Some have compared the Lord’s Supper to pagan cult meals (e.g., Bousset 1970: 131) or suggested that the hellenistic sacramental meals were read back into the Jewish last supper tradition (Bultmann 1958: 153). Some (cf. Moffatt 1938: 170) have drawn connections with the Greco-Roman cult of the dead (e.g., CIL 6.911; ILS 4966 in Sherk 1988: 234; Plut. R.Q. 86, Mor. 285A), which honored departed ancestors;

Greek associations (sometimes burial clubs or guilds) regularly met for common meals (Angus 1925: 127; Wilken 1971: 280-81; Theissen 1982: 131-32; Willis 1985: 14), normally dedicated to the association’s patron deity but celebrated with attention on the banquet itself (Willis 1985: 47-61). Some associations gathered for specifically religious purposes (e.g., Cic. De Senec. 13.45; Horsley 1981: 5-9; Cole 1984: 36-37), and cultic meals were also standard in pagan festivals (e.g., Burkert 1985: 107). Greek meal practice did affect contemporary Jewish banquets, including Passover customs (Bokser 1977: 6-7; cf. Pines 1974), hence they did indirectly influence some customs at the last supper; in some respects the hellenistic church also assimilated the Lord’s Supper to, and interpreted it in the light of, hellenistic meals (cf. Justin 1 Apol. 66; Tert. Apol. 39.15; Pliny Ep. 10.96).

Others have compared Qumran meals (Fritsch 1956: 123-24; Cross 1980: 235), which may themselves evince some hellenistic influence (cf. Culpepper 1975: 168; Donceel-Vouté 1993). Some think these meals followed rules for sacerdotal purity (Gnilka 1961; Gärtner 1965: 10), were sacrificial sacred meals (Delcor 1968; cf. 1QapGen 21.20-22), were annual and sacramental (Groh 1970), or foreshadowed eschatological meals (Harrison 1969: 32-33; Schiffman 1979; idem 1983: 191-210; Simon 1967: 77-78; Harrington 1980: 41-42). But the sacral character may be no more than in most Jewish meals (Sutcliffe 1960c; Schiffman 1983: 191-97), and the eschatological interpretation also remains unclear: 1QSa’s messianic banquet could simply evoke the common practice of the community rather than the latter evoking the former. The meal in 1QS 6 is “pure” because consecrated by the community and the priestly blessing, but not the ceremonial food; the text merely indicates that a newcomer cannot partake until he has surrendered his own wealth and labor to the community, preventing free handouts.

The proposed parallels between the Qumran meals and the Lord’s Supper are not strong: the claim that only men participated at each is based on inference about Qumran practice in general, not just meals, and an inference about the last supper that probably would not have obtained in house churches. The leader presiding over the meal and blessing the bread and wine fits all Jewish meals (see below) — like most other characteristics of the meal (Van der Ploeg 1957; Driver 1965: 506-16; Lach 1958). Certainly special rules obtained in the Qumran order (1QS 6.4-5, 20-21), but their meals merely show that a concept related to the sacred meal was already present in Palestinian Judaism and that one need not appeal to geographically distant parallels to explain the Lord’s Supper. One may also compare the sacred communal meals of the Therapeutae (Philo Cont. 82).

Some think that Jesus’ final meal resembles more the regular weekly gatherings of the haburoth (Oesterley 1925: 167), whose Pharisaic purity rules, some think, may have bound them to eating especially among themselves (see Neusner 1984: 27). Among schools of sages in Palestine, study companions often ate together as well (ARN 18, §40B), though perhaps partly to save time (ARN 14, §34B). But again, are meals of associates or students of the sages distinctive enough as meals to warrant special attention in connection with the last supper? Palestinian Jewish families probably celebrated the more common weekly Sabbath Kiddush very early (Oesterley 1925: 79, citing t. Ber. 5:1);

Jeremias contends that Essene meals are more different than similar and that haburoth meals are undocumented (Jeremias 1966a: 29-36). Many of the Passover traditions are undoubtedly early, although some scholars have overstated the case (Segal 1963; Finkelstein 1942-43; Wright 1966: 417; Safrai 1974/76c: 809; at the opposite end, Stemberger 1987 doubts that any of the Pesach Haggadah predates A.D. 70). Many of those features of the last supper that are distinguishable from regular Jewish meals parallel the Passover meal, a correspondence not surprising in view of the night on which Jesus was betrayed.

On the grounds of multiple attestation (Paul as well as the Synoptic tradition) Jesus’ paschal language is among the most secure elements of the Jesus tradition (Sanders 1993: 263; cf. Bornkamm 1969: 135; Pesch 1991). Paul’s claim that he “received” and “delivered” to the Corinthian church the Lord’s Supper tradition (1 Cor 11:23) reflects Jewish language for the passing on of traditions (Jos. Ant. 13.297, 408; m. ʾAbot 1:1), also intelligible in a broader milieu (Socrates Ep. 20; Cornutus in Van der Horst 1981: 168-69; cf. Sen. Ep. Lucil. 40.3; Conzelman 1975: 195-96), though the hellenistic world rarely joined the terms together (Metzger 1955: 17-18n.84). Other Jewish teachers would claim to receive a halakah from Sinai even though it was mediated via other authorities,

The last supper was a symbolic act, like the triumphal entry and Jesus’ act in the temple (Sanders 1993: 263). Whether the specific act of breaking bread foreshadowed Jesus’ death is difficult to decide; it was customary for the head of the household to break bread so he could distribute it (14:19; cf. Safrai 1974/76c: 802). (Not merely nuclear families but associations of people could band together for one Passover offering — t. Pisha 9:1.) Interpreting the elements of the Passover feast (the bread, bitter herbs, etc.) was a standard part of paschal tradition (Jeremias 1966a: 56), but instead of using standard explanations Jesus interprets the two elements (the two elements representative of food and drink in blessings at Jewish meals) in a strikingly new way. Some scholars even suggest that early Christians recited the Passion Narrative in this context as a new Passover Haggadah, recalling Paul’s phrase: “proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (F. F. Bruce 1971: 113; idem 1972a: 16).

Whatever this early tradition preserves, therefore, likely tells us much about Jesus’ view of his mission. Jesus elsewhere spoke of the pouring out of martyrs’ blood (23:35) in terms of death, guilt, and impending judgment, a theme Matthew develops further in 27:4, 25. But even if the Gospel tradition also plays on the atoning value of martyrs’ deaths (especially attested in 4 Maccabees) here, Jesus’ death appears as more than that of a mere martyr in this earliest tradition. Jesus’ probable allusions to Isaiah 52–53 (e.g., Cullmann 1956b: 64-65; Gundry 1982: 528; pace Hooker 1959: 80-82) tell us a great deal about how Jesus viewed his own death.

Even more probably, many of Jesus’ words (such as “flesh,” “blood,” “poured out”) suggest sacrificial terminology, especially since crucifixion itself technically required no blood (Romans sometimes fixed criminals to crosses with rope; Jeremias 1966a: 220-22);

That the bread “is” his body means that it “represents” it;

The head of the household, who had been reclining, would now sit up to bless (give thanks for) the bread before the meal; after the meal, Jesus interprets the third or fourth cup (see, e.g., Cohn-Sherbok 1981; though Sigal 1983 argues for the second).

After what was normally a few hours of discussion, here perhaps abbreviated, the household sang the remaining hymns of the Hallel, undoubtedly the “hymn” to which the text refers (26:30),

Jesus’ Turmoil and the Disciples’ Weakness (26:31-46)

Cf. Mk 14:27-42; Lk 22:31-34, 39-46; Jn 13:36-38; 18:1. Brown 1994: 12 may well be right that the demands of narrative forced the Passion Narrative’s omniscient narrators to fill in details. He allows that the tradition probably knew that Jesus “cried out to God when facing death (Heb 5:7)”; but he thinks that the early Christians fleshed out the authentic references to the “hour” and the “cup” with language from biblical psalms and the style of prayer they had learned from Jesus (Brown 1994: 12, 225). Yet the substance of the prayer is more than plausible; it meets the authenticity criterion of embarrassment.

Matthew’s narrative suggests that even in events that seem as hideous and disastrous as Jesus’ arrest and execution seemed to the first disciples, God may be preparing his sovereign purposes. Nevertheless, disciples have their part to play — and in this case, all of the disciples failed, despite their protestations to the contrary (26:31-34); indeed, in their failure to be ready for the test by prayerfulness, they had failed it before it arrived (26:40-45). Matthew acknowledges that his Lord is exalted (28:18), and hence no longer depends on his friends the way he did at Gethsemane. Yet is it possible that Matthew still intends his community to hear the plaintive cry of the Lord of harvest in this narrative? The sleep of the first disciples would speak forcefully to a community needing to be more involved in their Lord’s agendas.

The disciples may have descended into the Kidron Valley by an ancient stairway (since recovered, Yamauchi 1972: 106; Jn 18:1) en route to the Mount of Olives. This “mountain” had three summits parallel to Jerusalem for about two and a half miles on the east; it rose three hundred feet higher than the elevated Temple Mount. The narrative may refer specifically to the central summit, for which the title was often used (Mount Scopus being the northern and the Mount of Offense the south-southwestern summits; Brown 1994: 125). As David prayed for deliverance from a betrayer on this mountain (2 Sam 15:30-31), this site would provide a suitable location for an analogous prayer by David’s descendant (Davies and Allison 1997: 565).

First, Jesus knows better than his disciples do what his disciples are made of (26:31-32, 34, 41). Jesus thus tells them what it will take for them to succeed in his mission (26:41) — for testing must come (26:45-46; Tert. Baptism 20, in Jeremias 1964b: 73). When Jesus warns that they would “fall” because of him (cf. Is 8:14), he probably refers to apostasy (cf. 5:29-30; 13:41; 16:23; 17:27; 18:6-9). Despite Peter’s objection that he would not stumble (cf. Test. Job 4:2; 5:1), Jesus responds that Peter will do so, and three times at that (26:34; cf. Jn 13:36-38)

Despite all this, Cicero (De Divinatione 2.26.56) may well be right: “Is there any time, night or day, that cocks do not crow?” The evangelists are imagining the early hours of the morning before dawn; nothing more definite can be concluded.

Still, in a local area, a rooster might let its owner know how long remained until dawn and other times (Babrius 124.12-18). In any case, the denial would happen before daybreak — that is, this Peter who was vigorously protesting that he would never deny Jesus was already on the verge of renouncing him.

The scattering of the flock when the shepherd was struck (26:31) stems from Zechariah 13:7, which in its immediate context could refer to false prophets (Zech 13:2-6), but given the singular and the shepherd image of Zechariah 11:9-13, to which Matthew alluded in 26:15, he may understand it messianically. Then again, he may simply use the language of Zechariah 13:7 to point out that sheep are quickly scattered without a shepherd (cf. Jn 16:32, which, lacking the citation, probably testifies to a common tradition of this shepherd logion). The Qumran community did, however, interpret this text eschatologically (CD 19.5-9; Longenecker 1981: 49), perhaps testifying to a broader eschatological reading in Matthew’s day of which he could make apologetic use. In either case, it illustrates the principle that a flock scatters without its shepherd (see comment on 9:36, where the allusion is probably to Ezek 34:5, with which Matthew probably connects Zech 13 midrashically). It was understood that when leaders fell, human troops usually scattered (e.g., Arrian Alex. 4.27.2; 4.24.4-5).

Yet in promising to go to Galilee (which normally has positive associations in Matthew — 4:12, 23; 10:5) after he has risen (28:7, 16), Jesus promises a restoration beyond their apostasy (26:32; cf. Petersen 1978: 76);

Second, one’s best intentions (26:33, 35) cannot protect one in the time of severest testing unless one has learned how to seek God in prayer (26:41). The three disciples worthy of special censure here (26:37, 40) are the three who had witnessed his glory on the mountain (17:1), including the disciple most adamant about his faithfulness (26:33, 35, 40; cf. Kelber 1976b: 47). The willing “spirit” here refers to the purpose of the human spirit versus the weakness of mortal humanity (in contrast to Paul’s usual contrast between God’s Spirit and human flesh; e.g., Rom 8:4-13; but cf. 2 Cor 7:1); cf. the similar statement in Phaedrus 5.10.8 (an old dog weak not in spirit but in strength) or admonitions to discipline the body that it might submit to the mind (Sen. Ep. Lucil. 8.5).

The language of the passage probably suggests an application for the whole eschatological period in which disciples are tested. Jesus had already warned his disciples to pray lest they succumb to the test, a warning applicable to all disciples (6:13); his admonitions to “watch” likewise apply to all disciples subsequent to the first ones (24:42-43; 25:13).

Guards who fell asleep on duty (cf. 28:13) and so allowed the entrance of enemies were severely punished (e.g., Eurip. Rhesus 812-27; see comment on 24:42). The disciples’ failure reminds the reader that they were people of flesh and blood just like subsequent disciples (Acts 3:12-13; Jas 5:16-18), and that Jesus called and transformed ordinary people — who sometimes failed him. (This may facilitate reader identification with these disciples.) That they would fall asleep on this night of all nights underlines their failure. Most people in the ancient Mediterranean were asleep by midnight (Ovid Metam. 10.368), but this was a special night. A household had to finish eating the Passover lamb by midnight (m. Pesaḥ. 10:9) or earlier (Jub. 49:12), but the disciples may have reached Gethsemane as early as 10 p.m., a few hours after sunset. Even the big meal should not have put them to sleep so quickly, however; it was customary to discuss God’s redemptive acts for a few hours after the meal before singing the Hallel (t. Ketub. 5:5; Lane 1974a: 509). Some Jewish tradition suggested that those who fell asleep to the point that they could not even answer thereby dissolved their Passover group — which the disciples inexplicably did by the time Jesus had finished praying (Daube 1956: 342). If staying awake on this one night was a test (as in initiatory rituals in many cultures, Eliade 1958: 14-15), the disciples failed it. In prayer with him this one night, Jesus offered a better rest (11:28).

Third, God’s call may lead his followers through unbearable pain (26:37-39, 42, 44), as it did with Jesus. The disciples’ disobedience provides a foil that illumines the contrasting obedience of Jesus. By describing his sorrow as “to the point of death” (language familiar from Jonah 4:9), Jesus underlines the intensity of his grief, that of itself the very grief could kill him (Meier 1980: 323).

The “cup” refers to Jesus’ sufferings and death on the cross (20:22; 26:27-28; cf. 27:48), possibly alluding, like his interpretation of the cup at dinner, to the Hallel’s “cup of salvation” (Ps 116:13; cf. Gen. Rab. 88:5).

Jewish texts occasionally designate God as “my Father” (Sir 23:1, 4); probably the corporate emphasis in extant prayer texts indicates why it is no more frequent than it is. “Our Father” becomes quite common in Jewish prayers; Jeremias 1971: 62-65 thus excludes too much Jewish material calling God “Father.” He also lacks adequate proof that “Abba” generally stands behind Jesus’ use of “Father” in prayer in the Gospels, but Mark (14:36) demonstrates that, in this case at least, “Abba” does stand behind our extant translation “Father” (26:39). Perhaps like a good scribe, Matthew translates Mark’s Semitic terms into the vernacular (Goulder 1974: 23), but this does not obscure the basic sense of intimacy that stands behind the more formal and acceptable Matthean expression. Because the Greek-speaking church must have gotten “Abba” (Rom 8:15; Gal 4:6) from the Aramaic-speaking church, who would not have learned it from Jewish culture in general (note the paucity of examples; see Witherington 1990: 217-18) and probably not have dared to use it regularly without the authority of Jesus, most scholars concur that Jesus sometimes used the informal and intimate title “Abba” (Mk 14:36; Martin 1982: 34-35).

Fourth, no matter what their suffering, God’s servants must obey the mission he has given them (26:39, 42, 44). Jesus had lived his life in filial obedience to his Father’s will; now he chooses the Father’s plan over his own desire.

Jesus’ submission to the Father’s final authority is evident in his call to his disciples to arise to face the betrayer (26:46); regardless of what opponents of the early Christians claimed, their Messiah acted fully in line with the Father’s will. From this point forward, passive verbs depicting Jesus’ suffering and actions done to Jesus dominate most of the Passion Narrative (Perrin 1976a: 91); having labored until his hour, he now relinquishes his destiny to the Father. Yet even in his surrender, he remains in majestic control; only his own words (26:64) will allow his accusers to condemn him (cf. Rhoads and Michie 1982: 88). The religious establishment had complained that Jesus ate with “sinners” (9:11), but at this point in the Markan and Matthean narratives the reader first hears Jesus apply the title to leaders of the Jerusalem establishment (26:45; cf. Judas in 27:4).

The Betrayal (26:47-56)

Cf. Mk 14:43-52; Lk 22:47-53; Jn 18:2-12; 1 Cor 11:23 probably also refers to the “betrayal” to the chief priests (Fee 1987: 549), although “handing over to the Romans” was also dramatic enough that it could figure in the tradition (e.g., Mk 10:33-34). (Harvey 1982: 24-25 thinks “handing over” in Rom 4:25 reflects Is 53:12 LXX, which the Gospels may have used if they had no information to contradict it; but in context Is 53 reads more naturally as if God handed the servant over.) In this passage, everyone who was close to Jesus — from Judas to the disciples who planned to follow to the death — either betrayed or abandoned him to his opponents. As Jesus faced injustice alone as a victim, he also showed his disciples the depth of his love: when not another human being stood with him, their Lord nevertheless continued in the Father’s plan to save them.

The guards Judas led to Jesus probably belonged to the Levite temple guard (hence “not in the temple” — 26:55; cf. Lk 22:4, 52; Jn 7:32; Jeremias 1969: 210) and the armed auxiliary police who worked for them (Lane 1974a: 524); the captain of the temple guard was a high officer who on occasion even rose to the office of high priest (see Reicke 1974: 148).

They came armed as if Jesus were a lēstēs (26:38, 55), usually translated “robber,” the term Josephus most frequently applies to those many viewed as revolutionaries, such as those who violated the temple (Moule 1965: 119; cf. Mart. Pol. 7), perhaps a “social bandit” (e.g., Malina and Rohrbaugh 1992: 157). They did not understand that Jesus’ real threat was quite different. Their secretive capture resembled the way authorities had long dealt with guerilla revolutionaries (Stauffer 1960: 119). In the context of the whole Gospel, however, their assumption appears ironic: Jesus had compared them with “robbers” who invited God’s judgment on the temple (21:13).

First, disciples may betray Jesus with the very sort of acts that outwardly symbolize devotion (26:47-49). Matthew must report the betrayal, which is an integral part of the Passion Narrative; yet one may guess that he also drew from this account moral instruction for his audience. Persecution often presented disciples an opportunity to betray others in their own interests (e.g., 24:10).

Brown 1994: 255 is correct that we cannot historically establish or refute the historicity of Judas’s kiss; but it does make sense. Except when obscured by clouds, the moon would illumine the countryside during Passover (on moonlight’s adequacy, cf., e.g., Virg. Aen. 7.9); yet others around Jesus, the shade of olive trees, and the importance of getting the right person immediately (before resistance or flight could allow his escape) demanded that Judas specify the right person (cf. Gundry 1982: 537). Yet visibility was probably less to the point than trying (however vainly) to make the expedition look more peaceful than it was; the authorities needed to capture mainly the ringleader and wished to minimize confrontation and bloodshed (cf. Lk 22:38).

The emphatic point of the narrative, however, is that it was a disciple who betrayed Jesus. One’s current commitment is no guarantee of one’s perseverance, for even disciples can become traitors (24:10). Disciples often greeted rabbis with a kiss as a sign of intimacy and respect (e.g., Lane 1974a: 525; Wilkinson 1978: 126; Anderson 1976: 323).

Second, disciples often wish to fight the kingdom’s battles the traditional mortal way or not at all (26:50-54, 56). Protecting Jesus was a paramount issue, yet Jesus did not want his disciples to protect him (cf. 5:44). For Matthew, Jesus came to conquer by way of suffering on the cross, not by way of wielding the sword. Yet it is easier, in human terms, for disciples to fight for their cause than simply to embrace martyrdom for it without resistance; once they realized that martyrdom without resistance was the price of following Jesus, the disciples fled (26:56).

Jesus was voluntarily doing the Father’s will (26:39, 42), and the Father still would have granted him twelve legions of angels (one for himself and each disciple) had he asked;

That a disciple (named only in John) cut off the high priest’s servant’s ear probably does not imply that he hoped to render the man ceremonially unfit for service in the temple (cf. Daube 1960: 59), nor that he was satisfied with such disfigurement (cf. Diog. Laert. 9.5.26). Rather, the disciple was probably aiming for a more substantive target (like the man’s neck) and missed because he had no practice striking at what rapidly became a moving target.

Third, Jesus confronts injustice but submits to Scripture’s plan (26:54-56). The authorities act unjustly as well as in political cowardice, and Jesus does not hesitate telling them so (26:55). But Scripture dictated his own mission, so he submitted to the Father’s will (as in 4:1-11). Jesus’ model of confronting injustice contrasts starkly with that of his disciples (cf. 5:39; 26:51).

The Political and Religious Leaders versus Jesus (26:57-68)

Cf. Mk 14:53-65; Lk 22:54-71; Jn 18:13-24. The trial scene, heavily laden with ironies, exemplifies Jesus’ teaching about the hiddenness of the kingdom (13:31-33). Apart from those who share the correct presuppositions, the kingdom’s presence remains ambiguous to those it confronts (e.g., 26:64). Ironically, the kingdom remained obscure even to many of those providing religious and political leadership to others.

Excursus: Historicity of the Trial Narratives

Some have assailed the historicity of the “trial” that occurs here (e.g., Winter 1961; idem 1964; Cohn 1977: 98; Grant 1964; Zeitlin 1962); others have shown that the arguments against authenticity are at best inconclusive and at worst fallacious (Goppelt 1964: 84ff.; Sherwin-White 1978: 34ff.; cf. idem 1965; Catchpole 1971: 271; Corley 1992; cf. Keener 1998). Although elements of the later Mishnaic code of legal conduct are probably early (Abrahams 1924: 129), and I cautiously employ some of the material below, it is tenuous to dispute the historicity of the earlier Gospel accounts of the trials (with traditions more contemporary than those on which the Mishnah is based) based on conflicts with those rules. First, the Mishnah reports Pharisaic idealizations of the law in its own day, at a period over a century later than Jesus’ trial (Brown 1994: 357-63; Blinzler 1959: 138-43), and the council in Jesus’ day was hardly dominated by Pharisees (cf. Anderson 1976: 326; pace Cohn 1977: 105).

Second, rabbinic sources themselves indicate that the aristocratic priests did not always play by the rules (cf. Klausner 1979b: 337; see my excursus on “high priests” at 26:1-16); in fact, because elements of proper legal procedure were standard throughout Mediterranean antiquity, the Gospel writers may expect us to notice significant breaches of procedure. Unless one presupposes that the aristocratic priests (like later rabbis) would follow careful procedure even in explosive political situations — which is unlikely — an argument from Mishnaic technicalities does not work against the Gospel narrative (cf. Sanders 1985: 317). Sanders puts the matter best (1992: 487):

The gospel accounts do present problems, but disagreement with the Mishnah is not one of them.… The system as the gospels describe it corresponds to the system that we see in Josephus. The trial of Jesus agrees very well with his stories of how things happened.

Further, the Matthean/Markan “trial” account probably represents what was more technically a preliminary inquiry in which Jesus’ interrogators would be even less likely to regard the rules as constraining (cf. Jn 18:19-24, 28).

While one cannot prove by historical means the veracity of the contents of the trial narrative at this remove, skepticism that the first followers of Jesus would have had access to such information (e.g., Sanders 1985: 299) also assumes too much. Sources for the trial narrative may derive from Joseph of Arimathea (Mk 15:43), from connections within the high priest’s household (Jn 18:15-16), others who later became disciples or sympathizers (Jn 19:39; cf. perhaps Acts 6:7), or Jesus himself (cf. Acts 1:3); it is unthinkable at least that the early Palestinian tradition would have neglected the witness of anyone like Joseph who could have had contacts present at the trial. That leaks from within the Jerusalem council occurred on other occasions in the first century (Jos. Life 204; among other peoples, e.g., Corn. Nep. 4 [Pausanias], 5.1; 14 [Datames], 5.3) does not prove that such a leak occurred in Jesus’ case, but it does challenge the claims of those who suppose such a leak implausible.

Even though Mark may have crafted the material in his own words and for his own purposes (see Donahue 1973: 98-99; idem 1979: 62-65; Dewey 1976: 97-100), substantial evidence remains that he accurately preserves “the decisive elements of Jesus’ examination before the Sanhedrin in their correct order” (Schubert 1984: 401; see 385-402). Some believe that the Romans would have acted without some sort of session from leaders of the municipal aristocracy (Cohn 1977: 109; Flusser 1988: 589), but this does not fit the Roman manner of delegating preliminaries to local officials.

Together the cleansing of the temple (which would offend the Sadducean aristocracy) and crucifixion by the Romans suggest the intermediary step of arrest by the priestly authorities; as Sanders observes, conflict with the Romans, crowds, or Pharisees would not explain subsequent events, but the continuing enmity of the chief priests against Jesus’ followers (e.g., Acts 4:1-7; 5:17-18; 9:1-2) points to the priestly aristocracy as the main source of opposition (1985: 286).

Anti-Semites have often exploited the negative portrayal of the aristocracy in Jesus’ trial; but their abuse of this narrative attributes to the whole Jewish people blame for the behavior of a political elite other Jewish minorities also complained about (see the excursus on “high priests” on 26:1-16). Despite Matthew’s denunciations of Pharisees elsewhere, he adds them to his passion narrative only in 27:62; the miscarriage of justice he recounts is attributed only to the sociopolitical elite.

Most people in mainstream Jewish society presumably respected their law teachers, elders, and priesthood as their spiritual leaders (representatives of these groups constituted the Sanhedrin — see the excursus on the Sanhedrin above), but here most of these spiritual leaders prove too hostile to Jesus to concern themselves with legal ethics. Although exceptions historically existed,

First, the high priest and council ignore proper judicial procedures (26:57-61). Although we know the rules primarily from later Pharisaic sources that would not reflect the views of most aristocratic priests (the rabbinic portrait of the Sanhedrin itself is severely distorted; cf. Doeve 1954: 37-38, 46), parallels between extant Jewish and Roman laws (cf. Cohen 1966) suggest that some procedures the leaders ignore here were standard. Given the reports about the aristocratic priesthood from their Pharisaic and Essene enemies, the improprieties of the priesthood should hardly surprise us. Arguments based solely on the reports of a group’s enemies are weaker than evidence from the group itself, but in the absence of other evidence should weigh more than arguments from pure silence. The rest of history testifies that power and dogmatic certainty that one’s cause is right prove a deadly combination for those who do not feel constrained to play by the rules, for whom the supposedly just end justifies the means, no matter how religious they may be.

To the extent that the later sources provide a reliable picture of legal ethics that the Sanhedrin would have respected, probable breaches of legality include the following. First, judges must conduct and conclude capital trials during daylight (m. Sanh. 4:1; cf. Roman practice in Aul. Gel. 14.7.8); this may, however, explain a late, brief, more official meeting around 5:30 a.m., before conducting Jesus to Pilate (cf. 27:1; Lk 22:66-71). Further, trials should not occur on the eve of a Sabbath or festival day (cf. m. Sanh. 4:1; Yom Tob 5:2; t. Yom Tob 4:4; Philo Migr. Abr. 91; cf. Blinzler 1959: 143-44), but officials may have regarded this as an emergency situation, and a festival was the one sort of occasion when one could most gather the Sanhedrin, if members came from outside Jerusalem (Reicke 1974: 145; but as I argued above, the Sanhedrin was largely drawn from the municipal aristocracy). Even Pharisaic interpretation supported executing an extraordinary offender on a pilgrimage festival to warn others not to repeat the crime (m. Sanh. 11:4; t. Sanh. 11:7; Dalman 1929: 98; Lane 1974a: 529-30); the offenders included those regarded as false prophets, among others (Hill 1979: 52).

Other possible breaches of legal custom occur. Pharisaic rules also required a day to pass before issuing a verdict of condemnation (m. Sanh. 4:1; Wilkinson 1978: 131-32). Still, the Sadducees may generally have preferred speedier executions than the Pharisees thought appropriate (cf. m. Mak. 1:6; the Sadducees did prefer stricter punishments — Jos. Ant. 20.199). Further, the Sanhedrin should not meet in the high priest’s palace (Cohn 1977: 98 cites b. ʿAbod. Zar. 8b; Sanh. 41b; Shab. 15a); they would soon move, however, most likely to their normal meeting place (probably what rabbinic sources call “the chamber of hewn stone”) on or near the temple Mount (m. Midd. 5:5; Sanh. 11:2; Jos. War 5.144; Wilkinson 1978: 86-87; Brown 1994: 350).

Most obviously, Jewish law opposed false witnesses. The biblical penalty for false witnesses in a capital case was execution (Deut 19:16-21), and later Jewish ideals, at least, continued to regard this penalty as appropriate (Jos. Ant. 4.219; 11QTemple 61.7-11; m. Mak. 1:7; t. Sanh. 6:6; Sifre Deut. 190.5.1), as did Roman law (Ferguson 1987: 51).

On the claim in 26:61, see comment on 24:1-3.

Second, when the truth is revealed, it often merely increases the opposition of the powerful predisposed to reject it (26:62-68). The high priest stood (following biblical legal custom — see Trites 1977: 187; but cf. Stauffer 1960: 123) and gave Jesus the opportunity to defend himself, as Jewish law demanded (26:62), but Jesus chose to remain silent (26:63; cf. Is 53:7; Stauffer 1960: 125-26; Argyle 1963: 207).

Here the high priest explicitly asks Jesus if he claims messianic authority (26:63). Some doubt that the high priest would have asked such a question, skeptical that Jesus’ ministry had hinted at this role (Sanders 1985: 297) or supposing that such a charge would have been invented by later Christian dogmatics (Bousset 1970: 73). But given his earlier hints in public parables in Jerusalem (21:37-39; Kingsbury 1986: 87) and the charge on which Pilate executed him (27:11, 29, 37), some question of this nature is not unlikely. Nor is the answer incongruent with Jesus’ self-identity reflected in actions like the triumphal entry and act in the temple on one hand, and eschatological teaching about the Son of Man (see Introduction) on the other.

When Jesus responds, “You said,” he may speak ironically for them (cf. Soph. Antig. 576-77). Jesus’ answer is probably “affirmative in content, and reluctant or circumlocutory in formulation” (Catchpole 1971: 226; see also Marshall 1990: 86). Jesus’ response may not be so much evasive (cf. Cullmann 1956b: 28) as implying that the title was more their choice of wording than his (cf. F. F. Bruce 1972b: 176n.45). Such a response forces his questioner to take responsibility for the claim (26:25; 27:11) — something the priestly aristocracy will ultimately refuse to do (27:43). In a sense, the narrative has allowed the high priest himself to reveal Jesus’ identity correctly — though ironically and unintentionally (Hooker 1983: 101-2; cf. Jn 11:50-52). The need to delay the messianic secret now ended, Jesus reveals publicly that he is God’s Son (again, 27:54).

By declaring that “from this point forward”

Such a claim might have been offensive, but at least later the Pharisees, careful to err on the side of leniency in capital cases (contrast the Sadducees — Jos. Ant. 20.199), would not have construed it as technically blasphemous (m. Sanh. 7:5).

One could reasonably argue that the Gospels emphasize a Sanhedrin trial so that Jesus dies for religious rather than political reasons (Fredriksen 1988: 117); but the admission of claiming Messiahship in some form would naturally lend itself to the Roman charge of treason; Roman authorities would understand the messianic category in political terms. A messianic claim could be construed as a threat to Rome (cf. Sanders 1985: 55; Schneider 1984: 414); if the Gospels do portray the leaders of the aristocracy as seeking a charge that was more religious than political, their portrait may err by portraying these leaders as more pious (at least outwardly) than they actually were at the trial, rather than less so (a portrait that may fit Matthew’s understanding of his own community’s opposition; cf. 27:6).

By whatever means they construe his words as blasphemy, the high priest stands to rend his cloak as custom required when one heard blasphemy (m. Sanh. 7:5; cf. b. Moʿed Qaṭ. 25b-26a; Sanh. 60a; p. Moʿed Qaṭ. 3:7, §§7-8; Sanh. 7:6, §7), following a traditional behavior for mourning (e.g., Gen 37:34; 44:13; 1 Esdr 8:71; 1 Macc 2:14; 4:39-40; 5:14; 11:71; ARN 4, 25A; Char. Chaer. 1.3.4; 3.5.6; 3.10.3; 5.3.4; 7.1.5; Sifre Deut. 43.3.8; p. B. Meṣ. 2:11, §1; Sanh. 2:1, §4);

If he followed what later records deem standard procedure, Caiaphas may have “opened the voting by asking the members to give their verdict.” Again, if the court followed the procedure known to us from later sources, in capital cases the clerk began with the votes of the youngest, probably so that they would not be intimidated by their elders (m. Sanh. 4:2; Stauffer 1960: 126; Blinzler 1959: 135; but cf. p. Rosh Hash. 2:6, §9; seated in a semicircle: Ex. Rab. 5:12); but such formality is improbable at this mock trial.

Whatever else may have been illegal, the physical mistreatment of a prisoner certainly was; this behavior would have shamed Jesus as well, for such treatment was inappropriate to the status he had claimed. By ridiculing his prophet status (26:68) — challenging him to fulfill a child’s game of guessing — they may imply that they have condemned him as a false prophet according to the rules of Deuteronomy 18:20 (Hill 1979: 52). His very condemnation and likely imminent execution disproved for them his prophecies about the temple and his own imminent enthronement (26:61, 64; Gundry 1982: 547; Brown 1994: 575, 580). The informed reader, by contrast, sees Jesus as the truest prophet of all (Deut 18:15-18; cf. Mt 2:16; 4:2; 5:1; 17:1-5), meaning that his accusers merited judgment (Deut 18:19; cf. Mt 5:22). Yet when they treat Jesus as a false prophet, unrequited blows to the cheek (cf. 5:39; 26:53) demonstrate Jesus’ integrity to the audience familiar with his teachings (contrast 23:3); earlier prophets had also been struck on the cheek for their prophecies (1 Kings 22:24; Is 50:6; cf. Mt 5:12; b. Soṭa 13a). Jesus’ opponents mock him “as a false prophet at the very moment when his prophecy about Peter is being fulfilled” (26:69-75; Donahue 1976: 78-79 on Mk 14:65-66).

Because mocking follows both the Jewish and Roman trials in Matthew (following Mark), most scholars think that one account (usually the Jewish) was created from the other (usually the Roman). But the details of the abuse are different in each case, and all four Gospels include the Jewish abuse (Brown 1994: 569); all four also have the Romans mock Jesus as “King of the Jews” before or after the trial. It is thus possible that both mockings have a historical basis, and that Mark has assimilated them to one another and arranged them in such a way as to draw attention to the shameful parallel between the behavior of the religious leaders and the Romans (Brown 1994: 572).

The political and religious leaders condemn Jesus for blasphemy for claiming simply what God had claimed about him all along (3:17; 17:5; cf. Kingsbury 1983: 151). From Jesus’ condemnation as “God’s Son” (26:63-68) to the centurion’s recognition that Jesus really is God’s Son (27:54), the dominant christological title will be “King of the Jews” (so Kingsbury 1983: 151). This title constitutes a double irony in that those who apply it intend it ironically, but the Gospel tradition ironically inverts the irony so that they have described him accurately (cf. 21:5; 27:11, 29, 37).

The First Response to Betrayal (26:69-75)

Cf. Mk 14:66-72; Lk 22:54-71; Jn 18:25-27. The burden of proof rests heavily against those skeptical of the historical substance of Matthew’s account in this passage. The earliest Christians, facing hostility from their environment, would not likely have created a story so unflattering to themselves as the abandonment of Jesus by his disciples or denial of Peter (Overman 1996: 369).

Matthew anticipates this section in 26:58 (cf. the “courtyard” in 26:58, 69). A reader unfamiliar with the Gospel tradition might find in Peter’s “following” (4:20) a sign of hope that at last one of the male disciples will honor Jesus; but most of Matthew’s community has probably heard the stories of Peter’s betrayal before and instead would react with some apprehension at the forthcoming further example of apostasy.

The primary point of the denial account in Mark is to warn the community about apostasy in the face of persecution (Taylor 1952: 572), and given the threat of severe opposition, the same naturally holds for Matthew as well. By placing two responses to betrayal side by side, Matthew also points out how disciples should respond to their failures in discipleship. Peter wept with remorse (26:75); Judas killed himself (27:5). Only the former was able to return to Jesus.

First, Peter cared more about his own life than about his Lord’s honor (26:69-74) — behavior unacceptable for a disciple (10:32-33). Peter sought to be a disciple; while Jesus’ enemies “gathered” (cf. 13:40), Peter “followed” (cf. 4:19; 8:22), but from a distance, to see the “end” (telos — 26:58).

If Daube is right (1969), Peter’s denials may increase in intensity. His first denial may simply be an evasion designed to save his life (26:69-70); Judaism considered such an evasion acceptable. (In contrast to Mark, however, Matthew’s report of even this first denial is plainly public.) Peter’s second denial involves a false oath and is a direct denial (26:72), and his third involves much swearing (26:74). Nearly all Jewish hearers would regard the final form of denial, if it would shame one’s allegiance to God, as wrong.

That Peter’s speech inadvertently betrays him (cf. Judg 12:6) is not surprising.

Nevertheless, the primary significance of Peter’s being a Galilean is that he did not belong to the high priest’s household, having instead followed the Galilean prophet. Judean regional prejudice against Galilee (cf. Davies 1974: 243) probably contributed to the noteworthiness of this observation. Peter had hoped to follow a Messiah whose kingdom did not involve the cross (16:22); thus he proved unprepared when the time came to take up his cross and follow the Lord (16:24; cf. Dewey 1976: 111). That Peter illustrates Jesus’ teaching about discipleship in 16:24-27 indicates Peter’s function as a paradigm for disciples: only by counting the cost of following Jesus, only by watching and praying, will disciples be ready when the hour comes for them to share the sufferings of their Lord for his name’s sake.

Second, the exposure of disciples’ weakness is cause for repentance (26:75; cf. 26:31-32), not sorrow unto death (27:5; cf. 2 Cor 7:10). By juxtaposing two responses to betrayal (26:69-75 with 27:1-10), Matthew forces his audience to confront the appropriate ways to address human failure as disciples. Peter’s example warns Matthew’s audience to be ready for testing; but it also summons those who have stumbled to return to the kingdom way, and calls upon the community to show mercy to those who have already stumbled but wish to return to the way of Christ (cf. 18:10-35).

The Other Response to Betrayal (27:1-10)

Like Peter, Judas is guilty of apostasy, but unlike that of Peter, Judas’s apostasy was premeditated. Whereas Peter’s remorse leads to repentance, Judas’s leads to terminal despair. This narrative also further indicts the heartlessness of the priestly leadership, who value laws of ritual purity more highly than their God-given responsibility as shepherds of other lives among their people. Lest modern Christians be tempted to conceive these leaders in ethnic rather than political and religious terms, we should take note how many churches today seem more concerned about petty church rules than about the life-and-death needs in the communities around them, and recall that the various groups competing for religious leadership in Jesus’ day probably could have justified more of their rules from Scripture than modern religious leaders tend to do. As one scholar opines, “it seems that past attempts by Christians to interpret the Passion in such a way as to condemn modern Jews exemplify the very attitudes the Passion-narratives were designed to challenge” (Wilkinson 1978: 144). Finally, Matthew emphasizes in this narrative that even to the smallest details, the events of the passion fulfilled God’s purposes previously revealed in his Scriptures.

Matthew reworks his traditions to emphasize his case. Although this narrative contains prior tradition (cf. Acts 1:18-19), Matthew has clearly reworked it to emphasize a point found in this form in neither Markan nor Johannine traditions. Judas’s end (27:3-10) is full of Matthean vocabulary, following the liberty he could take in putting an oral tradition into writing (cf. Van Tilborg 1972b: 83-84).

Although Matthew does not create the story, he may fill in its gaps on the basis of biblical prophecy (Hill 1972: 348). Matthew quotes Zechariah 11:13 as if yoṣer (“potter”) could be read ʾoṣer (“treasury”), revocalizing to provide a new interpretation, as we know later Jewish interpreters often did (Longenecker 1975: 150; cf. Burkitt 1907: 125; Lindars 1961: 118). If the priests prevented the money from making it to the “treasury,” Scripture would be fulfilled when it reached the “potter”; “One way or another the prophetic Scriptures must reach fulfillment” (Gundry 1982: 556; cf. Mt 5:18). In its original context (with which Matthew appears familiar), the prophecy referred to how cheaply (at the price of a slave) Israel had valued their shepherd, the prophet (or perhaps God himself), and how he would therefore give them a foolish shepherd so that they might learn by contrast how benevolent the prophet (or God) had been to them (Zech 11:4-17; cf. 13:7-9; Edgar 1958: 50).

By appealing to “Jeremiah” rather than to Zechariah, however, Matthew makes clear that he intends his biblically literate audience to link an analogous passage in Jeremiah (32:6-14) and to interpret them together (as in the gezerah shewah of Mk 1:2-3, which Matthew recognizes and modifies in Mt 3:3).

The betrayal of innocent blood is central to the narrative. The phrase “innocent blood” reflects substantial LXX influence (it appears there fifteen times; Gundry 1982: 554).

According to the story line, Judas gets what he deserves. Jewish law prescribed for false witnesses the penalty they had wished to inflict on others (Deut 19:16-21; 11QTemple 61.7; Ferguson 1987: 51; cf. Sifre Deut. 190.5.1); since the chief priests refuse to serve the cause of justice, Judas has to see to his own execution (Meier 1980: 338-39).

The hanging may well recall the story of Ahithophel’s end after his betrayal of David (2 Sam 17:23; Meier 1980: 338; Gundry 1982: 553; Brown 1994: 656-57), which fits some other David/Jesus parallels in the pre-Matthean passion tradition (Davies and Allison 1997: 565-66). But in any case the absence of Judas in either Christian or anti-Christian accounts thereafter confirms that historically he met a speedy end. The account of Judas’s speedy death and the “field”

The priestly aristocracy is also guilty. Matthew especially plays on the hypocrisy of the chief priests — willing to pay out blood money for Jesus’ capture, willing to allow Judas’s suicide,

Hanging oneself in a place (Diog. Laert. 6.2.61), especially in a sanctuary (Temple Chron. of Lindus in Rhodes D 60-93 in Grant 1953: 12), would defile it, and while Judas left the temple to perform his own execution, the leaders’ blatant unconcern for justice or for his life contrasts starkly with their attention to purity on details. By sentencing Judas to take care of his own guilt, they have unconsciously sentenced themselves before God (12:34-37). They do the same by acknowledging that the money is in fact “blood money,” and thus that they have paid for the murder of an innocent man (Patte 1987: 377). Although the authorities were careful how they used the blood money (cf. Deut 23:18’s prohibition of wages from prostitution), most ancient readers would still assume that its curse remained on them (see Test. Zeb. 3:1-3, where judgment for use of blood money obtains despite precautions).

Pilate and others who allow the wrong judgments of others participate in their guilt (27:1-2). By framing Judas’s end with the account of Jesus being brought before Pilate (27:1-2, 11), Matthew contrasts Judas not only with Peter but also with the courageous Lord he had betrayed. The theme of shedding innocent blood connects Judas, Pilate, the high-priestly authorities, and the people (27:4-6, 24-25): like Pilate (27:24) the priestly officials wish nothing further to do with the situation (27:4), and likewise understand that the blood was innocent (27:6). The modern Western dichotomy between personal and societal responsibility was foreign both to Matthew and to his Jewish contemporaries.

The “taking counsel” in the morning (27:1) may represent a second hearing of sorts that actually would carry the semblance of legality (also Mk 15:1; Reicke 1974: 146; the syntax here probably reflects a Latin judicial expression, consilium capere — Carson 1984b: 559). Local authorities typically interrogated the prisoner first, preparing the legal charge before bringing the accused before a Roman provincial official (Dodd 1961: 91n.1); in the same manner, the Roman administration permitted the Sanhedrin to charge and hand over one suspected of treason (Winter 1961: 27).

Ancient readers would not be surprised that the authorities brought Jesus “early,” and hence would not be as skeptical as some modern commentators about the eventful night that had preceded that morning. Winter doubts that so much could have occurred in as little time as the Gospel record indicates (1961: 7), but the events fit fairly well into ancient chronology. Like other Roman officials and patrons,

Political Expediency versus Justice (27:11-26)

This segment of the narrative has less to do with Jesus than with Pilate; for those reading or hearing Matthew, it is not Jesus but the character of Pilate that is on trial.

But the narrative does not try Pilate alone: the insistent people, blindly following their blind religious leaders (27:20; cf. 15:14; 23:16), embrace the moral responsibility Pilate seeks to evade. (Perhaps in view of his community’s conflict with Jewish authorities or the greater responsibility adhering to those who should know the most, Matthew portrays Pilate as less guilty than Jesus’ own people. Washing hands most obviously constituted a repudiation of responsibility for innocent blood in Jewish tradition, as in Deut 21:6-7; Ps 26:6; Is 1:15-16; Ep. Arist. 306; cf. Gos. Peter, fr. 1:1.)

The responsibility of freeing Jesus or consenting to the Sanhedrin’s condemnation of him fell to Pilate. That Jesus appeared before Pilate

That Jesus was crucified by the Romans is likewise inevitably historical;

Excursus: The Sanhedrin and the Sword

The local aristocracy would prepare the charges and suggest action, but Pilate had to pronounce sentence. The governor held the power of life and death in a province (Jos. War 2.117; cf. b. Shab. 108a). Some scholars think that the Sanhedrin could execute capital sentences (Winter 1961: 10-15; Smallwood 1976: 150), but this does not fit what we know of the way the Romans administered their provinces. Acts 23:1-10 constitutes a preliminary inquiry to formulate a charge (22:30; 23:28-29), not evidence for capital authority (pace Winter 1961: 75-90), even though profanation of the temple (cf. 21:28-29) was the one charge for which the Romans permitted local executions (cf. O’Rourke 1971: 174; Sanders 1992: 61).

Some rabbinic tradition traces the loss of Jewish courts’ capital authority to A.D. 70 (Sifre Deut. 154.1.1; b. Sanh. 37b), other tradition to no later than A.D. 30 (p. Sanh. 1:1, §3; 7:2, §3; Safrai 1974/76e: 398 also cites b. Shab. 15a; ʿAbod. Zar. 8b; cf. Abrahams 1917: 73). Although Josephus does not report any precedents unfavorable toward Jewish autonomy, this loss of sovereignty (for so it would be viewed — Ep. Jer. 14) must have begun much earlier. Although Rome delegated the right of the sword to Herod and other client rulers,

When we find that capital power was the most jealously guarded of all the attributes of government, nor even entrusted to the principal assistants of the governors, and specifically withdrawn, in the instance of Cyrene, from the competence of local courts, it becomes very questionable indeed for the Sanhedrin.

The Sanhedrin could sentence offenders and recommend them for execution, but apart from violating the temple few Jewish religious charges would receive an automatic capital sentence from the Romans (e.g., the case of Jesus ben Ananias; Brown 1994: 363-72).

As in normal judicial procedure (e.g., Char. Chaer. 5.4.9; Apul. Metam. 10.7; t. Sanh. 6:3),

Pilate preferred political expediency to justice, but the political leaders of Jesus’ own people appear even guiltier. The narrative portrays those who brought the charge as quite insistent that Jesus be executed, and this behavior is hardly surprising given the situation portrayed. What is instead striking is Pilate’s reticence to pronounce sentence; if no Roman citizens were involved, one would expect most governors to act quickly at the local aristocracy’s request (cf. Harvey 1982: 17; Sanders 1993: 274; for an impoverished provincial condemned to death without trial, cf., e.g., Apul. Metam. 9.42). The Gospels show that Pilate did indeed act quickly, but they also report his reluctance to do so.

Thus some scholars question whether the Pilate of the Gospels is “in character” with the Pilate known to us from other sources (Winter 1961: 54-55, 60; Borg 1987: 179). Pilate executed people without trial, and excessive use of capital punishment ultimately cost him his office (Philo Leg. Gai. 302; Jos. Ant. 18.88-89; Sanders 1993: 274).

Yet this reticence need not be unhistorical. As corrupt as the later governor Albinus was, he dismissed Jesus ben Hananiah from further punishment (after a scourging reportedly bared his bones) once he took him to be insane, hence harmless (Jos. War 6.305). Philo and especially Josephus are ill disposed to report good of Pilate (cf. Brown 1994: 697; Krieger 1995; Thatcher 1995); they seem to have felt that the unrest in Judea was better blamed on deceased prefects like Pilate (once supported by the corrupt Sejanus, still despised, e.g., in Juv. Sat. 10.66, 76, 89-90, 104; Phaedrus 3, prol., 41-44; cf. also Brown 1994: 694 on Philo Flacc. 1; Leg. Gai. 160-61) than left with the Judeans themselves. Even as governor, Pilate seems to have been quite unpopular (cf. rumors circulating in Lk 13:1 and Bailey 1980: 75).

Still, the narratives go to great lengths to emphasize that Pilate cooperated with Jesus’ execution against his own preference, and this emphasis is understandable for apologetic reasons. Minority sects often validate themselves through reports of praises by those respected among their oppressors; those writing in socially delicate situations must also show proper deference to officials. Thus, for example, Josephus repeatedly excuses Roman rulers’ motives; for instance, Titus wished to spare the temple, but some soldiers failed to cooperate (War 6.254, 258, 260-66), or Titus allowed his soldiers to torture Jews only for good reason (War 5.449-51). The Epistle of Aristeas likewise defends the Ptolemaic ruler’s motives against the Jews (Ep. Arist. 14), and Josephus claims that Ptolemy Philadelphus praised Jewish law (Apion 2.45-47). In the same manner, early Christians commending themselves to an audience in the broader Roman world might wish to exonerate the Roman prefect (cf. Sanders 1985: 298; Cohn 1977: 326-27) or even cite in their own defense Roman officials’ reticence to condemn them (e.g., Acts 13:12; 18:14-15). Matthew probably writes for a largely Jewish-Christian rather than Gentile audience, but nevertheless has ample reason to emphasize the guilt of Jewish rather than Roman leaders whom he views as predecessors of his own community’s opponents. Matthew may use historical tradition yet emphasize what best fits his purposes.

Historically, Pilate may have had good reason for political concern if he erred in judgment. Philo notes Pilate’s patron, Sejanus, for his anti-Jewishness (Philo Flacc. 1). If Sejanus was executed on October 19, A.D. 31 (Stauffer 1960: 132; Lane 1974a: 556-57n.34; cf. Sherk 1988: 75-77, §40), some premonitions of his impending weakness might have been felt a year and a half earlier at the more likely time of Jesus’ trial near Passover of A.D. 30. (Some, e.g., Jewett 1979: 29, prefer a trial in A.D. 33, but it seems more problematic on other grounds.) Such premonitions are admittedly at best a guess rather than a direct inference from our sources, which, unanimously hostile to Sejanus, suggest that most of those who disagreed with him in Rome would have been more circumspect than to say so. More clearly Pilate, like most provincial officials (see Reicke 1974: 138, 175), was probably politically ambitious and hence could ill-afford bad reports about himself (cf. Malina 1993: 115-16). In contrast to many of his peers in office, Pilate was only an equestrian, and that left him especially vulnerable apart from Sejanus’s patronage (on that order, see Jones 1970: 134-40). More to the point, Pilate had incurred the hatred of the Jewish people (e.g., Jos. War 2.169-77; Ant. 18.55-62), and on some other occasions he had backed down to pacify them (Philo Leg. Gai. 301-2; Jos. War 2.171-74; Ant. 18.59). Thus Pilate was not only cruel but, like many bullies, fearful of exposure to those in authority over him (Winter 1961: 53-54).

If anything, this situation would probably require Pilate in time to become more rather than less cooperative with the more powerful of his subjects (cf. Jn 19:12-13); failure to prosecute a potential revolutionary, accused by the leaders of his own people, could lay Pilate himself open to the charge of maiestas (Blinzler 1959: 236; Smallwood 1972: 169). Even the suspicion of treason could be fatal under Tiberius, and despite Sejanus’s patronage he likely would not risk it.

Fortified through Gethsemane, Jesus now faces death heroically for his people. The hearing was swift not only because Pilate was unconcerned with justice, but because Jesus refused to defend himself, probably in submission to his Father’s plan, though this did not reduce the perpetrators’ responsibility (18:7; 26:24; Acts 2:23; 4:27-28; cf. Esth 4:14; Is 10:5-19). According to Roman law, a defendant who refused to make a defense had to be assumed guilty (Lane 1974a: 551; cf. Appian R.H. 11.7.41); Roman officials typically offered “a defendant three opportunities to respond before convicting by default” (France 1985: 389, following Sherwin-White 1978: 25-26), and Pilate offers Jesus at least two here (27:13). It is no wonder, therefore, that Pilate is amazed by the silence (27:14), an amazement that characterizes some other pagans in Jewish martyr stories (4 Macc 17:16) — and may suggest that Matthew links Jesus’ opponents with the enemies of his people. From a literary perspective, Matthew can underline Jesus’ heroism: such astonishment of judges characterizes Jewish accounts of defiant martyrs who — in contrast to their judges — value God’s kingdom more than their lives (Stanton 1974: 36); others also praised courage in the face of death (e.g., Plut. Sayings of Spartans, Anon. 35, Mor. 234AB).

Pilate could not evade responsibility by passing it off on someone else. Pilate’s only way to avoid the situation is to put forward Jesus as the one to be freed at the paschal amnesty. With others (e.g., Cohn 1977: 166), Brown 1994: 814-19 doubts the adequacy of any of the proposed analogies, hence (819) the custom itself, though it is multiply attested in the Gospels (793-95).

Later Roman law dictated that judges should not ignore laws, decrees, or custom (legibus … constitutionibus … moribus — Justin. Inst. 4.17). Nevertheless, Roman provincial officials were not bound by “precedents of their predecessors or local customs” (Ferguson 1987: 50);

Why would Pilate have sought to release Jesus? Possibly because it was safer to release Jesus, the “so-called Christ” (27:17, 22), than alternatives like Barabbas, who, like those ultimately executed with Jesus, was a “robber” (27:38, 44; Mk 15:7),

Jesus’ contemporaries shared the guilt of his execution (cf. 23:30-36). Perhaps because the high priests have reported Jesus’ popular appeal along with the charge, Pilate gambles that the people will prefer Jesus to Barabbas; if so, his hope is disappointed. Although Jesus’ following may have been large, the high priests represented the temple system respected by most local and foreign Jews, and they could more easily inflame a general mob in their favor, by mob pressure silencing any of Jesus’ core supporters who might be present. Ancient literature is replete with examples of masses being easily swayed by leaders (e.g., many who voted for Aristides’ banishment allegedly did not know the charge, Corn. Nep. 3 [Aristides], 1.4), including by these priests (Jos. War 2.237-38, 316-17, 321-25; cf. 2.406), and being fickle in the populist favor they bestowed on various figures (Tac. Ann. 2.41; Hist. 1.32, 45; 3.85; Ps-Phocyl. 95-96; Philo Embassy to Gaius 120; Jos. Life 87, 97, 143-44, 313-17, 333; Livy 31.34.3; Lucan C.W. 3.52-58; Corn. Nep. 10 [Dion], 10.2; 13 [Timotheus], 4.1; 1 Sam 18:16; 25:10; 2 Sam 5:2; 15:6).

On a literary and theological level, Pilate may be offering that particular generation of Israel the “two ways,” one of life and the other of death (7:13-14; cf. Deut 30:15-19). Nevertheless, the apparent inconsistency between the crowds that favored Jesus and those who opposed him may have less to do with the Gospel writers adjusting the traditions (cf. Sandmel 1978a: 39) than with their failure to explain the diversity of crowds in their traditions more thoroughly (including diversity based on locales, above). Although this lack of differentiation seems prejudicial to modern readers, understanding a literary device may increase our familiarity with their technique: ancient writers, especially those influenced by the chorus tradition of Greek drama, often allowed a corporate body to speak as if in unison (e.g., Virg. Aen. 11.122-31; Dion. Hal. 6.10.1; 6.87.1; Acts 4:24; cf. 1 Sam 11:4; 2 Sam 5:1-2).

Finally, Matthew underlines in obvious ways that the crowds shared the guilt for Jesus’ execution — though he also refuses to let Pilate absolve himself from guilt as easily as he desires. Pilate, who hands Jesus over to the crowds’ wishes, is no less guilty than weak-willed Zedekiah, who hands over Jeremiah in Jeremiah 38:5. By accepting the bloodguilt on themselves and their children, however (cf. 2 Sam 3:28-29), Matthew’s crowds directly fulfill Jesus’ warning in Matthew 23:29-36, thereby inviting the destruction of their temple at the end of the generation, in their children’s days. They ironically invite a curse against themselves (cf. Jer 42:5).

The Romans torture Jesus. Pilate decrees the sentence, as his position required him to do (27:26). A Roman court had to pronounce the method of execution, which for sedition in the provinces was normally crucifixion; the sentencer normally declared, “Ibis in crucem” (You will mount the cross) (Blinzler 1959: 238, citing Petron. Sat. 137.9; Plaut. Mostell. 3.2.63, §850). That Pilate “delivered” him up to carrying the cross fits customary language (Char. Chaer. 4.2.7).

The preliminary scourging here (27:26) is more serious than the maximum thirty-nine lashes administered by synagogue communities (10:17; cf. 2 Cor 11:23)

Probably stripped and tied to a pillar or post (Plaut. Bacchides 4.7.25; Artem. Oneir. 1.78 in Blinzler 1959: 222; see similarly m. Mak. 3:12),

That Pilate “delivers” Jesus up (27:26) to the soldiers (perhaps foreign auxiliaries) links him to Judas and the chief priests, who had also “delivered” Jesus over (26:48; 27:2-3; cf. Patte 1987: 376); far from escaping responsibility, Pilate forms the next link in the chain of guilt in which members of all involved parties participated.

The World Ridicules God’s Son (27:27-44)

Cf. Mk 15:16-32; Lk 23:26-43; Jn 19:2-3, 17-27. Following Jesus to the cross means that disciples follow a road that may quite well cost them their lives physically (16:24); it also means sacrificing their own honor for Christ’s along the way. Ridicule often provided the social backdrop of public executions, especially naked crucifixion, which constituted the ultimate form of shame (cf., e.g., Epict. Disc. 3.26.22; Cic. Pro C. Rabirio 5.10).

This section rings with tragicomic irony (as noticed also by early interpreters, e.g., Cyprian The Good of Patience 7; Cyril of Jerusalem Sermon on the Paralytic 12; ACCS, 226-27). The Roman soldiers mocked Jesus’ kingship (27:27-31), not for a moment considering the possibility that they were abusing a king greater than any the world had ever known. That Jesus submitted to such abuse reminds the reader that power does not function in the kingdom the way it does in the world (20:25-28). In the next section, Jesus bears public humiliation in front of and from the crowds he had come to save (27:32-40). The soldiers drafted a bystander to suffer with Jesus (27:32), a bystander who performed the role disciples should have been performing (16:24). As Jesus participated with humanity in its suffering under injustice in the world, he summoned his disciples to endure the unjust treatment visited on them for his name’s sake (5:10-11). Also, Jesus possibly refused a narcotic meant to dull the pain; he came to embrace the world’s pain, and he would accept nothing less than the full impact of his bloody death (27:34). Further, the crowds invite Jesus to prove his divine Sonship by escaping the death of the cross (27:39-40) — thereby acting as Satan’s final mouthpieces to turn Jesus from his divine mission (4:3-10; 16:21-23). In the final section of this unit, the religious authorities (at the top of the Jewish social order) and the dying robbers (at the bottom) join the crowds in functioning as Satan’s mouthpieces. In Matthew’s narrative world, neither outward piety nor being oppressed necessarily guarantees a heart obedient to God.

The soldiers mock Jesus’ kingship and beat him. Although one would expect to find a larger contingent of soldiers in the Fortress Antonia (Anderson 1976: 335), Pilate brought soldiers with him at Passover and would keep his own temporary residence heavily guarded (hence, “the prefect’s soldiers”). Although speira often means “cohort” (up to 600 troops), it can signify the Roman manipulus, roughly one-third that number (Liddell-Scott loc. cit.), and Matthew probably uses the term loosely here (Gundry 1982: 566).

That soldiers would take the opportunity to taunt a captive for entertainment should not surprise us; although one cannot prove that they did so on this occasion, evidence suggests that such events were not unusual (see Brown 1994: 877; Davies and Allison 1997: 600). Public abuse of prisoners, even adorning one as a king and beating him, occurred on other occasions.

The Gospels reveal Jesus’ status as a servant-king in part by revealing how unlike a king the world thought him to be: if Jewish opponents ridiculed his claim to be a prophet (26:68), Roman ones mock his pretentious claim to royalty (27:29). Syrian or other eastern auxiliaries, who may have predominated here (France 1985: 393; Davies and Allison 1997: 601), but also Romans stationed in Palestine, might be happy to ridicule the notion of a Jewish king — thereby also ridiculing the people among whom they were stationed (Malina and Rohrbaugh 1992: 163).

The “scarlet” robe (27:28) is undoubtedly a faded red soldier’s cloak, which Mark (15:17) and John (19:2) apparently independently describe as “purple,”

Some suggest that the soldiers’ spittle (27:30) may also parody the kiss of homage with which eastern subjects greeted their rulers (Blinzler 1959: 227; cf. Phaedrus 5.1.5), but the spitting comes at the end of the mockery, when they have begun beating him with the rod. Now they are abusing him physically, though the blows remain insulting as well as painful (cf. comment on 5:39; Dupont 1992: 126-27), and spitting was one of the severest expressions of disgust, as well as one of the severest experiences of disgust for its recipient (cf. Num 12:14; 4 Ezra 6:56; 2 Bar. 82:5; Ps-Philo 7:3; 12:4; ARN 35A; 19, §42B; Sifre Num. 106.1.1; Pesiq. Rab Kah. 10:8; Jews would regard Gentile spittle as particularly unclean).

The soldiers must draft a bystander (27:32) to do what the disciples were unwilling to do (16:24). Matthew’s primary point is striking, reinforcing the negative portrayal of the disciples his audience has experienced in his recitation of the Gethsemane tradition. While Jesus suffered for them, his own disciples, who should have borne his cross (16:24), abandoned him, forcing the Romans to impress a foreigner.

Normally a condemned prisoner carried his own patibulum, or transverse beam of the cross, to the site of the execution, where soldiers would fix the patibulum to the upright stake (palus, stipes, staticulum), which they regularly reused for executions.

Given the unlikehilood that the soldiers would simply show mercy to a condemned prisoner, scholars are probably correct to suppose that Jesus was too weak to carry the cross, and that his executioners preferred to have him alive on the cross rather than dead on the way (cf. Goguel 1948: 530-31; Lane 1974a: 562; Davies 1993: 197; Brown 1994: 914). Although soldiers sometimes scourged prisoners en route to the crucifixion, the practice is not mentioned here, probably because Jesus was already scourged (Valerius Maximus 1.7.4; Dion. Hal. 7.69.1; Blinzler 1959: 244), perhaps also because he was too weak already. Since crucifixion sometimes lasted days (Jos. Life 420-21), the quickness of Jesus’ death (multiply attested: Mk 15:44; Jn 19:31) reinforces the notion that Jesus was already quite weak (Klausner 1979b: 353), probably partly from the scourging, perhaps partly exhausted from the Gethsemane experience (26:38) and partly wishing to surrender his own life as quickly as possible (12:40; 16:21; 17:22-23; 20:18-19, 28; 26:26-28). In such circumstances, that the soldiers would have drafted a bystander is not improbable;

Most scholars agree that Simon of Cyrene is a historical figure (Brown 1994: 913). It does not seem simply part of Markan predictions of scripture fulfillment, and Simon does not bear the cross willingly as a mere invention to fulfill a disciple paradigm would (B. Sanders 1995: 56-57). Archaeologists have uncovered the grave of an “Alexander son of Simon,” a Cyrenian Jew, near Jerusalem (Lane 1974a: 563), which would fit the Jerusalem-based Passion Narrative Theissen suggests behind Mark, where Simon’s sons seem to have been familiar (Mk 15:21; Theissen 1991: 176-77; some cite Rom 16:13 for Rome). Given the commonness of names like “Alexander”

Simon’s ancestral ethnicity also remains uncertain. Boykin Sanders (1995: 62-63) makes a reasonable case for Simon’s ancestry being native Cyrenian rather than immigrant Jewish Cyrenian, showing how frequently early Christian narratives designate characters’ ethnicity. Yet at Jerusalem’s festivals, full of pilgrims from other parts of the world (Acts 2:5-11; Jos. War 1.253; Ant. 17.254; Safrai 1974/76d: 898), one might simply identify oneself by one’s place of origin. This would also be true if Simon or his sons remained part of the Christian community (many believe the tradition recalls his name because he became a Christian — e.g., France 1985: 395; Brown 1994: 913) in Jerusalem, which probably traditioned the Passion Narrative (see Theissen 1991: 166-99). Cyrene was as much as a quarter Jewish (Jos. Ant. 14.115-18; cf. Apion 2.44; Caird 1955: 21; Brown 1994: 915), and its Jewish community is well known (Acts 2:10; 13:1; see especially Applebaum 1979; Yamauchi 1992). “Simon” is also a frequent (though not exclusively) Jewish name, but we currently lack adequate evidence to decide whether Simon was of fully Jewish descent or may have been descended from proselytes. Soldiers would march the prisoner through crowds of spectators (Reicke 1974: 185); crowds normally gathered to watch executions, especially if near the city (Morris 1971: 807).

Jesus deliberately endured the full physical pain of the cross. The passion tradition not only employs Simon carrying Jesus’ cross to underline the horrendous failure of disciples to share Jesus’ cross, but it juxtaposes this failure with Jesus’ willingness to suffer. The wine mixed with gall (27:34) may have been intended to dull his pain (cf. Prov 31:4-7). Mark’s “myrrh” (Mk 15:23)

Jesus’ crucifixion by the Romans outside Jerusalem is an “almost indisputable” historical fact (Sanders 1985: 11); Christians would not have invented the crucifixion. The full horror of that mode of execution (e.g., Apul. Metam. 3.9; 6.32; Char. Chaer. 3.3.12) remained vivid enough in the first century that all four evangelists hurry by the event itself quickly, Matthew “disposing of it in a participial clause” (A. B. Bruce 1979: 328). It was established rhetorical practice to hurry most quickly over points that might disturb the audience (Theon Progymn. 5.52-56).

Although some features of crucifixions remained common, executioners could perform them in a variety of manners, limited only by the extent of their sadistic creativity (Hengel 1977: 25).

The specific mention of divided clothing (27:35) may well recall Psalm 22:18 (e.g., Cope 1976: 103), but it can hardly be a mere accommodation to it without historical substance (cf. Freed 1965: 101);

The charge posted above Jesus’ head

A further datum supports the plausibility of the account: on other known occasions a member of the execution squad would carry in front of or beside the condemned a small tablet (tabula) declaring the charge (titulus), the cause of execution (causa poenae), which he might later post on the cross.

Jesus endures the mocking of those present. Jewish people could view mockery, which often accompanied executions, as a final test martyrs had to endure (Boring 1995: 158 cites Asc. Isa. 5:2-3). The “robbers” on either side, one on the left and one on the right (27:38; cf. Jn 19:18), could recall the promise to those enthroned on either side of Jesus (20:23); crowned with thorns (27:29) as “King of the Judeans” (27:37), Jesus had a cross for a throne (as in Mark — cf. Perrin 1976a: 93). That Jesus would be hung between “robbers” is not surprising; the Roman charge against him is that of treason, viewing him as a revolutionary or a “social bandit” (Oakman 1992: 121; cf. 26:55). Because the “robbers” are probably revolutionaries (e.g., Malina 1981: 77) who may have sought to facilitate the establishment of God’s earthly kingdom,

Both lay and aristocratic mockers pass by, perhaps along a road,

The language of the priestly mockers probably also echoes Wisdom 2:18 in the Septuagint: “For if the righteous man is a son of God, God will help him, and deliver him from the hand of those who resist him.” In the Wisdom of Solomon, those who utter these words are the wicked who want to condemn the righteous to death unjustly, because he claims to be a child of God and to have a good future (2:16-20). In other words, by their own words Jesus’ enemies are condemned (Mt 12:37; cf. Lk 19:22). The King of the Judeans refuses to respond (5:39; cf. Is 53:7).

Again irony saturates the narrative: they are right that he cannot save himself if he would save others (27:42). That they offer to believe if he will come down, just as Satan offered him the kingdom if he would bow down, tests Jesus: he can have people’s allegiance if he will just forsake the Father’s way of getting it (26:39, 42). But Jesus himself models the sacrificial life of discipleship for Matthew’s community: whoever wishes to save his or her life will lose it (10:39; 16:25).

Signs at Jesus’ Death (27:45-54)

Cf. Mk 15:33-39; Lk 23:44-49; Jn 19:25-30. The pious priestly aristocrats would not have waited for Jesus to die and may well have left for the afternoon liturgy in the temple (Stauffer 1960: 138). Like Pilate (Mk 15:44-45), they may not have anticipated his death so quickly. Crucified persons could survive several days, depending on their constitution and whether ropes or nails were used (Sen. Ep. 101.10-13; Jos. Life 420-21; Brown 1994: 1222).

Jesus’ suffering elicits a plaintive cry of final dependence on God. Given subsequent Christian Christology, the early church would hardly have invented Jesus’ cry of despair in uttering a complaint about alienation from God, quoting Psalm 22:1 (e.g., Stauffer 1980: 140; Gundry 1975: 203; Jeremias 1971: 189).

That Jesus utters the complaint of the righteous sufferer (Ps 22:1)

The cry does not imply collapse of faith in what he had already prophesied; “my God” implies continuing trust (Kingsbury 1983: 130). Neither for the Gospels, nor necessarily for their sources, do Jesus’ abandonment and despairing “Godforsakenness” (Kelber 1979: 81) necessarily imply doubt of ultimate triumph.

Still, his own people did not recognize what was happening. When some of the bystanders think that Jesus is calling Elijah, the Gospels reinforce the picture that their smug assurance is folly (as in the philosophers’ misinterpretation of Paul’s “deities” in Acts 17:18; cf. Haenchen 1971: 518), although it is hardly unlikely that Judeans might mishear a weakened Galilean’s utterance (Albright and Mann 1971: 350). They may have known the tradition that rabbis in distress sometimes looked to Elijah for help,

Jesus yielded his life for the many (20:28). Whereas the bystanders assume that a misled pietist is calling for help to survive, Jesus has in fact relinquished his life. The wine vinegar

By expiring at 3 p.m., Jesus died close to the official time of the evening lamb offering in the temple, especially significant in a paschal context (m. Pesaḥ. 5:1; Reicke 1974: 166 — though I would argue that the final Passover lambs were being slaughtered the preceding day). Earlier studies argued that because of the position of their bodies, victims of crucifixion eventually became unable to lift their diaphragms and normally died by asphyxiation (Reicke 1974: 187). Some more recent studies suggest that dehydration and loss of blood are more plausible causes (Brown 1994: 1092). In any case (various factors undoubtedly weakened the body, whichever factors ultimately proved decisive in inviting death), Jesus died more quickly than expected (Mk 15:44-45; see comment above). Jesus’ dying “cry” may echo the Greek version of Psalm 22:2, 5, 24 (Ps 21 LXX; France 1985: 400).

God confirms Jesus’ righteousness by signs in nature. But whereas Elijah did not come to rescue Jesus, the sort of signs that Judaism regularly expected to accompany the death of the righteous (because the prayers of the righteous sustained the world)

The darkness (Mk 15:33) could stem simply from heavy cloud cover, but the Gospel writers use it to convey a more profound theological point. For many Jewish people, the darkness would recall the three-day plague immediately preceding the sacrifice of the first paschal lamb (Ex 10:21-23; Wis 17),

As noted above, Jewish hagiography typically listed signs at a righteous person’s decease (Dalman 1929: 220), perhaps in conjunction with the view that the merit of the righteous sustained the world.

Matthew provides an astute theological observation in the raising of dead persons at Jesus’ death (27:52-53): by refusing to save himself, Jesus did save others (27:42). Yet by mentioning only “many” of the saints, Matthew clearly intends this sign merely to prefigure the final resurrection, proleptically signified in Jesus’ death and resurrection (Cullmann 1956a: 168).

The rending of the veil, however, already appears in Mark, probably admitted because it is a “hidden” sign (more public in later tradition such as, e.g., Sib. Or. 8.305). Scholars dispute whether the rending of the veil refers to the inner (cf. Ex 26:33) or outer

Some commentators believe that this description is merely symbolic, perhaps deduced from symbolic comments on fresh access to God. They note that Josephus fails to mention clearly this extraordinary sign (Moule 1965: 127), and that only priests (and a small number of them at that) would be privy to the rending of the veil, which leads one to question how the Passion Narrative’s source would know what happened (Beare 1981: 536). But some rabbinic sources may report a garbled account of a similar tradition, though the evidence is not clear.

The Gentiles present — Jesus’ own brutal executioners — recognize his identity. Whereas his own people had not believed, the supervising centurion

Ironically, the Roman centurion, a participant in Jesus’ torments, recognizes without prompting what the Sanhedrin had denied: Jesus is God’s Son (27:54). Fellow members of Jesus’ own ethnic community ridicule Jesus’ Sonship (27:40, 43) based on a statement they themselves elicited (26:64); by contrast this Gentile persecutor becomes the first person after Jesus’ death to concur with Jesus’ identity announced by God in 3:17 and by Peter in 16:16.

Guardians of Jesus’ Body (27:55-66)

Cf. Mk 15:40-47; Lk 23:50-56; Jn 19:38-42. The identities of the actors in this narrative are significant. Because John’s disciples took great risk and buried their teacher (14:12), the reader may expect at least as much courage from Jesus’ disciples here (Rhoads and Michie 1982: 133). But Jesus’ disciples disappoint us, leaving the task to characters readers would not anticipate apart from having heard the story before.

First, whereas the male disciples feared for their lives and were nowhere to be found, the women followed all the way to the tomb. In that culture women were relegated to a marginal role in discipleship at best, and not permitted to be disciples of rabbis (cf. Swidler 1976: 97-111; Keener 1992: 83-84; Gnilka 1997: 179); but these women had followed Jesus as disciples in whatever ways they could (the rabbis and Matthew both applied “follow” to discipleship — cf. Davies 1966b: 134-35), even ways that would have appeared scandalous in that culture (27:55; cf. Stanton 1989a: 202; Stambaugh and Balch 1986: 104).

This potential for scandal militates against the invention of this tradition by later Christians (Witherington 1984: 117; Sanders 1993: 109); multiple attestation also supports the tradition (Mk 15:40; Lk 8:1-3; Jn 19:25).

Yet the special role accorded women among Jesus’ disciples,

Second, Joseph of Arimathea models one of the few wealthy allies of the Jesus movement (27:57).

Excursus: The Importance of the Burial

If Jesus died at 3 p.m. and Joseph stopped to seek Pilate’s permission, perhaps only an hour remained before sundown and the prohibition of work. Although anointing and washing the corpse was permissible even on the Sabbath (m. Shab. 23:5),

Although reports existed of cultures that did not bury (Sext. Emp. Pyrrh. 3.226-28), burial was an essential duty both in Jewish (Gen 23:3-20; 50:12-14, 25-26; Sir. 38:16-17; Tob 1:17-20; 2:7-10; 4:3-4; 6:14; 1QM 7.2; Acts 8:2; Jos. Apion 2.205, 211; Ps-Phocyl. 99-101) and broader Mediterranean culture (Diod. Sic. 20.84.3; Plut. Nicias 6.5-6; Diog. Laert. 6.2.52; Paus. 1.32.5; Char. Chaer. 4.1.3; cf. Plut. Solon 21.1). Like most of their contemporaries (e.g., Eurip. Suppliants; Diod. Sic. 15.35.1),

The Romans normally preferred having the bodies of condemned criminals rot on crosses (Petron. Sat. 112; Brown 1994: 962, 1208 cites also Phaedrus Fables of Aesop, Perotti’s Appendix 15.9; Hor. Epodes 1.16.48), but Jewish custom prohibited this final indignity, demanding burial even for the condemned by sunset (Deut 21:23; Jos. War 4.317; see further Safrai 1974/76b: 774). The Jewish people may ordinarily have buried condemned criminals in a common grave reserved for that purpose (cf. m. Sanh. 6:5; t. Sanh. 9:8; Daube 1973: 311; Daube 1956: 342; elsewhere, e.g., Corn. Nep. 4 [Pausanias], 5.5), a purposely shameful burial (especially if a Jewish court rather than a Roman one rendered the verdict — cf. Jos. Ant. 5.44; b. Sanh. 47b).

To be sure, one might expect Joseph’s status, like the women’s gender, to afford him some protection; but from an aristocratic perspective, social prominence could invite closer scrutiny and hostility (Phaedrus 2.7.14-15; 3.5.1; 4.6.11-13; Babrius 4.6-8; 31.23-24; 64.10-11; Corn. Nep. 1 [Miltiades], 7.5-6; 2 [Themistocles], 8.1-7; 3 [Aristides], 1.1-5; 7 [Alcibiades], 4.1-2; 12 [Chabrias], 3.3; 19 [Phocion], 4.3). In any case, being associated with one condemned for treason was a dangerous matter (e.g., Herodian 1.13.6; 3.5.6; 4.6.1); though Pilate would not view Jesus as a major political threat, Joseph could not be sure of this in advance, and much of Matthew’s audience may not have known governors’ leniency toward Sanhedrists’ requests. Thus the tradition prefers Joseph’s devotion at this point to that of the long-term disciples, though perhaps Joseph’s status (like the women’s gender) would in the end render him less vulnerable to retaliation. That Jesus was buried is also attested in pre-Pauline tradition known to Paul’s readers in his own and other congregations (Rom 6:4; 1 Cor 15:4). A tradition that admitted Jesus’ execution as a public enemy had no reason to invent for him a burial to remove shame, and had it invented one it might have invented more time for greater honors.

Only Matthew explicitly notes the use of Joseph’s own family tomb, fulfilling Isaiah 53:12, but the tradition behind Mark 15:46 probably presupposes it (pace Brown 1994: 1252); how else would Joseph acquire a tomb so quickly? To bury Jesus in his own tomb (27:60) fits the situation of haste and location, but also suggests a special love normally reserved for family members or those equally esteemed (cf. 1 Kings 13:30-31). Further, archaeological evidence for the tombs in this area may suggest that the tomb belonged to a person of some material substance (Craig 1995: 148). The “newness” of the tomb (27:60; b. Sanh. 47b) may suggest that wealth had come into his family only in his own generation, or that rising prominence had led him to move closer to Jerusalem from another home.

The earliest Christians preserved the accurate site of the tomb. Most Judean burial sites were private family tombs scattered around Jerusalem and elsewhere (Safrai 1974/76b: 779-80). Often these were caves with an opening covered by a large stone rolled in a groove; such stones could not be removed from within (Reicke 1974: 187; Yamauchi 1972: 112; Anderson 1976: 351; cf. m. ʿErub. 1:7; Nazir 7:3; Ohol. 2:4). Indeed, such stones would be cumbersome to move from the outside; people generally moved them only for reburials or new burials (Thompson 1962: 318; cf. examples in Josephus 1982: 283, 393). Because Joseph was well-to-do he probably owned a more ornate tomb, whose disk-shaped stone would be too large (a yard in diameter) for a single man to move even from outside (Thompson 1962: 318-19; Lane 1974a: 581). The practice of secondary burial — in which the corpse rots in an antechamber in the tomb for a year, then the bones are gathered in a box slid into a niche in the wall — is a largely first-century custom.

That Jesus’ followers would forget the site of the tomb (or that officials who held the body would not think it worth the trouble to produce it after the postresurrection Jesus movement arose) is extremely improbable. James and the Jerusalem church could easily have preserved the tradition of the site in following decades (Brown 1994: 1280-81), especially given Middle Eastern traditions of pilgrimage to holy sites (though admittedly evidence for early veneration there is lacking, perhaps because the body was not there — Craig 1995: 148-49, 152). The traditional Protestant “Garden Tomb” is a much later tomb and cannot represent the site of Jesus’ burial;

In contrast to the women and Joseph, the other participants in the tomb narrative have quite different motives: they want Jesus to stay buried lest his promises to reign stir hope. They want the whole Jesus movement to stay buried in the tomb (27:62-66).

But the primary focus of this paragraph and its conclusion in 28:11-15 is the incontrovertible evidence Matthew apparently wishes to present for Jesus’ resurrection. Sealing the stone (27:66) made it impossible for anyone to enter the tomb while the guards slept and then replace the stone (cf. Dan 6:17; Filson 1960: 299). Although Jesus has already left the tomb, the stone is first removed at 28:2. Because Matthew would hardly create a charge that did not exist, we may be sure that the primary polemic against the Christian claim concerning Jesus’ resurrection was theft of the body (cf. Craig 1984; Meier 1980: 356).

Some think that Matthew’s response about the guards is a Christian invention to counter that story (Schweizer 1975: 519);

Brown 1994: 1311 regards as a particularly strong argument against the historicity of the guards that the women could not hope to enter the tomb. But first of all, we cannot be certain that the guards would have prevented the women from paying respects to the body; after all, the guards were there to prevent theft and would hardly suspect these women of stealing the body under their noses. Perhaps they might even help in removing the stone (the real problem for access — Mk 16:3), which the women could not do by themselves; men generally treated women more gently than they treated other men (see comment on 20:20-28; the opening paragraphs under 27:55-66). Second and more important, however, the narrative’s own logic counters this argument. If the guards were posted on the Sabbath as the narrative indicates (perhaps to indict the Sanhedrin’s selective piety again — cf. 27:4-6), the women did not know that the guards were there.

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