be,
then I accomplished God’s holy purpose and cannot be held
accountable for His death.”
The recitation was finished. The meeting had
been called to order in mid-afternoon, but by now the sun had set
and candles had been lit in the great hall by the scribes in order
that they might continue recording all that transpired. Three of
these specially educated men were present. One was seated on the
right of where Caiaphas had positioned himself, and it was his
responsibility to record the arguments upon which acquittal was
grounded, as well as those judges who voted for the same. On the
left sat the scribe who was responsible for recording those
arguments in favor of condemnation and the judges who supported
such a position. The third scribe sat in the center of the hall,
keeping an account of the entire proceeding, with his record
serving as a check and balance for the other two. In case of
dispute or a contention of error, his record overrode the
independent records of the other two.
Caiaphas had presented his argument well, and
it was to his credit that the silence among the members of the
Council was not broken for several minutes.
Doras had not taken his eyes off of Caiaphas
during the whole time he had been speaking. He had, near the very
end of the speech, begun to waver in his certainty that tonight
would be his opportunity to outfox the fox. However, to his great
relief he realized with a flash of insight that the High Priest had
indeed shown his weak spot. He smiled to himself, the glint his
brown eyes like the sparkle of light reflecting off the cold steel
of an assassin’s dagger, and then stood to his feet. The light in
the great hall gave his skin a gray pallor, so that at first glance
he appeared to be but a specter of a man.
He clapped his hands together in a cadenced
fashion and the sudden sound reverberated off the polished marble
walls. The act of defiance was a parody of applause, and it sliced
through the silence, stunning the members of the Council.
“I commend you, Joseph,” he said insincerely,
making his way to the front of the hall. “It seems you have
regained the ability to humble your audience with your words. One
might even liken the ability to that of the cobra—the snake that
flattens its neck into a hood-like form when disturbed or
threatened, thus distracting its intended prey before striking with
its lethal venom.”
He knew he had their attention; he had
managed, by virtue of precise timing and execution, to appropriate
the momentum of Caiaphas’ climax and divert command of the audience
into his hands.
The left scribe began to record his words
after a moment of phlegmatic inertness.
“In spite of your eloquence, I for one am not
convinced.” He paused upon reaching the speaker’s position, then
turned to face the Council, keeping his back to Caiaphas.
“Especially since you neglected to mention the issue of the validity of Jesus’ arraignment before you on the evening of
His arrest,” he added, implying that Caiaphas had neglected to deal
with the salient issue of legality.
“Surely you have not forgotten that it is a
well established, and I might add, inflexible rule of Hebrew law,
that proceedings in capital trials cannot be held at night.”
He turned abruptly to face Caiaphas and saw
the High Priest glance furtively in his father-in-law’s direction.
Annas remained pensive, but said nothing, his eyes hooded, his
mouth tight-lipped. Satisfied that he was on the right track, Doras
pressed his point. “Why was it that you saw fit to question the
Nazarene the same night he was arrested? And why wasn’t that
questioning done here, before the members of the Council?”
The murmuring began anew, and Annas scowled.
His bushy, jet-black eyebrows had come together at the top of the
bridge of his nose and his jaws were clenched tightly together. Had
he been a wolf, he would have been snarling.
Doras was unaware of these changes and seemed
unaware of the potential
then I accomplished God’s holy purpose and cannot be held
accountable for His death.”
The recitation was finished. The meeting had
been called to order in mid-afternoon, but by now the sun had set
and candles had been lit in the great hall by the scribes in order
that they might continue recording all that transpired. Three of
these specially educated men were present. One was seated on the
right of where Caiaphas had positioned himself, and it was his
responsibility to record the arguments upon which acquittal was
grounded, as well as those judges who voted for the same. On the
left sat the scribe who was responsible for recording those
arguments in favor of condemnation and the judges who supported
such a position. The third scribe sat in the center of the hall,
keeping an account of the entire proceeding, with his record
serving as a check and balance for the other two. In case of
dispute or a contention of error, his record overrode the
independent records of the other two.
Caiaphas had presented his argument well, and
it was to his credit that the silence among the members of the
Council was not broken for several minutes.
Doras had not taken his eyes off of Caiaphas
during the whole time he had been speaking. He had, near the very
end of the speech, begun to waver in his certainty that tonight
would be his opportunity to outfox the fox. However, to his great
relief he realized with a flash of insight that the High Priest had
indeed shown his weak spot. He smiled to himself, the glint his
brown eyes like the sparkle of light reflecting off the cold steel
of an assassin’s dagger, and then stood to his feet. The light in
the great hall gave his skin a gray pallor, so that at first glance
he appeared to be but a specter of a man.
He clapped his hands together in a cadenced
fashion and the sudden sound reverberated off the polished marble
walls. The act of defiance was a parody of applause, and it sliced
through the silence, stunning the members of the Council.
“I commend you, Joseph,” he said insincerely,
making his way to the front of the hall. “It seems you have
regained the ability to humble your audience with your words. One
might even liken the ability to that of the cobra—the snake that
flattens its neck into a hood-like form when disturbed or
threatened, thus distracting its intended prey before striking with
its lethal venom.”
He knew he had their attention; he had
managed, by virtue of precise timing and execution, to appropriate
the momentum of Caiaphas’ climax and divert command of the audience
into his hands.
The left scribe began to record his words
after a moment of phlegmatic inertness.
“In spite of your eloquence, I for one am not
convinced.” He paused upon reaching the speaker’s position, then
turned to face the Council, keeping his back to Caiaphas.
“Especially since you neglected to mention the issue of the validity of Jesus’ arraignment before you on the evening of
His arrest,” he added, implying that Caiaphas had neglected to deal
with the salient issue of legality.
“Surely you have not forgotten that it is a
well established, and I might add, inflexible rule of Hebrew law,
that proceedings in capital trials cannot be held at night.”
He turned abruptly to face Caiaphas and saw
the High Priest glance furtively in his father-in-law’s direction.
Annas remained pensive, but said nothing, his eyes hooded, his
mouth tight-lipped. Satisfied that he was on the right track, Doras
pressed his point. “Why was it that you saw fit to question the
Nazarene the same night he was arrested? And why wasn’t that
questioning done here, before the members of the Council?”
The murmuring began anew, and Annas scowled.
His bushy, jet-black eyebrows had come together at the top of the
bridge of his nose and his jaws were clenched tightly together. Had
he been a wolf, he would have been snarling.
Doras was unaware of these changes and seemed
unaware of the potential
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