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MORE THAN A GOOD TEACHER #1

WILL JESUS TAKE THE FIFTH?

It's an absolutely time-honored adage in a court of law. There are many, many times when your best bet is to say absolutely nothing. On The Practice, for example, or in any number of celebrated cases, we've all learned a cardinal truth: the accused does not have to take the stand. The burden of proof is on the prosecutor. If defense counsel doesn't feel like he's made his accusations stick, they can rest their case without saying a single word.

I remember an old cartoon strip from the Peanuts archives, where little Linus was running for school president. And he was a ferocious campaigner, with wild, fiery stump speeches. He got up in assembly and ranted and raved: "I will bring down the high and the mighty! I will root out corruption! I will topple those clinging to the tyranny of unwarranted authority and power!" That kind of thing. And Charlie Brown whispers to a friend: "I wonder why the principal looks so pale!"

Linus' sister, Lucy, of course, goes around to kids, shows them a menacing fist, and tells them there are five good reasons why they are all going to vote for Linus. And pretty soon her internal polls indicate that her brother is going to win by a 100% margin. All he has to do now is make no mistakes. Keep his mouth shut the rest of the way. Coast to victory without making any major gaffes.

It comes time for his final speech — and Lucy has told her brother to keep it simple, stupid. Nothing controversial. Nothing harebrained. Don't rock the boat now. And Linus gets up and faces the electorate of fellow first-graders. But he simply can't help himself. "My fellow Americans," he begins. "I feel compelled to speak to you now about a very important subject that is dear to my heart. I want to tell you about ‘The Great Pumpkin.'"

And Lucy and Charlie Brown both cry out in defeated despair. "Ack!!" Linus, you see, has always had a spiritual belief in the existence of a Great Pumpkin which rises out of the pumpkin patch on Halloween night and brings presents to good children everywhere. It's been his failed, one-man cult religion for so long, and he just can't help but say a gospel word now to this captive audience. And that one word about the Great Pumpkin dooms him. He loses the election by a landslide.

Well, it's an amusing memory from the great cartoon past, courtesy of Charles Schultz. But you know, friend, as we begin an absolutely compelling two-week radio series with this title, MORE THAN A GOOD TEACHER, you and I come across a courtroom moment even more riveting. So much is at stake; the greatest question in the universe is going to be thundered out in the halls of final justice. And the Accused has to simply accomplish one thing: say NOTHING! That's it! If He keeps His mouth shut for just one more minute, He dodges not just a fine, or a five-year prison term. He escapes death itself, and goes free!

In his marvelous book, The Day Christ Died, author Jim Bishop digs into history and paints a detailed picture of that early Friday morning when an accused Man named Jesus of Nazareth was dragged before the ruling court of Jerusalem: the Sanhedrin. Even with this hastily called, illegal session — it was supposed to be daylight, and it was still pitch-black outside — everything was in place. Seventy-one members sitting in their three-tiered semicircle. Two clerks, one at each end of the "crescent of chairs." The roll call by the Nasi, going from the high priest and then down through the names of the elders, starting with those who had the most seniority, and then down to the more junior members. And then the formal charge: that this Man who was roped to a guard, and who had bruises all over Him, had proclaimed Himself to be the Messiah, the Son of God. Of course, that was blasphemy, a capital offense.

And this same charge is the one we want to spend the next two weeks considering. Was Jesus, as is still often suggested here in the year 1999, just a great teacher? The author of many wise sayings, like that Sermon on the Mount and the Golden Rule? Was He simply a powerful teacher who could turn a phrase and mesmerize crowds? Was He a magician who could make it look like lame people were walking again? Or was He something more? Was He actually a divine Being, the so-called Son of God? That's our question here, and that's what these 71 rulers of Israel were hoping to disprove.

As Jim Bishop tells the story — and of course, elements of this are found in the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John — the trial followed a form similar to what we still know today. The prosecution called for witnesses, who were supposed to testify one at a time. And there were several of them. They came in, one after another, and gave testimony about things they had heard Jesus Christ say in His public ministry.

But here's the interesting point. This judicial group, the Sanhedrin, as much as they might have wanted to "nail" Jesus as a criminal, still was a professional organization. They weren't willing to be a part of a kangaroo court just to make Caiaphas, the high priest, happy. So they asked the witnesses hard questions. They cross-examined them with lawyerly intensity, and raised counter-arguments, and called into use the same kinds of tactics — "Objection, Your Honor! Asked and answered!" "Objection! Counsel is badgering the witness! Goes to state of mind!" — that we all know from our TV viewing or from reading John Grisham stories.

And as Jim Bishop spins out this courtroom drama, the witnesses' testimonies fall apart. One after the other, their accounts just plain don't hold water. They're either lying, obviously, or don't have their dates straight, or they heard it wrong. One witness is contradicted by the next one, and on and on it goes. And Caiaphas sees that this is turning into a fiasco, right up there with the day Chris Darden asked O.J. Simpson to try on the glove. His case is melting right before his eyes.

They call in more witnesses. No good. They bungle their stories too; they commit perjury on the stand.

Caiaphas switches tactics, finally, and tries to get Jesus on a charge of being a "massith and maddiach," a person who tries to get others to worship idols. That was a charge that even Rome could get excited about, and this is really his last hope. Two final witnesses are brought in to testify, but once again, their stories contradict each other, and this latest line makes Caiaphas look ridiculous. Even some of the Sanhedrin now can hardly keep a straight face.

And finally, with absolutely no further cards to play, with no more witnesses in the back room, no possible hope of a smoking gun, the high priest turns to face the prisoner Himself. He looks right at Jesus, who, up until now, has said nothing. Not a word in His own defense. And raising his voice up a notch, he points a finger at Christ.

"I adjure You by the living God," he demands, "to tell us outright, are you the Messiah, the Son of God?"

And the question hangs there in the early morning air. Seventy-one lawyers lean forward. The priest waits, with the last syllables still ringing off the tiled floor. The failed witnesses, standing abjectly in one corner, perk up their ears.

But a moment later, all of the participants kind of sink back into their seats. Because they realize something. Jesus has already won! He doesn't have to answer this question. Even two thousand years ago, it was an inviolable principle in the courtroom: a person didn't have to testify against himself. There was no Fifth Amendment in place in ancient Judea, but the concept was the same. Jesus didn't have to say yes. And He didn't have to say no . . . which certainly would have ended His public ministry, branded Him a liar and a cheat. He didn't have to say anything.

And if He did the smart thing — say nothing — this case was over. All 71 men knew it. The charges of blasphemy had failed of their own weight. This business of seducing Israel to worship idols . . . that hadn't gone anywhere. All Jesus had to do was to keep His mouth shut for 30 more seconds, like He'd wisely done all morning so far, and even Caiaphas would be honor-bound to let Him walk a free Man. The Sanhedrin knew it, Caiaphas knew it, and as he stood there in his royal robes, he cursed himself with the knowledge that this Man in front of him, this wise, shrewd religious teacher, knew it too. Jesus knew the law as well as anyone — and Caiaphas berated himself with the realization that Jesus was going to stand right there with His mouth shut, and he, Caiaphas, was going to have to hand his arch-enemy a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. It was the dumbest, lowest, most agonizing moment of his entire career as high priest.

And then all at once, the Prisoner spoke. The question still stood before the group: "Are you indeed the Son of God." And what an incredible thing: but Jesus was clearing His throat. And He said just two words: "I am." "Are You the Son of God?" "I am."

With absolutely nothing to gain, and everything in the world to lose — after all, the name of the book is The Day Christ DIED — the Prisoner who doesn't have to answer, who's got the case beat cold by just keeping mum for 30 more seconds, goes ahead and answers. "Are You the Son of God?" "I am."

Why in the world would He do it . . . unless, maybe, just maybe, it happened to be true?