The Scourging at the Pillar

A meditation

There is nowhere to look but at him. The ground behind is gold — not a room, not a courtyard, just gold, the way the old painters did it when a thing was too important to have a place. And in the middle of the gold, a man tied to a post.

Look at the ropes. His wrists are bound above his head to the pillar. A soldier is kneeling at his feet, tying his ankles, so that he cannot move at all. And they have already put the crown on him — the thorns are in his hair before the scourging has even begun. They are being thorough.

Look at the two with the rods. One in yellow, one in green. One is looking at the other, almost bored, waiting for his turn. They are not angry. That is the worst of it — this is a job, and they are doing it.

And look at his face. Turned aside, eyes down, the way you look when there is nothing to be done but bear it. He is not fighting the ropes. He has let them tie him. He could have stopped this with a word, and he does not say the word.

That is the whole of mortification, and it is nothing to do with hating the body. It is letting yourself be bound when you could break free, for the sake of something you will not explain. He did it for you, at a post, in a place with no walls.

Stand in front of him. Do not look away — that is the one thing you can give him here.