As a young boy, still learning how to talk properly, my Sunday school teachers thought I too could take part in scripture recitation. I was given one of the shortest verses, and for several weeks leading up to the big day, I practiced: “Pilate answered, What I have written I have written.”
Recited in my native language, it sounded funny and abstract. At that age, I did not know the context, but I must have impressed the congregation because they clapped for me.
Later, I came to understand what was happening in that moment. Jesus had been crucified, and Pilate ordered an inscription to be written above him: “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” (John 19:19). The chief priests were not comfortable with it. They wanted it revised to read, “This man said, I am King of the Jews” (John 19:21). In other words, do not leave people with the impression that he is what he claimed to be.
Pilate refused. “What I have written I have written” (John 19:22).
And in a way, that moment captures something you begin to notice across the story of Jesus: people often spoke in mockery, anger, or dismissal, yet they were saying more truth than they knew.
The soldiers knelt before him, mocked him, and said, “Hail, King of the Jews!” (Matthew 27:29; Mark 15:18; John 19:3). They meant ridicule, but they were unknowingly declaring the truth.
Those passing by said, “You who would destroy the temple and rebuild it in three days, save yourself” (Matthew 27:40). They mocked his words, not understanding he spoke of the temple of his body (John 2:19–21), and they were already within those three days.
The chief priests and teachers of the law said, “He saved others; he cannot save himself” (Matthew 27:42; Mark 15:31). They meant it as weakness, yet it was the logic of salvation. He would not save himself precisely because he was saving others.
One of the criminals beside him said, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us” (Luke 23:39). Even in mockery, the title slipped out: the Christ.
Earlier, Caiaphas had said, “It is better that one man should die for the people” (John 11:50). He spoke politically, but without realizing it, he was describing the very heart of the gospel (John 11:51–52).
This is why I almost sympathize with those who went back to Pilate asking for a correction. There are moments when I have said something and wished I could clarify it. They must have felt that. But what they called clarification was really an attempt to prevent the truth. Unfortunately for them, what Pilate had written had been written.
Had they paused to consider all that had happened, they might have reached the conclusion of the centurion: “Truly this was the Son of God” (Matthew 27:54).
So perhaps that is one way to approach Easter. Not by defending what we have always assumed, or forcing the story to fit our comfort, but by considering Jesus of Nazareth—what was said about him, even by those who opposed him.
It may be that what you need this Easter is not a new argument about Jesus, but a moment to reflect on what he did, what it means, and the courage to sit with what you have already heard.
To stop editing the inscription, like those who went back to Pilate, and allow it to stand as it is.
Because “What I have written, I have written.”
You can begin with John 19.