Barabbas

In honor of Holy Week, I'm sharing a short story I wrote a few years back. In listening to the Palm Sunday Gospel, I became interested in the fact that the crowd asked for Barabbas to be released instead of Jesus. But who was Barabbas? We don't really know anything about him. We know he was a murderer, Scripture tells us that much. Other than that, all we know is speculation. Some scholars say he was most likely a revolutionary who had killed a Roman soldier while leading riots against Rome. Others say he may have been a member of the Sicarii, an assassin group. The short of it is that we really don't know much about Barabbas at all. Here's what I imagine the day he was freed to have been like.

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Eight steps deep, four steps wide, and shrouded in darkness -- the room seemed to shrink with every passing minute. My hands and feet were bound with crude chains, attached to the wall. My bed, the only bed I had for the past four days, was merely the cold, hard, dirt floor. My food, stale bread and putrid water, sat untouched, the way they had for the past four days. I had sworn an oath to myself that should I be arrested, I would not cooperate with my captors in any way, even by eating. And so, dirty and bloody from the beatings I had received, I sat on the floor, staring at the rough-hewn door in the wall opposite. I knew what was coming. On Monday I was arrested, Wednesday I had faced the court who had decided my fate, and today I was to die. My crime? Resisting the barbarians who occupied my nation’s land; pagans who did not fear YHVH. 

They had called me a murderer, said I was not fit to live as a citizen of Rome. I had laughed at them. I am no citizen of Rome. I am a Jew, a citizen of the nation of Israel. They are the ones who are not fit to be citizens. But they, with their legions, are more powerful in number than I and my brothers and sisters. I stood no chance. I knew it when I set out on my mission: to assassinate one of their leaders. That is how I find myself where I am, waiting to be crucified. I will not be dying alone though. A pair of robbers are to be killed, and a man who claimed he was at once both Adonai and the son of Adonai. Robbers, a blasphemer, and myself – I who had devoted my life to fighting for the kingdom bestowed upon my people by YHVH.  

Suddenly my cell was flooded with sunlight and I was blinded. I was roughly grabbed; my chains unhooked; and dragged out of my cell. I stumbled to gain my footing – I am a Sicarii, I will not be taken without a fight. My eyes adjusted and I was able to see again. I pulled free of the guard on my right, striking at the one on my left. A third, who I had not heard behind me, grabbed my throat and shoved me to the ground. They re-chained my hands and pushed me forward, onto a platform before a crowd. Looking around me I saw my people, chattering among themselves. Casting my eyes up to the balcony, I saw the man they called Pilate, the “ambassador” from Rome. He was pointing at a man who stood on the platform opposite I; a man hunched over in pain from beatings, with a crown of thorns upon his head. 

Abruptly, a Pharisee; a man I had worked for many times; cried out “Give us Barabbas!” The call, at once, was taken up by the sea of people. “Give us Barabbas! Give us Barabbas!” What did they want with me? I was a Sicarii, feared by many. The clamoring of the crowd died down and Pilate raised his hand. 

“You choose Barabbas over the ‘the King of the Jews’?” he proclaimed in a loud voice. I sneered. Even I knew that the man standing opposite I was no king. The people of Israel have no king, until the savior promised to us by YHVH comes to deliver us from our oppressors.  

The reply that was given shocked me. “We have no King but Caesar!” How could they say that? Caesar was not our king, he was the king of the Romans, the king of our oppression! I did not have time to wonder, for my chains were removed and I was shoved off the platform. 

I found myself standing in the sea of people, a free man once more. I pushed my way to the other platform, wanting to see the blasphemer for myself. I could hear Pilate inquiring what to do with him, and the crowd taking up the chant; “Crucify him! Crucify him!” I was standing in front of him now, looking up at his scarred body. The beatings I had received were nothing compared to the ones they had given him. Dried blood caked his face, as fresh ran from the wounds in his head. How he was still standing, I did not know. I looked at his face, trying to remember who he was. 

The crowd continued to cry out as one; “CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!” He looked familiar, I had seen him before. 

My ears were ringing and the yelling continued to increase; “CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!” 

I looked into his eyes, and he looked into my soul. That chant was the only thing that could be heard now; “CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!” 

He was no blasphemer. He was Adonai, the Son of YHVH, Savior of the Jews. He was the prophesied Messiah, sent to free us from our oppression! They were going to kill Him! “CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!” 

In His eyes, barely open, I saw nothing but love and forgiveness. No pain, no anger, just pure and unmatched love and forgiveness. I fell to my knees, the chanting pounding into my head. “CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!” 

I cried out in anger. They had freed the wrong man! They were going to kill Him! I, Barabbas, Zealot and Sicarii, could do nothing to save Him – for the first time in my life I was entirely powerless. I sobbed as they continued to call for His death. “CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!” 

“Adonai... Forgive me...” I whispered as He was dragged off by the Roman guards. The refrain continued, long after he was removed from my sight. 

“CRUCIFY HIM! CRUCIFY HIM!” 

“Forgive me Adonai...”