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by James McCrea March 25, 2005 Matthew 27:15-26 As you know, we are doing a series today on "The People of the Passion" this year. The idea behind this series is to offer you a closer look at some of the biblical personalities who were involved with the crucifixion in order to help you understand their times and motivations. In my case, I intend to do that by assuming the role of Barabbas - speaking as if I were the man offered to the crowd by Pilate as an alternative victim of crucifixion to Jesus. For me to do that, you need to do your part by exercising your imaginations. In a few minutes, I'll ask you to set aside your awareness that I am a Presbyterian minister in the 21st century and instead imagine for a short time that I am a first-century freedom fighter, who has come to tell you his own story. But before we get to that, I'd like to offer a brief introduction. The name "Barabbas," was actually a patronymic, that is, something similar to a modern last name. Barabbas is a Hebrew term that literally means "son of the father." According to a famous German scholar (Deissmann) there is evidence to suggest that the first name of the biblical character we know as Barabbas was actually Jesus, which, by the way, was a common name at the time of Jesus of Nazareth. You may have noticed that in the translation of Matthew I just read to you. And, given that fact, it adds additional power to the choice Pilate offers the crowd. In essence, he was asking, "Which Jesus would you have me set free? Jesus, the so-called son of the father, or Jesus, the so-called son of God?" In addition, it's important to point out that when Mark and Luke call Barabbas a murderer and John calls him a robber, they are referring to the same thing. They don't mean he was a common criminal, but that he was a political revolutionary who was arrested for trying to lead the people in a revolt against the Romans. It's the same thing Jesus meant when he said (John 10:7-8) that all who came before him were thieves and robbers. That statement has nothing to do with burglary. Instead, it means that all those before Jesus who claimed to be the Messiah were, in the words of one commentator (Weatherhead), "political revolutionaries, prepared to go to any lengths of violence and outrage to secure a political end." The same things is probably true of the two so-called "thieves" who were crucified with Jesus. They were presumably members of the Zealot party, who had hoped to win freedom from Rome and who were condemned to death for sedition when they were finally caught. With that as an introduction, I would now like to invite you to use your imaginations. For a few minutes, forget that I'm here and make believe that you are hearing the words of Barabbas from his own lips: I've always pictured myself as being a savior for Israel. After all, that's what my name Jesus means. I thought I would be the one who would carve a glorious new chapter in the life of God's people through the impossible destruction of our enemies. It was a cause for which I would gladly devote my life and, if necessary, willingly offer my death. If need be, I would be honored to play the dutiful Isaac, allowing myself to be bound and laid on the altar as a sacrifice to God on behalf of my people. Although, if the truth be told, there were times when I wasn't so sure I could believe in God any more. Who could trust a God who claims you as his chosen people and then allows you to be crushed under the boots of the most violent nation on earth? I grew up the son of a synagogue official, so I knew all the stories of God acting in our history. I see by your faces you're surprised someone like me could have had a religious upbringing, but it's true. My father one of the official teachers of the Jewish law, someone who explained the meaning of the scriptures and interpreted them for our times, a position not so different from one of your ministers today. I grew up as part of the religious aristocracy and had the scriptures drilled into my head from the moment I was weaned. I knew them backward and forward, although I often wondered good it did me. When I joined the Zealots, they gave me the nickname "Barabbas" in deference to my father's honored position in the Jewish community, as if all his learning meant anything in the teeth of Roman oppression. My father used to preach patience to me, telling me how God had led our people into exile in Babylon because our ancestors had given themselves over to faithlessness. But, he added that, even in that distant, pagan land, God had not forgotten his people, so he raised up a foreign king who allowed our people to return home. Then, with great solemnity, my father would assure me that God had surely allowed the Romans to conquer our land because of our own faithlessness, but that, just as surely, God would raise up one who would restore our faith and lead us back to our rightful place as the light to the nations. Then, finally, one day I had had enough of my father's blind faith. He started into the old, familiar lecture and I just snapped. "What kind of a God would impose an exile on his people in their own land? Any God who could sit back and quietly witness a torment like ours has no right to expect any kind of loyalty from anyone." Even as I said, I knew that I had hurt him terribly because I had attacked the one thing in his life that had enabled him to make sense of the senseless life we lived under Roman rule. But it was too late to take back. Besides, it was what I really felt. And there, in that moment charged with anger and sadness and regret, I grabbed my handful of possessions and stormed out of the house - being careful to avoid seeing the pain in his eyes - and I went off to make my way as a member of the Sicarii, the daggermen. I would show him what real faith was all about - a faith that acts to seize the moment. How foolish to think a silent prayer could have the same power as a well-placed dagger! Surely God - if there really was a god - would be more likely to honor those who had the faith to act on behalf of their beliefs than those who merely moped around on their knees. Or, at least, that's what I thought at the time. How could we hope for salvation from anything other than violence? That was the only language Rome would ever understand. And even the mighty Romans couldn't be everywhere at once. We would seize our chances, demoralize the enemy and create a thirst for freedom among the people. Given enough time, perhaps we could convince enough people to follow us and the Lord would bless our efforts as he had once honored the faith of our ancestors, the Maccabbees. And so I began a glorious career as the head of a guerrilla cell of the Zealots. It was a hard life - one that would have shocked my father - but then it takes a hard man to stand up to hard men. Was I successful? Well, my actions forced Pilate into such bloody responses that he was on the verge of being recalled by Caesar. It's funny how easily you can lose when you aren't careful about the way you win. I found that out myself as the years of living outside the law began to take their toll. When I joined the Zealots, I took a solemn vow to let nothing to stand between me and freedom. Anyone who dared collaborate with the enemy would forfeit their property and their life. And we vowed that their blood would be on their own heads. At least that's what we told ourselves. But gradually we found that we were changed by all that violence. Imperceptibly, we began to look for ways to justify any sort of crime, telling ourselves that all is fair in war. In the process, we started to become as fearsome to our own people as the Romans themselves were, although we never noticed that in our rush to self-justification. We were freedom fighters! How could anyone call us thieves since we would only steal what our enemies had worked so hard to take away from us? I was so wrapped up in the romance of my own rebellion that I got careless. I led my cell into an ambush and I was captured. I'll spare you the details of the tortures I was forced to endure in retaliation for my long years of inflicting pains on Romans. But I made it a point of pride to refuse to buckle under the pressure. If my life was going to end, I willed it to end as a martyr who would inspire my people. They say that facing death will transform your perspective. I suppose that's true. When you feel the weight of your own end pressing in on you, you gulp greedily for every last breath and savor every fleeting moment of beauty, for it may be your last. Surely such an experience can't fail to change you if you should somehow survive. But far more than just facing down death, I have been changed by my meeting with that other Jesus, the one who would eventually die for me. It was on the Passover. I fully expected to be served as the sacrificial lamb in Pilate's twisted version of our holy meal. So I was surprised when I was dragged from my prison cell to Pilate's palace instead of directly to the place of execution. I thought maybe Pilate wanted to have a little fun with me before consigning me to my fate. But I was no sooner pushed before the crowd on Pilate's balcony than I heard him say, "Whom do you want me to release for you, Jesus Barabbas or Jesus who is called the Messiah?" At that, I glanced over at the other prisoner. He was already so tragically battered and bruised that it was possible he would die regardless of whether he were crucified or not. So that was Pilate's game! Always the politician, he offered the crowd a choice that was no choice, so he could fool them into believing that he was being generous. With my record, what fool in that crowd would dare call out my name? Surely they would fear sharing my fate if they did. Just then a messenger arrived with a note from Pilate's wife warning him to have nothing to do with the other Jesus. As I suspected, it was merely a show trial. And yet... And yet... There it was, the unmistakable sounds of the crowd daring to call for my release! It was something I could never have imagined. It was all too perfect. Pilate's plans were suddenly overturned. Pawn unexpectedly takes queen and it became a whole new game. I was almost amused when I heard Pilate ask the crowd, "Then what should I do with Jesus who is called Christ?" At that close range I could easily see the beads of sweat forming on Pilate's face. When the crowd called out, "Crucify him!" I glanced over at the other Jesus, feeling nothing at all for his fate, only my own relief as the weight of martyrdom began to ease from my shoulders. But then something happened that I can't really explain. I only know that it did happen. As I looked at him, it was as if everyone else - Pilate, the soldiers, the crowd, everybody - simply faded away. It was as if there were only the two of us there on that balcony. And out of the blue I heard my father's voice reading from the prophet Isaiah, "He was despised and rejected by others, a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity; and as one from whom others hide their faces he was despised, and we held him of no account. Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases; yet we accounted him stricken, struck down by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the punishment that made us whole, and by his bruises we are healed." Could it be that God was truly in that place? And could it be that in this man, Israel had found its real Savior, the true Jesus? My confusion was so great that I barely noticed when the soldiers removed my chains and shoved me out the palace door. My thoughts were far away - slowly winding their way through the city to the Place of the Skull. Was this other Jesus the deliverer my father had believed in for so long, the one who would restore our faith and make us a light to the nations? Had I been wrong all along? I had taken up the sword and it led me to the brink of death. Yet, this Jesus, whom Pilate himself had said was innocent of all charges, was about to die in my place. Through his death, I had been restored to life. And yet, in a way, Jesus Barabbas the guerrilla fighter did die that day, only to be replaced by the real Barabbas, the true Son of his father. I had been given a glimpse into God's mysterious plan and, more importantly, I had been given a second chance. I wasn't about to storm out on my opportunity again, no matter what it cost me. What about you? In some strange way that I'm only now beginning to understand, I know that Jesus endured the cross for each of you as well as for me. Like me, you have been freed from the weight of death. Like me, you have been given a second chance. God has sent his Messiah to quietly carry your sorrow and pain. Surely a love like that demands a response. Your Savior has come. Now it's your turn to decide how you will live to make your life worthy of his sacrifice. Amen.
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