I SAT in the dungeon of of my own earning; in darkness so deep, I couldn't see my hands, though I could make out faint sounds of a commotion above.
And then Light.
The prison guard stood in front of the now open gate and pointed at me.
Oh. Execution?
I thought the religious politicians had fought to give me at least a life imprisonment for the commotions I had caused. They were thankful for my still unpaid work of wrecking havoc in our 'peaceful' Roman colony though they acted like they hated me in public. For some reason, they didn't want me dead... Yet.
So what changed? Why was I being led to die?
The weight of my chains made standing excruciating. The Roman guard shoved me; as usual, the shock was too much to respond to without causing more damage. Feeling for the wall in the passageway, I blinked the red colors away; I wasn't sure whose blood blurred my vision but it was better not to think of dying for as long as possible. Mati and Raphe were to be hung today, if not already. Before they were led away, we had resolved to not give the Roman soldiers the satisfaction of our despair. Raphe said he'd curse 'em to the end—let them know that though they broke his body, that was their best attempt: his soul would not be as much as touched by their worst.
The talk of souls seemed to trouble Mati. He was the rebel servant of a Sanhedrin. He'd earlier mentioned the man tortured him with stories of an unending gory afterlife for every mistake he ever made (which were unpardonable of course, poor soul). Pfft!
I couldn't care less about what they both thought. I was my own law and what I wanted was a revolution—change; a common man hoping to subdue the system and make a name for myself.
The shock of the guard's thrust wore off, and the freshness of awakened pain freed me of my daydream. I was still a beggar in not only rags but chains; without bread, and soon to be without breath.
(It might be important to note the prison guards were great and cruel gossips, second only to prisoners about to be killed).
-Bar Abbas
He sneered. "For some reason, the governor doesn't want to kill this... this Jeww." He said the last word like a curse. "He's never hesitated killing a man before."
His steely eyes taunts me as he allows the silence echo what we both know. I would not be exempt from execution. The governor never lost any opportunity to take a man down—friend, foe, and especially Jew.
Our footsteps are the only sound as we climb staircase after staircase out of the underground prison. A huge rat runs past but the guard merely looks at it with the same death stare he gives me. His next words confirm it.
"I've worked here thirteen years now. Take my words and spare yourself the trouble. NO ONE survives Bema." (Gabbatha).
I hear mice scuffling almost as if afraid of his words but I don't care. The worst that can happen is to die.
But no. That doesn't sound right.
The worst that can happen to anything alive is crucifixion.
I had to applaud the Romans for such an innovative tool that kept people suffering—mentally, emotionally, socially not to mention physically for the longest time possible until their tormentors got bored of their pain or death itself pitied the crucified.
I know so much about sadism that I may have done better as a Pharisee and perhaps lived longer but this is not the time to regret career choices. My ankle chains clink with each step. The one linking both hands drags heavily behind me. The guard is still talking.
"I never thought I'd see the governor relent. Apparently the guy on trial has such a goooood record, they probably wouldn't be able to successfully accuse him of stealing from his mama's pot. Man pays his tax, is not a social nuisance, has reputable character, well spoken off and all that. But your leaders want him dead. NOT the governor this time, and certainly not the government. Never thought I would see the day..."
Not the governor? It is almost comical. We step into more light.
We're now close to the judgement seat. I shudder, remembering how the this platform... promised to kill me. How it imprisoned me. I am before it again, and with no defence for not only did I kill a Roman official. My enemy seats on Gabbatha.
I swallow.
A clownish looking man herald announces. "As is the governor's culture, (blessed be his magnificence; may Caesar's favour never leave him) a prisoner would be released."
There are cheers, hoots and for those brave enough despite Roman soldiers on ground, faint boos. They don't like him; he doesn't care. As is the custom of most unloved rulers, he grants the people's leaders just enough controlled freedom to suppress insubordination: the release of one political underdog. He gives them the people's choice out of the governor's choice. The pitching begins. I know I am obviously not it. I am merely the sacrificial lamb. The unfavorite.
Strangely, the governor does the campaigning.
"Like you all know, this... this Jesus has done no wrong."
Indeed. For the first time, I agreed on something with Pontius. Even those in prison had heard of this perfect man, Jesus. Why was this even a debate? Was this the trickish part of a partisan game?
The silent hatred in the beady eyes of Jesus' turbaned accusers answered me.
I couldn't believe it! It clicked then. Was I in all of my badness about to be exchanged with this same Jesus for all of His goodness??
TO WHAT END?
Surely merciful God (blah! the sheer weakness of mercy) wouldn't let it happen. At least if not for the sake of Jesus, he would prevent it because of me. I was His enemy.
"Who should I release to you?" Pontius shouted.
This was not the same Pilate who coldly asked why I was fit to live. If the guard was right, this was not even the same man yesterday.
Why the passion and the hesitation now? Who was this man or at least who was this man to him? There had to be some unsettling secret perhaps even unknown to Pilate himself. What was the truth about this man? Or rather, who was truth?
He pointed to me. "This man?"
You could hear the disdain in his voice to discourage bidders but I could see his unabated death wish for me, and I almost wanted to live, even if just to scoff the governor. Almost.
He raised the hands of the Jesus who wore an eerily indifferent look like he didn't mind dying. It was almost like Pilate wanted the man to live more than Jesus himself wanted to.
"Or this man?" There. The passion. The plea? From Pontius.
It had to be a dream because the court lost its decorum. A local revolt was about to occur because an innocent man was declared not guilty. It was this badness I had first seen among great teachers as a boy that made me leave the pretense of the synagogue to a company of more honest men who were not ashamed to live out the evil within. I did not bother probing the standard against which I alluded to the existence of good and evil.
"Crucify, crucify, crucify Him!" They chanted in a frenzy. An angry mob was forming. I could see the subtle tightened hold of the sword of a soldier near me. Roman soldiers knew how to enforce crowd control in not very nice ways. They would only tolerate so much.
Yet, I was happy. Even if I were to die tonight, at least, I was given the privilege of a violent show as I loved.
Killing was guaranteed tonight—whether the mob, soldiers, Jesus or myself. Whose, was about to be decided.
So I looked at Jesus, perhaps expecting him to share my glee on getting the Romans worked up, or desperate for freedom or something.
I couldn't place that look. It wasn't a human expression. Silent but nor sad, neither angry nor impassive. The look reminded me of my childhood; strangely familiar yet cordially alien. Tamim.
It reminded me of a lamb but not just any kind. I remembered Passover as a boy where each year, Abba would bring a lamb home on his shoulders. It was always white, spotless and whole.
We'd play with it and take care of it for a few days until Passover. And then it would look at me with that intolerable expression that always brought me to tears as I led it to the slaughter house. "Why do we have to do this Abba? It has done us no wrong, made friends with us and knows we want to kill it. Why must we do this?"
I look away from his piercing gaze... downwards. I cannot bear the memory of this faultless man.
Yet as Pilate points to me, almost in enraged despair, as if to ask how bad their envy is to un-condemn me at Jesus' expense, I feel a strange emotion: hope.
Not for a guiltless Jesus (our world is flawed already), but for a sinner like me.
"And if I crucify Jesus when then should I do to this... this Barabbas?"
"Releaseeee him!!!"
At the possibility of release, I suddenly didn't care who was right or wrong. I almost laughed in praise. Now that freedom was near, against all odds, I wanted to live. Not to spite Rome, deprive poor Jesus or even avoid dying. I wanted to live for life's sake.
So there I was, Barabbas rebel son of the Father hoping for undue mercy... and saving from my well earned punishment even if it meant exchanging the only good man accused to be Messiah, perfect Son of The Father.
And there He was, unfailing Justice saying "I do. I am willing. Be made whole. I make you free."
And wonder of wonders, why was I of all prisoners, chosen to go free?
Isaiah 9:6-7.
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT!
So what next? What did Barabbas do?
I don't know.
And you probably do not either but the story continues in a way each person can determine the outcome:
We live in a world of Barabbases starting with ourselves. Yes. Yes.
Because God does not play dice, The Exchange is not a coincidental arrangement but a divine plan factoring human will and error even before the world begins; Barabbas' name meaning son of the Father is symbolic of all humanity gone rogue;
Adam was the son of God,
-Luke 3:38. NLT.
What Barabbas did after his release is really asking what have YOU done with His exchange?
You can acknowledge the existence of Jesus, think he is a good person, prophet, teacher etc. You may know and even say the right things about Him but not know Him as Lord.
You may be set free from the prisons of sickness, addiction, depression etc, receive answered prayers, live a life that is alright by your own standard, serve in a humanitarian or even religious body and still be unsaved from your sins because the Father makes His sun rise on the evil and good. (Which is why we have opportunities to be saved).
So what will this Barabbas do? Or what has been done in light of His exchange.
Now if you do know God as Lord, Saviour and Father, remember the Father wants all His prodigal sons home. He wants a full house. He rejoices in our returning.
If we love Him... the message is simple to every straying Barabbas: "Abba wants you home..." For we are the reward of His suffering.
Again, what will you do? Because the story is not over until we see Him face to face on another Gabbatha... The judgement of Christ... Not being judged like when He visited our world but as Judge, King and Owner balancing the records. Then there'd only be two possible outcomes for the next forevers. Choose,
One: shame and horror as you say, "I'm sorry. I did nothing" for it's possible to do a lot that is nothing in light of His suffering.
Or "thank you! With this one life you entrusted to me, I brought many more lives to you. See the reward of your suffering!"
...
Yes. What do you plan to tell Him face to face? Choose life.
...
What happened next is a continuum, and you, a critical part of His story determines its outcome.
If this blessed you, kindly share to others. Clap. Comment. And more importantly, win a soul FOR Jesus (not for me, your pastor, or denomination but for him) cause:
"while we were still without strength, in due time, Christ died for the un-godly."
-Romans 5:6.
(Emphasis mine)
-ATG.
💜🏆
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