[print_link]

INSTEAD OF ME

 The Rev. J. Donald Waring
Grace Church in New York
Good Friday + April 18, 2025
Personalities of the Passion: Barabbas

But you have a custom that I release someone for you at the Passover.  Do you want me to release for you the King of the Jews?  They shouted in reply, “Not this man, but Barabbas.”  Now Barabbas was a bandit.  (John 19:40) 

Last month I received an email from the Rev. Roderick Leece, the Rector of St. George’s Church, Hanover Square, our companion parish in London.  If you recall, Roddy was here back in February to preach, and in his sermon he explained that St. George’s Church soon would be celebrating the 300^th anniversary of their magnificent building’s consecration.  Well, the anniversary occurred in March, and the Rev. Harry Krauss was able to fly over and represent Grace Church.  The substance of Roddy’s email was that Harry behaved himself reasonably well, and should not be blamed for the explosion and blackout at Heathrow Airport, that occurred right about the time he landed. 

In his email, Roddy also wrote that someone else who claimed to know me visited St. George’s Church the same weekend.  The visitor was a classmate of mine in seminary, but today he holds the title of “Assistant Bishop of Zanzibar.”  The news sent me immediately to a framed photograph of my class, and there he was in the row behind me.  In May of 1989, after our graduation ceremony, forty-six people gathered on the steps of the seminary chapel.  We surrounded the Dean and smiled for the camera.  Looking at the photo all these years later, I thought to myself that “Assistant Bishop of Zanzibar” is probably the most exotic title that any of us has ever held.  I mean, it would be one thing to be the Bishop of Zanzibar.  But to be the Assistant Bishop of Zanzibar makes it sound all the more mysterious and intriguing. 

Also, as I scanned the photo, I began wondering about the others. What became of all those people who were eager to make a difference in and through the church?  As far as I know, the Assistant Bishop of Zanzibar is the only one to have worn the purple.  One classmate has been the rector of the same church for over thirty years.  Another is a seminary professor.  Many have retired after years of faithful service.  Others have died.  Some stumbled along the way and were deposed from the ministry.  Others could not abide by changes in the Episcopal Church and renounced their orders.  As for what became of me?  Of course, I’ve remained true to my original calling: to be a simple country parson, preaching short sermons in humble surroundings. 

Whatever became of Barabbas?  Such was my question when I began scanning the metaphorical photo of people surrounding Jesus during the last week of his mortal life.  What we can know of Barabbas requires a degree of speculation, but since all four Gospels mention him, we are on safe ground to follow some clues.  We might begin with his name.  Scholars of antiquity tell us that Barabbas wouldn’t have been a given name.  In fact, some early manuscripts of Matthew refer to him as “Jesus Barabbas,” Jesus being a fairly common first-century Jewish name.  What Barabbas meant was “Son of Abbas,” or “Son of a father.”  That Jesus Barabbas’ father was called Abbas suggests the elder was an official teacher of the Jewish Law – perhaps a Pharisee.  It could be, then, that Barabbas was a clergy kid of sorts, who took his father’s devotion to the next level and turned it into zeal.  Barabbas aligned himself with the Zealots. 

Barabbas wanted to make a difference in the kingdom of God, so he joined a faction of Jewish nationalism that would stop at nothing to purify the people and rid them of the Romans.  The Zealots: murder, robbery, and insurrection were all acceptable options to achieve their aims.  The Gospel of John states it bluntly: Now Barabbas was a bandit.  Barabbas, who had everything going for him, lost all perspective between right and wrong, got caught up in a riot, and committed a murder amidst the mayhem.  The long arm of the Roman law reached out, arrested him, and condemned him to death.  When Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John introduce him to us today, we can presume that he is in a prison, anticipating crucifixion, which is how the Romans dealt with enemies of the state.  To be sure, Jesus Barabbas had a cross with his name on it awaiting him. 

On the day that would become the first Good Friday, another Jesus – this one called Jesus of Nazareth – joined the ranks of Roman criminals.  We’ve heard how the enemies of Jesus brought him to Pilate’s headquarters, accusing him of blasphemy and plotting an insurrection.  The accusers demanded a sentence that only the Romans could issue: death.  We get the impression that Pilate was annoyed by the interruption to his morning.  On the one hand, he didn’t agree with the charges against Jesus.  On the other hand, he didn’t want to risk another riot in Jerusalem.  Thinking he might placate the angry crowd, Pilate called on the Passover custom of releasing a prisoner.  “Do you want me to release for you Jesus Barabbas, or Jesus of Nazareth,” is how he might have phrased the question.  As the world knows all too well, the crowd chose freedom for Barabbas, and crucifixion for Jesus.  The two of them changed places.  Barabbas was supposed to be the one on the cross that stood between the crosses of two other bandits, who were likely his accomplices.  Jesus died the death intended for Barabbas.  Thus, no person in all of history would be able to say, as directly as Barabbas could say it: “Jesus died for my sins.  Jesus did this for me.” 

Did Jesus die for Barabbas?  Did Jesus really offer his life as a willing substitute for Barabbas?  Some would say no.  It was a fluke, an accident.  Barabbas merely lucked into being in the right place at the right time.  What is more, Jesus never volunteered to die in place of Barabbas.  He was a victim of circumstance, that’s all.  So goes the thinking of those who don’t fully understand what Jesus was doing in Jerusalem.  Why did Jesus go to Jerusalem at all?  If Jesus truly wanted to make a difference, he could have stayed in Nazareth, where he was probably making a go out of working in the family carpentry business.  But in Nazareth, Jesus the observant Jew, would be immersed in the rituals of his people, and he would study the Scriptures.  All around him would be speculation about the coming of God’s Messiah.  When would God send the redeemer to rescue the Jews from oppression?  What sort of mighty king, or warrior, or prophet would be the one who came in the name of the Lord? 

The genius of Jesus is that he recognized something no one else did.  The Messiah would not be a triumphant warrior, but a suffering servant.  In the prophecies of Isaiah (52:13 – 53:12), Jesus would read of a mysterious figure, sent from God, who would offer his life for the sins of the people.  The death of the servant would restore fellowship with God.  Not only did Jesus make the connection between the Messiah and the suffering servant, he had come to the agonizing conclusion that his great vocation would be to fulfill the prophecies.  His mission and ministry would be to lay down his life as an offering and sacrifice to God.  It had to happen in Jerusalem, so Jerusalem is where he went.  Once there, he didn’t have to go to the Garden of Gethsemane, where he knew Judas had lined up people to arrest him.  But Gethsemane is where he went.  At Pilate’s headquarters, had Jesus spoken one word in his own defense, Pilate would have released him.  But Jesus spoke no such word.  He was obedient to his calling – obedient unto death.  Yes, he died for the sins of Barabbas, and not for his only, but for the sins of the whole world. 

How is it that the death of Jesus makes it possible for us to have reconciliation with God?  One of the main ways of explaining what is called the atonement is that on the cross, Jesus took our place.  Jesus, our substitute, paid the price.  The saying is true: there is no free lunch.  Likewise, there can be no free forgiveness.  Someone always has to absorb the cost.  Someone has to foot the bill.  Jesus, the Lamb of God, takes away the sins of the world.  Bear in mind that essential to this idea is the Incarnation – that God was in Christ, reconciling the world to himself.  Indeed, without Christmas, today would be called Bad Friday, not Good Friday.  But that’s another sermon for another day –  a day about eight months from now. 

In the meantime, perhaps sermons and systematic theologies don’t move your heart, least of all cause you to tremble.  But if a human face would aid your understanding of how the death of Jesus saves us, look no further than Barabbas: the man who lived because Jesus died instead of him.  This brings me back to my original question: whatever became of Barabbas?  In 1961, a major motion picture about Barabbas tried to answer the question.  The movie starred Anthony Quinn, Jack Palance, Ernest Borgnine, and other Hollywood stars.  The film delivers everything you could want from a mid-20^th century Biblical blockbuster, and it still claims an 89-percent approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes.  Yet it’s all a work of creative speculation.  The truth is, Barabbas walked away from Pilate’s headquarters, and disappeared from history.  What did he do with his new lease on life?  Did he go back to his old ways?  Did guilt overwhelm him?  Did he join the Jesus movement, rise to an exotic ecclesiastical office, and perhaps wear purple?  We don’t know what became of him.  We’d like to think that he amended his ways, and lived a life of gratitude for the gift of life that Jesus had given him.  It’s no guarantee that he did. 

Perhaps you know the story that a former Cardinal Archbishop of Paris told on himself, about himself.  How did he rise to claim his important ecclesiastical title?  He explained that many years ago, on a Sunday afternoon, three brilliant graduate students from the Sorbonne stepped into the rear of the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  Being staunch atheists, they were amused by the pious people kneeling in prayer and subjecting themselves to ritual of so little rational merit.  One of them offered that for twenty francs he would line up at a confessional booth and once inside, pretend to be a penitent sinner asking for God’s forgiveness.  The others agreed, and the game was on. 

When it was finally the brash young man’s turn to kneel in the booth, he spun for the invisible priest a tale of sordid thoughts and acts.  Then he concluded with mocking reverence, asking the question: “Now Father, what must I do for penance?”  The wise old priest, discerning that a fraudster was on the other side of the screen, said to him, “This evening, when the crowds are gone I want you to come back to the cathedral and kneel before the crucifix.  You are to look at the figure on the cross and say aloud ten times: ‘You did all this for me and I don’t give a damn.’  After ten times, your penance will be complete.”  The student left the booth triumphant.  His friends laughed and laughed as he told them the whole story of the sham.  Nevertheless, they insisted that in order to earn his twenty francs, he had to go back and do as the priest directed. 

Later that very evening the student returned to the cathedral.  He knelt before a large crucifix in a chapel, looked up at the figure hanging on it, and said: “You did all this for me, and I don’t give a damn.”  Five more times the student confidently repeated the phrase: “You did all this for me, and I don’t give a damn.”  By the seventh and eighth repetitions he was averting his gaze.  Finally, the tenth time through he looked back up and said,  “You ... did all this ... for me ...?”  He could not continue.  The shock of possibility that it all might be true flooded his soul.  The moment changed his life forever.  The sight of Christ on the cross sent him in a direction he never would have imagined. 

As for you and me, we look on Jesus today and, if we dare, allow the shock of possibility to enter our souls.  He hung and suffered on the cross for us, in our place, to atone for the sins of the whole world.  By God’s grace, this day might change us forever. 

In mock acclaim, O gracious Lord,
they snatched a purple cloak,
Your passion turned, for all they cared,
into a soldier’s joke.
They did not know, as we do now,
that though we merit blame
you will your robe of mercy throw
around our naked shame. 
(F. Pratt Green, 1903-2000)