A Tale of Two Barabbases

By Scott Powell, PhD

For many, the story of Christ’s triumphant entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday is one of the most familiar passages from the Bible. Sometimes, however, familiarity can breed laziness, and we might be prone to miss how powerful, provocative, and applicable the story is, not only to the Christian spiritual life, but also to the life of the Church today.

Although Palm Sunday likely evokes several different emotions and memories for many of us (from mom fashioning the palms into beautiful and intricate crosses, to trying to break up my kids’ sword fighting with those same palms during Mass, to elaborate or simple processions into the church), what we need now is to see the story with fresh eyes. To read the story in isolation from the broader biblical narrative, and the overarching story of salvation history would be a great mistake.

For the ancient Jews, and thus, for Jesus himself, the story of the Exodus was the foundational story of the Bible. In it, God demonstrated that he is not only creator and sustainer, but also redeemer. It has been said that the entire biblical story is in fact, Exodus-shaped. During Jesus’ transfiguration, when the Lord appeared on the mountain and spoke with Moses and Elijah, the Gospel writers tell us that their topic of conversation was “the Exodus, which he was to accomplish in Jerusalem” (Luke 9:31). Thus, the shape of Jesus’ coming Passion was made clear. He would set us free from our slavery to sin and death, emancipate us from our captivity to the evil one, and lead us into the promised land of the Kingdom of God.

When Jesus arrives in Jerusalem for Palm Sunday, we must remember that he was there to celebrate the Passover—and therefore the Exodus event. The Passover was one of three required pilgrim feasts on the Jewish calendar, which mandated every able-bodied Jew to make the trek to Jerusalem to celebrate with the entire family (akin in some way to the Catholic notion of the holy day of obligation). This is important because when Jesus arrives in the holy city on Sunday, he was joining throngs (some scholars estimate over 100,000) of pilgrims coming from all over the Jewish world. The city was to swell enormously as Jews from across the Mediterranean descended on their capital city, camping out on roadsides, in alleyways, and a nearby fields. In short, Jerusalem would have been a madhouse four days before the Passover, when Jesus arrives.

Obviously, there were many who knew and recognized Jesus. His entourage had been growing, and the word about him had been spreading for some time. According to the Gospel of John, in fact, the straw that broke the camel’s back for the Jewish religious leaders was the raising of a man named Lazarus from the dead—an event which had recently happened in the Jewish suburb of Bethany. Despite this, it seems logical that the vast majority of pilgrims coming into the city that day would have had no idea who Jesus was. In fact, the Gospel of Matthew tells us that the crowds, who had begun to cut down palm branches and shout “Hosanna to the son of David!” and “blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!”, were simultaneously asking “who is this?” (Matthew 21:10).

We must ask then, if people didn’t know who Jesus was, why were they shouting, waving palm branches, and paying him such homage? Again, this is where we must not let the story become overly familiar. Because Passover was a pilgrim feast, the implication was that pilgrims would walk into the city. Donkeys and other animals would have been tied outside of town. Of the thousands upon thousands flooding into the city that day, it seems that only one was riding on a donkey. The act of riding this animal, on this particular day, far from being a mere act of humility, told the crowds everything they needed to know. While it was a course, a sign of humility (as the Prophet Zechariah suggests), the donkey was also a royal symbol. In the book of 1 Kings, when the famous King David was on his deathbed, one of his sons, a scoundrel named Adonijah, was seeking to usurp the throne of his ailing father. Gathering together members of his father’s cabinet and other prominent officials, Adonijah met with his motley crew outside of the city to plan his grab for the throne. David, hearing about this, commands that the royal donkey be brought out and that his son Solomon, the one whom he vowed would be the next king, be placed thereon, as the indisputable sign that Solomon, and Solomon alone, was king.

Therefore, for Jesus to ride a donkey into the holy city of Jerusalem was a decidedly political and an intensely provocative act! We know that in the time of Jesus, there were many false and would-be messiahs, claiming to be the long-promised king of Israel (whose throne was lost nearly 600 years ago at the time of the Babylonian captivity). Hothead revolutionaries and insurgent groups abounded in the region, but surely no one had been so bold as to ride a donkey into Jerusalem ahead of the most politically charged festival of the year! I believe that the crowds responded the way they did because they realized that finally, someone was willing to put his money where his mouth was. For someone to ride a royal animal into Jerusalem, right under the nose of King Herod and all of the Roman soldiers (sent there to guard against any political insurgencies during the feast), was either incredibly courageous, or incredibly stupid. It seems that many in the crowd that day probably either thought that Jesus might really be who he was claiming to be, or else Rome would kill him spectacularly. Either way, people wanted a front row seat.

Perhaps some in the crowds were also remembering the famous Maccabean revolt, which had taken place not more than a couple of generations earlier. At that time, a group of priestly brothers and their followers stood up to a foreign superpower (the Seleucids, in this case), and emancipated Jerusalem from foreign rule. At the end of that story, Judas Maccabeus triumphantly marched into Jerusalem and cleansed the Temple of the trappings of their foreign occupation. As if following a script, the Gospels tell us that shortly after Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem (perhaps the next day), he does the same, proceeding straight to the Temple, where he “cleanses” it—complete with the overturning of tables. He cleanses it, however, not from the trappings of the occupying Roman empire, but rather from the sinfulness and corruption of his own people. This flipping of the script was more than many of Jerusalem’s leaders could handle.

As we probably remember, Jesus would spend the rest of that week being poked, prodded, scrutinized, and tested by the religious leaders. This parallels the fate of all the festival lambs, brought into the city the same Sunday as Jesus, who were to be examined for the better part of the week before being declared clean and free of blemish—and thus fit to be sacrificed. Ironically, Jesus too will receive this declaration, although not from the High Priest, the Pharisees, the Sanhedrin, or any other religious leaders. It is Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor, in his exasperation, who declares that he “finds no fault” with Jesus, thus clearing the way for Jesus’ own unblemished sacrifice.

The Gospel writers, as well as the Church, desperately want us to see ourselves in this story. Perhaps our Lent began with great enthusiasm, great hopes, and great expectations. How ever our Lent has gone, if we’re honest with ourselves, we know that we have chosen to reject Jesus in countless small (or not so small) choices that we’ve made every day. To place this in stark relief, one story stands out. History tells us two definitive facts about Pontius Pilate. Number one, he hated the Jewish people, and number two, he hated his job. We are told that he was dragged out (presumably quite early in the morning) by the local religious leaders, who knew that they could not legally put Jesus to death themselves, since Rome reserved the right to capital punishment for itself. The Jewish leadership, who was bent on Jesus’ destruction, needed the Roman machine to do this for them. Therefore, they had to find a legal charge that would stick with Rome, who could not have cared less about Jewish ideas of blasphemy or holiness. The two that finally landed were, terrorism (“he said he was going to destroy the Temple”) and treason (“we have no king but Caesar”). Even despite this, Pilate wanted nothing to do with Jesus. Remember, by this point most of the disciples had already run away, and even before they had, the Gospel writers tell us they only possessed two swords (see Luke 22:37–38); not quite the insurgency that Rome had feared.

Pilate desired to simply give Jesus a beating and then set him free, rather than put in all the work of the resource-heavy process of crucifixion, a process reserved exclusively for enemies of the state. Frustrated with the Jewish leaders and their refusal to accept his compromises and statements of innocence, Pilate pulled what he thought would be his trump card. Knowing that the Passover was a politically significant festival for the Jews, one which remembered their emancipation from a foreign power, Pilate had devised a tradition of setting one prisoner free every year on the feast, likely as a way to quell any potential Jewish upheaval (see Matthew 27:15). It seems clear that he thought his choice of prisoners would be a painfully obvious one. According to Matthew, the other prisoner in question was a man named Barabbas, a known revolutionary, and someone who had probably shed blood. Barabbas seemed so patently, dangerously guilty, that to put him next to Jesus would make for a clear choice. Shockingly, as we know, and as we all give voice every Palm Sunday, the gathered crowd wanted otherwise.

This story—tragic, and shocking as it is—is actually far more nuanced, and far more shocking than it seems at first glance. Many manuscripts say that the name of the other criminal was actually Jesus Barabbas. Jesus, (also translated as Joshua, meaning YHWH Saves) was a relatively common name at the time. “Barabbas,” however, is quite noteworthy as well. The name in Aramaic means literally “son of the father.” While there is no reason to think that there wasn’t an actual, literal Barabbas standing before the crowd that day, the symbolism of the scene is quite striking. Jesus, Yahweh Saves, the true son of God the Father, is placed side-by-side with another Jesus, and another son of another father. The Gospel writers want to force us into the clarity of our spiritual choices: the ways in which we so often choose false kingdoms, false idols, and false gods. In the Latin rite liturgy of Palm Sunday, we are asked to proclaim aloud that we want the false Barabbas, rather than the true Son of the Father. We choose expediency, we choose violence, we choose pride, we choose all sorts of idols of our age, rather than the God who loves us, who stands before us, and who longs for us to choose him with all our hearts.

It is a powerful reflection, and one that deserves our attention this whole week. The Lord knows that we will frequently make the wrong choice. He knows that we are fickle—like Jesus’ original disciples, most of whom have already run away to hide by this point in the story. But nevertheless, he waits. He knows that the promises of this world are fleeting, and that they will ultimately fail to satisfy our deepest longings. He knew this when he told Peter that although he would reject him, Jesus needed him to get back up and strengthen his brethren (see Luke 22:31–32). Jesus is not afraid of our rejection; he does, however, need us to get back up after we have fallen. The story of Holy Week is not a mere historical event for us to read and wonder about. It requires our participation, it requires us to confess that yes, we do indeed often choose Barabbas, a false son of a false father, rather than the God who loves us. This is also a story, however, of reconciliation, redemption, and the fact that the power of death stands no chance of defeating the God who conquers all.

So, if our Lent has begun to lag, or has done so since the beginning, let us choose this moment to begin again. Let us declare aloud that we choose Jesus, the Son of God the Father—and that we accept and will walk along side of him as he carries the horrifying and glorious Cross that comes along with that choice. If we have already failed at this, let us pray for the grace, like Peter, to get back up again.

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Dr. Scott Powell is a Professor of Theology at the St. John Vianney Theological Seminary in Denver, Colorado. He and his wife Annie also founded and direct Camp Wojtyla (www.camp-w.com).