I Am Barabbas

Every year at Passover, Jerusalem remembered a story of deliverance. They remembered blood on doorposts. They remembered judgment passing over. They remembered slaves walking free.

Passover was never just history. It was identity. It was the story that told Israel who they were and how they were rescued. And now, on this Passover morning, another story is unfolding—one that will redefine deliverance forever.

Matthew tells us that Jesus is brought before the Roman governor, Pontius Pilate. He is not brought there quietly. He is brought with accusation, agitation, and pressure.

The chief priests and elders have already decided what they want. The only thing left is for Pilate to make it official.

Pilate asks Jesus a single question:

“Are you the King of the Jews?”

And Jesus answers, “You have said so.”

It is a strange reply. Not a denial. Not a defense. Almost an invitation for Pilate to think more deeply—if he were willing. But Pilate is not interested in truth. He is interested in control. Order. Keeping the peace. Protecting his position.

And after that brief exchange, Jesus falls silent. The accusations come quickly and loudly. Religious leaders speak with certainty. The crowd begins to swell. The atmosphere tightens. But Jesus does not answer a single charge.

Matthew tells us that Pilate is amazed. Amazed—because this is not how defendants behave.

Most people fight for their lives. Most people defend themselves. Most people plead. But Jesus stands there—silent, composed, resolved.

The prophet Isaiah had written about this moment centuries earlier:

“He was oppressed and afflicted, yet He opened not His mouth. Like a lamb led to the slaughter… so He opened not His mouth.”

This is not weakness.

This is purpose.

Matthew wants us to notice something else as well. Throughout this passage, voices keep declaring what Pilate himself already knows: Jesus is innocent.

Pilate knows the accusations are driven by envy. Pilate’s wife sends word after a troubling dream: “Have nothing to do with that righteous man.”

Pilate asks the crowd, “What evil has He done?”—and receives no answer.

Again and again, the same truth presses forward: Jesus has done nothing wrong. And yet the story moves toward death.

Justice collapses under pressure.

Leadership gives way to fear.

A crowd chooses violence over mercy.

And standing in the middle of it all is the only truly innocent person in the scene.

It would be easy to read this story as a tragedy caused by other people’s failures. To shake our heads at Pilate. To recoil from the crowd. To distance ourselves from the ugliness of it all.

Matthew does not tell this story so that we can feel superior. He tells it so that we can see ourselves.

No one in this story escapes guilt—except Jesus.

The disciples have fled.

The religious leaders manipulate.

The government abdicates responsibility.

The crowd chooses what feels powerful instead of what is right.

That leaves us with an uncomfortable realization:

this story is not about them.

It is about us.

Today, I want to walk through this passage under one controlling truth—one truth that sharpens everything else we see here.

In this story, only one man is innocent—and he dies.

And only one man is guilty—and he goes free.

His name is Barabbas.

Barabbas appears only briefly in the gospel accounts, but his presence carries the weight of the gospel itself. He is not a symbol. He is a real man. A criminal. An insurrectionist. A man condemned to die.

On this Passover morning, while Jesus stands silent, Barabbas waits in a cell—expecting judgment.

Before the day is over, one of them will walk free.

And one of them will be crucified.

And in that exchange, Matthew wants us to see what the cross really is.

Not an accident.

Not a misunderstanding.

Not a tragic mistake.

But a substitution.

So as we walk through this scene—through Pilate, through the crowd, and finally through Barabbas—I want you to resist the urge to stand outside the story.

The gospel does not ask us who we think was wrong that day.

It asks us one far more personal question:

Which man do you recognize yourself in?

– Part One: Pilate: Knowing the Truth, Avoiding the Cost

Pilate is one of the most frustrating figures in the entire passion narrative. Not because he is cruel—though he will be. Not because he is ignorant—because he isn’t.

Pilate is frustrating because he knows better. Matthew tells us plainly that Pilate understands what is happening. He hears the accusations, but he sees through them. He knows that Jesus has not committed a crime. He knows that the religious leaders have delivered Him out of envy.

Pilate is not confused about the facts. Yet, he still hands Jesus over to be crucified.

That should unsettle us.

Pilate represents a particular kind of guilt—the guilt of those who recognize truth but refuse to act on it.