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.
When Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus responds, “You have said so.”
Then He says nothing more. He does not defend Himself. He does not explain Himself. He does not try to win Pilate over.
Pilate is amazed.
Why? Because Pilate has presided over trials before. He knows how accused men behave. They plead. They bargain. They protest. They do whatever they can to survive.
Jesus does none of that.
Pilate is staring at innocence—and it leaves him unsettled.
There is something about Jesus that Pilate cannot categorize. Something that does not fit the machinery of Roman justice. Something that exposes how thin Pilate’s authority really is.
That is where the problem begins. Because Pilate does not lack information. He lacks courage.
Pilate understands that justice would require releasing Jesus. But justice comes at a cost. Releasing Jesus would anger the chief priests. It would risk unrest. It would put Pilate’s career, his reputation, and possibly his safety at risk.
Pilate begins to look for a way out. Instead of rendering a verdict, he looks for an escape hatch. Instead of standing on truth, he looks for a workaround. He shifts responsibility. He reframes the question.
He hands the decision to the crowd. “Whom do you want me to release for you?” he asks.
Pilate thinks this is clever. He assumes the crowd will choose Jesus. Surely they will not choose a known criminal over an innocent man.
But Pilate has already surrendered the ground of justice.
Once truth becomes negotiable, it will always lose to convenience.
Something remarkable happens. While Pilate is sitting on the judgment seat, his wife sends him a message:
“Have nothing to do with that righteous man, for I have suffered much because of Him today in a dream.”
Even here—outside the covenant, outside the promises, outside the religious system—truth presses in.
Pilate is surrounded by witnesses to Jesus’ innocence.
He knows the charges are false.
He knows the motives are corrupt.
He hears a warning that this man is righteous.
And still, he does nothing.
Pilate’s greatest failure is not cruelty.
It is abdication.
And that is why Pilate is so recognizable.
Because Pilate represents all of us who want to keep Jesus at a distance—not because we hate Him, but because taking Him seriously would cost us something.
Pilate is curious about Jesus. He is even impressed by Jesus. But curiosity is not the same as obedience.
Admiration is not the same as faith.
Pilate does not ask the one question that matters:
“What if this man is telling the truth?”
If Jesus is a King, then Pilate is not. If Jesus speaks for God, then Pilate must answer to Him. If Jesus is innocent, then Pilate is responsible. And Pilate wants none of that. So he washes his hands.
It is a symbolic act, meant to say, “This is not on me.”
Matthew wants us to see the irony. Water cannot cleanse moral guilt. Ritual cannot erase responsibility. Pilate may wash his hands—but he cannot wash away the truth.
No one in this story is allowed to remain neutral.
Pilate tries to stand between innocence and guilt without choosing. But neutrality itself becomes a choice.
In the end, Pilate sides with death.That brings us to the deeper question this passage presses on us.
How often do we resemble Pilate?
How often do we recognize truth but resist its implications?
How often do we admire Jesus without submitting to Him?
How often do we know what is right, but choose what is easy?
Pilate stands as a warning—not to those who openly reject Christ, but to those who hesitate.
Jesus does not ask us to be interested.
He asks us to decide.
Ehen Pilate refuses to decide, the story moves forward without him.
The crowd will choose.
A criminal will be released.
And an innocent man will die.
Pilate fades into the background—not because he was powerless, but because he refused responsibility when it mattered most.
And the cross moves closer.
– Part Two: The Crowd: Choosing Power Over Truth
If Pilate represents avoidance, the crowd represents something different. The crowd represents influence.
Momentum.
The pull of voices louder than conscience.
When Pilate presents the choice—Barabbas or Jesus—he expects an obvious answer.
One man is innocent.
The other is a known criminal.
Surely the crowd will choose justice. But crowds rarely choose justice. They choose what feels strong.
Matthew tells us that while Pilate is distracted—while he is receiving word from his wife—the chief priests and elders go to work. They persuade the crowd. They stir them. They frame the narrative.
And when Pilate returns, the decision has already been made.
“Barabbas,” they shout.
It is important to pause here and be clear about what is happening—and what is not.
This crowd does not represent all of Israel. Many who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem days earlier are not present. Jesus’ arrest took place at night. His trial unfolded quickly. The leaders have gathered a group favorable to their cause.
But that does not soften what we see here. It sharpens it.
Because this crowd is not made up of monsters.
It is made up of ordinary people—people who allow themselves to be led.
And that is what makes this moment so revealing.
The crowd does not demand Barabbas because they have weighed the evidence. They demand Barabbas because trusted voices have told them to. Because the energy of the moment is pulling in one direction. Because resistance would cost social courage.
And few people like to stand alone.
The crowd is faced with two men.
One is quiet.
The other is famous.
One speaks of loving enemies.
The other has fought them.
One offers a kingdom not of this world.
The other promises change through force.
One calls for repentance and meekness.
The other embodies rage and resistance.
The crowd chooses Barabbas.
Why?
Because Barabbas looks like power.
Barabbas is an insurrectionist. A revolutionary. A man willing to act. A man willing to fight Rome instead of endure it. To many in Jerusalem—an occupied city under foreign rule—that mattered.
Jesus’ way felt slow.
Too gentle.
Too vulnerable.
Barabbas’ way felt decisive.
And the crowd wanted action more than righteousness.
This is where the story begins to feel uncomfortably close.
Because the temptation to choose power over truth did not end in Jerusalem.
How often do we prefer voices that promise strength instead of voices that call us to humility?
How often are we drawn to anger because it feels effective?
How often do we mistake volume for conviction and outrage for courage?
The crowd does not hate Jesus.
They simply prefer another way.
And when Pilate asks again, “What shall I do with Jesus who is called Christ?”
The answer is immediate:
“Crucify Him.”
Pilate protests. “Why? What evil has He done?”
And the crowd has no answer.
Because truth is no longer the issue.
Once a crowd commits itself to power, truth becomes an obstacle.
So they shout louder.
And in that moment, the moral temperature of the scene drops to its lowest point. Pilate, unable to control the situation, washes his hands. And the crowd responds with words that echo through history:
“His blood be on us and on our children.”
These words have been tragically misused—twisted into justification for hatred, violence, and antisemitism. That misuse is wicked and completely foreign to the gospel.
Matthew is not assigning racial guilt. He is describing moral responsibility.
This crowd is choosing death over life. Violence over innocence. Convenience over righteousness. And history records the consequence.
Within a generation, Jerusalem would be destroyed. The temple would fall. Jesus Himself wept over the city, knowing what rejection would bring.
The deeper warning is not historical—it is spiritual.
To reject the Son of God is never neutral.
It always carries weight.
It always shapes the future.
And yet—even here—this is not the end of the story.
Because while the crowd is shouting, something else is happening quietly in the background.
A cell door is about to open.
Barabbas—condemned, guilty, waiting for execution—is about to be released.
And Jesus—the innocent one—will take his place.
The crowd thinks they are choosing power.
But God is accomplishing grace.
This brings us to the final figure in this scene.
Not the judge.
Not the mob.
But the man who walks free.
– Part Three: Barabbas: The Guilty Man Who Walks Free
Barabbas does not say a single word in this story.
He does not argue.
He does not plead.
He does not explain himself.
While Pilate questions Jesus and the crowd shouts for blood, Barabbas is somewhere else—locked away, waiting. He is not watching the trial. He is not part of the debate. He is simply condemned.
The gospels tell us that Barabbas is a criminal. An insurrectionist. A man guilty of violence. He is not misunderstood. He is not falsely accused. He is not innocent.
He deserves the cross.
On this Passover morning, Barabbas expects to die.
Barabbas wakes up under a sentence he cannot escape. There is no appeal left. No clever maneuver. No ritual washing that can change his fate. He is waiting for judgment.
And then—somehow—his name is shouted.
“Barabbas.”
We don’t know how he hears it. Maybe through guards. Maybe through the noise of the crowd. But at some point, Barabbas learns that something has happened outside his cell.
A decision has been made.
And when the door opens, it is not to lead him to execution.
It is to let him go.
Barabbas walks out alive—not because he is innocent, but because someone else has taken his place.
Jesus does not die with Barabbas.
Jesus dies instead of Barabbas.
This is not a metaphor.
This is not symbolism.
This is substitution.
The cross that should have borne Barabbas now bears Jesus.
The punishment meant for the guilty falls on the innocent.
And Barabbas disappears from the story—not because he mattered less, but because his role has been fulfilled.
He is free.
And that is the gospel.
The gospel is not that the innocent are rewarded.
The gospel is that the guilty are released.
Barabbas does nothing to earn this.
He does not repent in the text.
He does not confess.
He does not promise to change.
Grace comes to him uninvited.
And that is what makes this moment so unsettling—and so beautiful.
Barabbas is not just a character in the story. He is the explanation of the story. This is why Jesus remains silent. This is why Pilate’s questions go unanswered. This is why the crowd’s rage cannot stop what is happening.
Jesus is not losing control.
He is taking someone else’s place. And Matthew wants us to see that before we ever try to apply this passage morally, we must receive it personally.
The question this text asks is not,
“Would you have chosen Barabbas or Jesus?”
That question flatters us.
The real question is far more uncomfortable:
Which one are you?
If we are honest, we are not Pilate on the judgment seat.
We are not standing in the crowd with power to decide.
We are in the cell.
We are Barabbas.
We are the ones with a sentence hanging over us.
The ones who cannot undo what we have done.
The ones who stand guilty before a holy God.
And into that reality steps Jesus Christ.
The righteous one for the unrighteous.
The innocent for the guilty.
The Son of God for sinners.
The apostle Peter later writes, “Christ suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, that He might bring us to God.”
That is not theology in the abstract.
That is Barabbas walking free.
And it is you.
And it is me.
The cross is not primarily a demonstration of love—though it is that.
It is not primarily a call to moral improvement—though it transforms us.
The cross is first a substitution.
Someone dies so that someone else may live.
And once you see that, everything changes.
Because grace does not begin with effort. It begins with release.
Barabbas does not walk out carrying a list of conditions.
He walks out carrying his life.
And the only appropriate response to that kind of grace is gratitude and surrender.
Not fear. Not bargaining. Not delay. Just trust.
The gospel does not ask you to clean yourself up before you come out of the cell. It announces that the door is already open.
And the final question this passage leaves us with is not about Pilate’s failure or the crowd’s rage.
It is this:
Will you walk out free?
Jesus has already taken your place.
