Barabbas' Tale Part One

A man sat in the floor of his cold damp cell. The stone walls were covered in tally marks and profanity and the packed dirt floor reeked of blood and urine. He could hear the cries and coughs of his fellow prisoners echoing through the corridors of the prison. Those sounds didn’t bother him. The water dripping into a puddle just on the other side of the heavy wooden cell door did bother him. It was relentless. Regardless of the day or the hour, that sound was his constant companion.

Prison was not for the faint of heart. If one wasn’t in peril because of the guards or the other prisoners, one was in peril on account of the rats. The man’s eyes wandered to the row of rat tails hanging from the mortar joints in his cell walls. He was not the faint of heart. He was a murderer, not just of rats, but of people. And he was a thief. He was just biding his time in prison until execution day, or days rather. No one ever seemed to die in just one day.

He might not have long to wait. Rumor on the block was that they were organizing an execution party right now and there were three slots available. One for each of the two thieves down the hall and the other most likely for him. He deserved it and he knew it.

“It’s about time,” he grumbled through fear and disdain. “Better to die then to rot away in this hole.”

“Barabbas,” the guard interrupted his train of thought. “You’ve been summoned.”

Barabbas, for that was the prisoner’s name, groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. He breathed sharply through clenched teeth as he slowly made his way to the entrance of the cell. He turned his back away from the door and placed his hands behind his back. His eyes scanned the room as he heard the metallic scraping of the heavy latch disengaging. He waited to feel the cold steel of the wrought iron shackles against his skin. Instead, he felt the warmth of the Roman guard’s hand on his bare shoulder.

“This way, Barabbas,” he instructed.

Confused, Barabbas turned and followed the guard. He expected to turn right out of the cell because that was the way of the condemned prisoner. Instead, he turned left. The guard led him down the corridor, up a flight of dirty stone steps, and through a doorway into the blinding light of the sunrise.

Barabbas looked across the courtyard at a group of soldiers. In the center of the group was a man, stripped to his loincloth, and covered in blood. Barabbas stopped in his tracks and stared. He didn’t recognize the man. In addition to the loincloth, he wore a wreath of desert thorns just above his ears. The brambles of the makeshift crown dug deep into his head. One soldier struck him from behind with a staff. He cried out in pain and fell to his hands and knees. He looked up and locked eyes with Barabbas. Time seemed to freeze. Blood and dirt matted in his eyebrows and bruises were starting to show on his face. His left eye was almost swollen shut. Barabbas had never seen this man before, but the man acted as though he had known Barabbas his whole life. Barabbas felt pity for the man, and this surprised him because he had not felt pity in years. Still, the compassion Barabbas saw in the other man’s eyes eclipsed the compassion he had seen in the eyes of his own mother.  Barabbas continued to stare into the eyes of the stranger until he saw something more than compassion. He saw love.

“Hey, Barabbas,” the guard interjected. “Better stop staring or they’ll think you want to join in.”

“Who is that man?” Barabbas questioned his guide.

“Jesus, I think,” the guard replied. “Claims to be the king of the Jews.”

“Is that why he’s being beaten and scourged like that?” Barabbas pressed.

“I’m not really sure,” the guard shrugged. “The Jewish religious leaders want him crucified, so Pilate’s giving them what they want.” The guard opened the courtyard gate and stood to the side. He handed Barabbas a piece of paper and continued. “You’re free to go. Here are your release papers. If I were you, I’d keep a low profile for a while. I still can’t believe they chose you.”

Before Barabbas had a chance to ask for clarification, he found himself on the other side of the iron gate watching the guard walk away. He stroked his raggedy beard, ran his finger through his flea infested hair, and turned away from the prison. He walked down a dusty ally, confused about what had just happened. Release papers? He should be executed. They chose him? Who did? Why? Who was Jesus and why was he being beaten?

He rounded the corner and tripped over a foot. He turned to apologize and found a man sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped around his knees. The man, who hadn’t even noticed Barabbas, was sobbing into his robe.

“He said I would deny him three times before the rooster crowed,” he cried as he tried to catch his breath. “I swore I would die with him, but he was right. The rooster crowed. I failed him, my friend and my savior.”

“Who said?” Barabbas pressed.

The man caught his breath and looked up at Barabbas. He struggled to his feet and turned down the ally.

“Who said?!” Barabbas called after him. “Who did you deny?”

Barabbas got no answer. The man ran away leaving a trail of dust.

Barabbas stood for a moment as he tried to get his bearings. He thought that in a city this old, things would never change, but he’d experienced the darkness of incarceration so long, the whole world looked different. He turned in a circle, looking for something familiar. Finally, he just picked a direction and went with it. The narrow street was on a moderate incline. Having never been one to choose the easy path, he walked uphill. He rounded the corner of the Roman barracks and stopped dead in his tracks. The square before him was packed with people. Some of them tried to give the appearance of indifference as they milled about around the edge of the mob. The rest of the crowd had been worked up into a frenzy.

Someone nearby cried out “Crucify Him!” Barabbas turned to run, thinking the call was for him. The crowd echoed the call of the instigator as the temple Pharisees stood to the side and nodded their approval. Barabbas stopped as soon as he realized that no one was chasing him. The call for death was apparently not for him. He turned back to the crowd to watch. Soon, the sea of people parted as if Moses himself were there. A clear path opened up between Barabbas the killer and the man he would come to recognize as Jesus the condemned King.

Jesus was covered in sweat and blood as he struggled under the weight of the cross he bore. He fought to put one foot in front of the other as the soldiers goaded him and the crowd spat on him as he passed by. The humiliation was palpable and weighed heavy on the heart of Barabbas. Barabbas didn’t understand why this man’s plight resonated so intensely with him. He didn’t know the man, but their fates seemed somehow intertwined. Barabbas knew that cross was his to bear. Instead, Jesus carried it for him, and the brutal death that came with it.

“Hey,” a bystander addressed the freed criminal. “You’re Barabbas, aren’t you?” Barabbas nodded with some hesitation. “Lucky break for you, huh?” the man continued. “Who would have though that the people would find someone they hated more than you?”

“What do you mean?” Barabbas questioned.

“They didn’t tell you?” the man replied. “The crowd decided to have you released instead of that teacher. They were given the choice between you and Jesus. They wanted him dead so badly, they begged for your freedom. That cross he’s carrying was meant for you.”

With that final statement, the stranger turned away and followed the mob through the streets of the city, leaving Barabbas to bare the full weight of his circumstances on his own. Barabbas dropped to the ground and sobbed. This man, who had already been so badly beaten, would die a horrific death, literally on the cross meant for Barabbas. Barabbas had heard stories about this Jesus. His work had reached even the closed hearts and minds of Roman guards who staffed the prison. Everyone knew about the sick he had healed, the hungry he had fed, and the dead he had raised. Jesus was the last person who should die on a cross and he was there in place of a killer and a thief, a lowlife worthy of death.

Barabbas didn’t move from that spot all day. He didn’t need to go to the Place of the Skull. He knew the horrors Jesus would suffer. He was barely phased when the sun went dark. He knew at that moment that Jesus had died. A temple messenger had darted past him in the dark and returned sometime later with the Pharisees. He heard them mumbling and worrying about the veil in the temple. He didn’t understand why that was so important. He didn’t move from his place on the ground until a man named Joseph approached him.

“Excuse me,” he greeted Barabbas. “Were you not part of the crowd that witnessed the death of Jesus of Nazareth?”

“No,” Barabbas sighed. “I was the man who should have died on his cross.”

“I see,” Joseph replied. “Perhaps you would be willing to help me.  You see, Jesus is dead. I have gotten permission from Pilate to take him down from his cross and lay him to rest in my tomb. It must be done today because tomorrow is the Sabbath. Would you please help me with his body?”

Barabbas nodded and stood up. He followed Joseph up the hill to the crest of Golgotha. Tears streamed down his face as he stared at the naked body of his savior. The coppery smell of blood and the sour scent of vinegar were thick in the air. The sight of Jesus’ lifeless body was almost more than the ex-con could bear. Blood and water still dripped from a gaping wound in his side, but his legs lacked the telltale trauma found in the legs of the thieves on either side. This man had died without the aid of the leg breakers.

Joseph pulled a long length of linen from his satchel. He climbed up a ladder and draped the linen across the torso of the dead man, under his arms, and over the horizontal member of the cross. The two ends of the linen hit the ground on either side of the bloody post. Barabbas knew what to do. He grabbed one end in each hand and pulled the linen tight. Joseph, having already removed the nail from Jesus feet, placed a spike through the nail hole from the back side of the cross and pounded. Three, four, five strikes and Jesus’ left arm fell free. Barabbas pulled the linen tight as he felt the weight of the body. Joseph repeated the process with the right hand. Barabbas, bearing the body of his savior, began to cry.

Joseph climbed down the ladder with tears in his own eyes. He nodded to Barabbas who lowered the body into Joseph’s arms. Barabbas helped Joseph lay Jesus’ body onto a stretcher. He turned to look at the cross. The wood of the death structure was stained red from the blood of its charge. The nails lay on the ground at the foot of the cross. Barabbas, knowing the nails would be reused for some common criminal, picked them up and held them in his hands. They were sticky with blood. He pulled his arm back and threw the nails as far away as he could. He turned back to Joseph and nodded. They picked up the stretcher and carried the body of Jesus Christ down the hill.