5/20/62

Scripture: Mark 15: 1-15

Sometimes a few bars of music from a popular air, or a measure which is used as the theme of some fine music classic, will start ringing over and over again in your mind’s ear. And you hear it many times over in your imagination. It was so with me when, for a time during rehearsals of our choir’s Easter Cantata, “The Resurrection,” I could hear, over and over again, just the way we sang it, “Give us Barabbas; Give us Barabbas; and as for Jesus, crucify him!” That theme was repeated several times in the actual singing of the cantata. It repeated itself, more than that, in my ear!

There has been no small amount of speculation, through the years, about this man mentioned so briefly in the New Testament. He is real enough as a New Testament figure. All four of the gospels refer to him. Yet very little is said about him. In the book of John, all we find is this: “Now Barabbas was a robber.” [John 18: 40]. Matthew [27: 16] calls Barabbas “a notorious prisoner.” Mark and Luke credit him with having taken part in an insurrection of some sort -- perhaps even having been a leader in such an incident.

At any rate, Barabbas was in trouble. He had been captured. If, indeed, he had had anything to do with an insurrection, he was almost certainly doomed to die on a cross. For the Roman governors usually saw to it that any insurrection or rebellion against Roman authority was punished by whole rows of crosses. This eliminated some of the rebels, and served as a stern and terrible warning to all others of the conquered people.

Barabbas had been a nationalist -- a sort of “Judea for the Judeans” fellow. Whatever the insurrection or uprising may have been, he had evidently shed blood or committed murder in connection with the event. So there was really no hope for life, since he was captured. There are some students of the Bible who argue a probability that Barabbas was also named “Jesus.” The name, “Jesus,” was fairly commonly used among the people of that time and place. And the scholars suggest that “Barabbas” is only the surname of a man whose given name may have been Jesus. This, they say, explains why Pilate when he was ready to release a prisoner to the Jews, asked: “Will you have Barabbas or Jesus who is called Christ” -- as if to say, “which Jesus do you want?”

At any rate it is an intriguing thought --- that people in that courtyard, and people here and now -- you and I --- may have been confronted with such a choice: which Jesus? The man who is a robber, a rebel, a murderer, a strong arm man; or the man who is the Christ, the righteous one, the strong spirit man?

It was a shrewd custom which the Roman governor had -- that of releasing one prisoner in the year, near the time of the great Jewish festival, the Passover. This one act of apparent mercy --- this gesture of great-handed generosity --- was meant to curry favor with these subject people, and to make them forget some of the harsh cruelty of the foreign rulers.

The people in the courtyard remembered the custom and some apparently asked Pilate for the release now. Pilate readily assented, for he seemed sure that Jesus of Nazareth would be the one to be released. He could find no legal fault in the prisoner. Surely, after a trial, a warning, and perhaps a scourging, the accusers would be satisfied that Jesus of Nazareth had been punished enough. But he reckoned without several considerations.

For one thing, the temple leaders were determined to be rid of this Jesus. They had probably “planted” men among the crowd of people as “criers” to do their bidding. They were to shout for the release of Barabbas, and they were to insist on the crucifixion of Jesus.

For another thing, Barabbas appears to have been an insurrectionist. Anybody who was connected with the effort to free the Jews of Roman rule would have the sympathy of the masses. He was one of their secret heroes. Of course they wanted his release! So Pilate was reduced to sentencing the accused Jesus, or to releasing him in the face of such heavy opposition that he could ill afford such hostility. Accordingly, he washed his hands of guilt for Jesus’ death and turned him over to the military executioners. Barabbas, he released.

One wonders what Barabbas did next. Did he go home forthwith, uninterested in what happened to the other prisoner, sparing no thought for him, as many do? Or did he stand among the others at Calvary, looking up at the man hanging there where, but for Jesus Christ, he himself would surely have hung? How did he react to the fact that Jesus, quite literally, died in his place?

Scholars keep telling us that the language of the New Testament is such as to remind us that Jesus died “on behalf of” us rather than “in place of” us. But for Barabbas there was no such distinction. Jesus was offering his life on behalf of all people, including Barabbas. But for him, it was also an offering “in place of” Barabbas.

This atoning quality of the event is effective for us as well. And it is not possible for the distinction made by scholars to hold entirely. For Jesus, in a sense did die in place of us as well as on behalf of us. His spirit is the chief alternative to the rule of brute force.

Ten days from now, on Memorial Day, we shall be holding in special remembrance those who have given their lives in the service of our country. And we will do well to remind ourselves and each other that men who fell in battle gave their lives not only in behalf of us who survive to enjoy the benefits of freedom, but that they quite literally spent their lives in place of us. For, without their sacrifice, we should, in all probability, have been called upon to endure the horrors that befell the peoples who were overrun and beaten down by the cruel and power-mad forces that, for a time, dominated vast portions of Europe and Asia.

In our effort to remember what the cross means for us, it is wise to keep our eye on Barabbas, and what it meant for him. And so, though little is said in the New Testament about Barabbas, there is much more that we can know about him, if we stop to think of it. For in this zealot, we can see a symbol of ageless truths.

John Bodo suggests that, for one thing, Barabbas stands as symbol of the frustration of the Little Man in the face of Big Power. This power, structured and entrenched, is apparent in any open dictatorship, ancient or modern.

In ancient times a dictatorship could perhaps be more honest about its power. Caesar did not have to justify himself before masses of people -- most of whom were slaves anyway. He did not have to spend time and money in propaganda, convincing his subjects that what he did was for their own good.

Today’s tyrants are different. They take pains to justify themselves before the bar of what they call public opinion. They shout “there is conspiracy and treachery among us.” Or the “peril to our nation calls for costly sacrifice on the part of every loyal citizen.” They borrow the language of representative government in order to keep the Little Man fired up and in line.

Now and then the Little Man of East Germany goes berserk and hurls rocks at a tank, or his counterpart in Spain or South Africa commits acts of foredoomed rebellion. It is no wonder that he lashes out in blind fury; but his defeat is sure unless he has something to offer above and beyond his violence.

Barabbas stands as a symbol of this. He had apparently taken part in an insurrection -- had even murdered a person, or persons, in connection with the uprising. And all he gained was his own capture and probable execution.

We of this generation are faced with the urgency of considering what the Little Man of our time needs and must have, be he Black in this country or in Africa; or be he of any other race anywhere. We are heavily impressed with the necessity for use of force without realizing how heavy is our vested interest in armament. A thoughtful writer reminds us that 10% of our labor force in this nation is now winning bread by working for the military establishment, directly or indirectly. Former Defense Secretary, Charles E. Wilson remarked, “One of the most serious things about this defense business is that so many Americans are getting a vested interest in it.”

We need to consider carefully whether we have a commitment to violence so heavy that we can hardly bring ourselves to discuss large scale disarmament; or ways to build permanent peace.

Bodo reminds one that Barabbas, again, stands as a symbol of the politics of justice. In a time when civil liberties are being undermined by champions of hysteria and total conformity, our system of laws and our courts of law need and deserve all the support we can give them.

But there are changes in the expression of justice and in court decisions. And they are not entirely beyond the influence of current political discussion. Remember that it was the Supreme Court of our nation that, in 1896, confirmed the “separate but equal” status as a proper relation between the white and the black races of this country. It was also the Supreme Court which in 1954 threw out that doctrine as unworthy of democracy. The difference between these two decisions, 58 years apart, is in considerable measure, political. In 1896, the United States was simply not ready, politically, for the concept of justice embodied in the 1954 decision.

The politics of justice appears in cruder form in the case of Barabbas. Pilate appears to have kept trying to set Jesus free. But the mob, incited by some Jewish leaders, threatened him with political reprisals. “If you release this man [that is, Jesus]” they shouted, “you are not Caesar’s friend; every one who makes himself a king sets himself against Caesar.”

And so Pilate’s conscience buckled and collapsed. The politics of justice justified the release of Barabbas. And so it was he who escaped execution -- not Jesus of Nazareth. Barabbas illustrates certain features of the human scene: the frustration of the Little Man in the face of Big Power; the trust in violence and its futility; and the influence of political reality on the theory and practice of justice.

But, more significant than these is a further illustration in the experience of Barabbas. It is in the doctrine of the atonement. For Barabbas was the man who could most truly and vividly have said, “Christ died for me.” Probably the ability of Barabbas to interpret the death of Christ was limited. He may have thought only of his own unbelievably good fortune. Or he may have thought, realistically, that Jesus of Nazareth was dying in his place. Or he may have been superstitious enough to think that the stars had great plans for him after all. “Next time we strike, we will win; and then woe to all Romans and their Jewish hangers-on!”

There is the thousand to one chance that he may have perceived a more profound meaning for him in the death of Christ. He may have realized that Jesus was not just dying in his place, but for his sake! In other words, the substitution of Jesus-bar-Joseph for Jesus-bar-Abbas may have had an important effect on the latter. If Jesus was giving his life for Barabbas, it might behoove Barabbas to acknowledge and respond to his gift.

But what could he do about it? He could do nothing to save Jesus. Even if he might have become an expert in guerrilla warfare, there was no possibility of a late rallying of forces to bring about an escape for Jesus. Anyway, Jesus had consistently turned his back on escape.

Again, Barabbas could do nothing to repay Jesus. He had nothing to offer, unless it be gratitude.

He could be thankful, if he were so minded. And if he were so minded, he would have been on the threshold of Christian understanding. But we can only guess whether or not he was. For, who likes to be thankful? And, particularly, who likes to be helplessly thankful? This would have been hard for Barabbas, just as it is hard for us!

But what if Barabbas had been able to take the leap? What if he had been able to say, with many who have come since, “Christ died for my sins?” Then he could easily have fallen into the same trap that has taken in so many who think of Christ’s death as “for me.” One of the dangers of preoccupation over the doctrine that Christ died for “my sins” is that fear of retribution will vanish. Pity takes the place of justice.

A Christmas Oratorio by W. H. Anden [For the Time Being] includes the lines: “every corner-boy will congratulate himself, ‘I’m such a sinner that God had to come down in person to save me. I must be a devil of a fellow!’ Every crook will argue, ‘I like committing crimes. God likes to forgive them. Really, the world is admirably arranged.’”

Well, that sounds like poetic license; but no more so than the sentiment in a lot of the 19th and early 20th century gospel hymns. The doggerel that poses there as religious poetry revels in shameless pride -- pride in being so sinful. That sentiment finds echo in one of the stage dramas that does not rank among my favorites. But one of the lines in the play “Tobacco Road” makes a no-account fella remark, “I reckon I am just about the most sinful man in this county.” Strange - what occasion’s man’s pride! And this is a danger in the position that Christ came to save me from my sins -- that he came to save me. It is true, but can I stand it alone without falling farther from grace?

There is an antidote for this flagrant distortion of God’s saving act in Christ Jesus. Whenever one says, sweetly or belligerently: “Christ died for me,” we may, if we will, quietly counter, “Christ died for us.” That little difference - the replacing of the pronoun from singular to plural, gives us an invaluable clue.

What about Barabbas standing as a symbol of the Little Man in the face of Big Power? A “for me” doctrine offers consolation mainly in the hereafter. Hence Karl Marx’s jibe about religion as the opiate of the people. But if we see Christ’s death as a revelation of God’s redemptive love for all men, we will be seized with what the Quakers call a “concern.” We will go beyond a cup of cold water for the Little Men of the world, to the position where we make common concern with them.

Our Lord made common concern with all sorts of people whom the Sadducees found socially unpalatable and the Pharisees considered religiously naive. We will be not so much concerned to see Little Men kept “in their place” as to find out how they may have a rightful share in life as a whole.

A “for me” Christian may be able to face even martyrdom for a cause. But a “for us” Christian will make common cause with all sorts of people and movements which seek justice in the earth.

And in the face of the politics of justice where a “for me” Christian has little to offer except resignation and self-righteous abstention, the “for us” Christian will plunge into the political scene with those people and movements that make and observe and enforce the righteous laws of the community. For true religion is not alone a private transaction between God and me. It is the kind of leaven that moves a whole society to help the Supreme Court to hew to its 1954 line; that safeguards civil liberties; that resists communism with dynamic Christianity; that makes of the church a force that is far more than a tame chaplain of the status quo.

It may be that we have come a long way, this morning from the Barabbas described in a few New Testament sentences. But Barabbas could have become what we must become if God is to have any redemptive use for us in His Kingdom.

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Delivered in Wisconsin Rapids, May 20, 1962