Barrabas. Nothing Has Changed.

Barabbas. I’d never heard of him. Not sure why his name crossed my path this weekend, but it did, and I had to know more. So, I dug around, curious about this guy who seemed to carry such weight in a story I’d somehow missed. Turns out, Barabbas was bad news. Not just your run-of-the-mill troublemaker—he was a rebel, a criminal, a man who thrived on chaos.

He wasn’t in prison for petty theft or a simple misstep. Barabbas had been locked up for leading a violent uprising, one that left blood in the streets and fear in its wake. The Gospels call him a “notable prisoner,” which feels like a polite way of saying “the guy you don’t want to meet in a dark alley.” And yet, when it came time for the crowd to choose—release Jesus of Nazareth, a teacher who preached about love and forgiveness, or release Barabbas, a man whose life revolved around rebellion and violence—they didn’t hesitate. They chose Barabbas.

Why? That’s the part that gets under my skin. The crowd didn’t love Barabbas because he was good or honest. They loved him because he told them what they wanted to hear, never to be confused with the truth. He played to their fears, their anger, their frustration. He gave them simple answers to complex problems, wrapped up in bold lies and easy promises. And they ate it up.

Barabbas wasn’t about truth; he was about manipulation. When he led that uprising, he didn’t use logic or reason. He preyed on emotions—stoking fear, feeding anger, spinning tales of freedom and victory that had no basis in reality. He made himself a hero in their eyes, the man who would deliver them from Roman rule. It didn’t matter that his rebellion brought more harm than good. It didn’t matter that his promises were hollow. What mattered was that he told them what they needed to believe in that moment.

And when the choice came—Barabbas, the charismatic liar, or Jesus, the man of hard truths—the crowd took the easy way out. Jesus spoke of sacrifice, introspection, and the kind of love that demands something of you. Barabbas, on the other hand, gave them permission to rage, to feel righteous without reflection, to indulge in their anger without accountability. Choosing Barabbas meant they didn’t have to change. They didn’t have to do anything.

The more I think about it, the more this story feels... uncomfortably familiar. It’s not just about ancient Jerusalem. It’s about us—right now, today. The allure of comforting lies over challenging truths. The temptation to follow someone who reflects our anger, our impatience, our desires, even when we know, deep down, that they’re not telling the truth.

And here’s the part I didn’t expect: this story gives me comfort. Maybe because it’s a reminder that humanity has always struggled with these choices. Maybe because it tells me I’m not alone in my frustration with those gaudy lawn signs that scream hatred, or in my struggle to live up to my better angels, who I have kicked out of the house without a second glance. I’ll be honest: forgiveness is hard for me. Some days, I want to burn those signs to the ground. But every day is another chance to choose differently. Another lesson to learn.

Barabbas reminds me how easy it is to take the wrong path, how seductive it is to follow the loudest voice instead of the truest one. But he also reminds me that I always have a choice. Ok, forget it. Church is over. I do not forgive. Maybe tomorrow.