Palm Sunday - Whom do you choose—Jesus or Barabbas?

It’s no accident that during the reading of the Passion, when the parts are divided among the congregation, we all cry out, “Not this man, but Barabbas!” That line is not merely a historical echo. It’s not some ancient provincial dispute between a prophet and the people of a corner of the Roman Empire. This moment is not simply about something that the Jews did, or that the Romans did. This is something we do.

When we enter into the liturgy of Holy Week, we are not just recalling the past—we are living the Passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. And so, in this liturgy, we all participate in that cry: “Not this man, but Barabbas!” Release Barabbas to us.

It was the custom at that time for the Roman governor, during the feast of Passover—the holiest feast of Israel—to release one prisoner to the people, whoever they chose. Pilate had intended to release Jesus, but the crowd shouted, “Release to us Barabbas!”

Some ancient commentators suggest that “Barabbas” was not just a name but a title—perhaps even that his full name was Jesus Barabbas. Bar-Abbas means “son of the father.” So the people may have been choosing between Jesus Barabbas, a revolutionary called “son of the father,” and Jesus of Nazareth, who claimed to be the Son of God.

Two figures with superficially similar names—but in truth, utterly different missions. Barabbas sought to bring about the kingdom of God through violence. He believed in the sword. He believed in killing to achieve his vision. Christ offered something else entirely.

And that’s the choice set before us. Each of us must choose—and I contend that very often, we choose Barabbas.

We choose the way of Barabbas when we’re confronted with people who frustrate us. We choose the way of Barabbas when someone cuts us off in traffic. We choose the way of Barabbas when we feel neglected or insulted. We choose anger.

And anger feels good. When we’re wronged, or mistreated, or offended, anger makes us feel powerful. It gives us a sense of righteousness and control. It promises a solution. But in reality, it solves nothing. It only makes things worse.

That’s what Jesus is getting at when He says to the women of Jerusalem, “Do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.” Because what came next was devastating: the followers of Barabbas—the zealots—believed they could throw off Roman rule through force. They seized Jerusalem. They turned the temple into a fortress. They believed they could win with violence.

Instead, they were slaughtered. Their children were slaughtered. The nation was ruined.

And yet the Christians—those Jews who had followed Jesus—remembered His words. “When you see these things, flee to the hills.” And they did. They followed Christ’s way of peace, not Barabbas’s way of violence.

That’s the invitation set before each of us as we enter Holy Week: To follow the way of peace, the way of love. Not the way of anger and resentment.

And this is hard—even in small things. When someone offends us or treats us unfairly, it is easy—and satisfying—to give in to anger. But just like in the time of Jesus, anger doesn’t solve our problems. It doesn’t bring peace. It only creates more turmoil.

But there is another way. Jesus Christ offers us a different path.

And that path is always available to us. Even if we’ve spent years choosing anger, even if it’s become a habit—even if it’s the first instinct that comes to mind—it doesn’t have to stay that way.

We can choose differently.

Jesus, while being crucified, prayed: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” He made excuses for the very people killing Him. And yet I can’t even make excuses for someone cutting me off in traffic. I immediately jump to the worst interpretation: He hates me. He hates my race. He hates the color of my car.

We all do this. Even if we don’t say it aloud—even if we’re somewhat self-controlled—it brews in our hearts.

But the way of Jesus says: “Father, forgive them.” “They don’t know what they’re doing.”

We can respond like that too—to the person who insults us, who misunderstands us, who contradicts us. We can respond with peace. We can respond with love. We can make excuses for them. We have that power.

And if we do that, we will be better for it. We will experience peace ourselves. We will begin to live the only real solution.

Think again of Barabbas. His rebellion failed. He didn’t bring liberation. He brought devastation. But the followers of Jesus did overthrow the Roman Empire—not with swords, not through politics, not by revolution, but by love. By offering something better.

Rome became Christian—not by accident, and not by force—but because people saw a better way.

That is the invitation Christ offers you. That’s why we’ve walked the path of Lent—to become better people. Not to change the world to make ourselves feel better, but to change ourselves. To stop saying, “I wouldn’t be angry if it weren’t for those people.” No. You choose whether or not to be angry. You can be different. You can be better.

If Christ, the most innocent man in the history of the world, could forgive those who falsely accused, condemned, and crucified Him—then we can forgive in the small persecutions, the small frustrations, the daily irritations we face.

We can love. To love is to get over myself. To love is to give myself. To accept what comes, not to fight it.

There are times when we must resist injustice—when we must defend the innocent. But even then, we must not act out of anger. We must act out of love—love even for the ones who are hurting themselves by hurting others.

Christ offers us His peace. He offers us His love. He offers us redemption.

It’s up to us to accept it. And if we do, we ourselves become the beginning of the solution. We ourselves begin to radiate the peace of Christ. We ourselves begin to spread His love.

And only in that way will the world become what we—and especially Christ—long for it to be.