Roman crucifixion wasn’t meant for petty thieves or pickpockets. It was a punishment reserved for enemies of the state—those who dared to defy the empire. The cross wasn’t about correction; it was about humiliation. Rome lifted its victims high, not to honor them, but to make a point. Every nail was propaganda. Every cross a warning. Every scream a reminder of Caesar’s power.

That’s why Barabbas was there. He wasn’t a lunatic or some random criminal. He was a revolutionary—a zealot, maybe even a leader among the Sicarii, the dagger-men who struck Roman soldiers in crowded places and called it holy. Some saw him as a hero, others as a murderer. The Gospels describe him as a man of insurrection and bloodshed. Rome would have called him a terrorist. But among certain Jews, he may have been seen as a patriot—the kind of man who dared to do what others only whispered about.

When the crowd gathered outside Pilate’s gate that morning, they all knew his name. The air was heavy with dust and politics. Pilate, desperate to calm the chaos, offered a choice. “Whom do you want me to release to you—Barabbas, or Jesus who is called the Christ?” He thought the answer would be obvious. Surely they would pick the healer over the killer. But the religious leaders had already done their work. Driven by fear of losing their power, terrified that Jesus would expose their hypocrisy, they whispered their lies until those whispers became a roar.

“Give us Barabbas!”

“Crucify Him!”

The words rang through the courtyard, bouncing off stone walls, growing louder with every echo. In that moment, the decision of humanity was laid bare. The guilty would go free, and the innocent would take his place.

I can almost see Barabbas—hands shackled, heart racing, waiting for the sentence he knew he deserved. And then suddenly—freedom. Chains falling. Soldiers pushing him toward the sunlight. Maybe he turned back for a second, just long enough to make eye contact with the quiet man standing where he had stood. Jesus knew He was innocent. Barabbas knew he was guilty. And yet one walked away free while the other carried his cross.

The irony is almost unbearable. The crowd chose the wrong savior and never realized it. They picked the man who tried to save Israel by taking life and condemned the One who would save the world by giving His. Barabbas was the Messiah they wanted. Jesus was the Messiah they needed.

Among Jesus’s own followers was Simon the Zealot, a man who once believed that freedom could only come through blood. He had carried that same fire, maybe even the same kind of dagger under his robe. But Jesus called him, not to kill for Him, but to follow Him. Not to fight Rome, but to learn love. Simon discovered that zeal without grace destroys, but zeal redeemed by grace transforms. In Simon, Jesus redeemed the passion. In Barabbas, He absorbed it. Two men from the same fire—one changed by mercy, the other freed by it.

That afternoon, three crosses stood against a darkened sky. The center cross had been meant for Barabbas. The others likely for his accomplices. When Barabbas walked away, Jesus took his place—dying between two men from the same rebellion. These men likely knew of Jesus, at least by reputation. He was not an unknown. Word of His miracles and His teaching had spread far beyond Galilee. Perhaps they’d even seen Him once in the city streets, talking of a kingdom that didn’t sound like Rome’s or Israel’s. And now, here they were—dying beside the very man who embodied it.

One of them joined the jeering crowd. “If You’re really the Christ, save Yourself—and us.” His heart had already chosen Barabbas’s way. He wanted a Savior who performed, not one who bled. Pain and regret and the weight of his own choices had hardened his heart. But the other thief saw something deeper. Maybe it was the way Jesus prayed for His executioners. Maybe it was the calm in His eyes. Whatever it was, he turned his head, broken and breathless, and whispered, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.”

That word—Lord—was everything. It wasn’t sarcasm or desperation. It was surrender. In a single breath, he acknowledged Jesus as King, even while the King hung dying beside him. It was a declaration that went against everything his eyes could see and everything the world believed. He saw a man bleeding and called Him Lord. He saw a dying body and called it a kingdom. In that moment, faith itself took its first breath.

No speeches. No conditions. Just surrender.

And Jesus turned to him and said, “Today you will be with Me in paradise.” No delay. No explanation. Just love answering faith.

Three men. Three crosses. Three responses to the same grace. Barabbas used freedom for himself. One thief used pain, his life’s circumstances, and the consequences of his own choices to harden his heart. The other used that same pain to open his. And Jesus died on Barabbas’s cross, between Barabbas’s brothers, for Barabbas’s sin.

It’s hard not to wonder what Simon the Zealot thought that day. Did he watch from the crowd, remembering who he used to be? Did he see, in the dying thief’s surrender, a reflection of his own transformation? He had once believed the Kingdom would come through the sword. Now he saw the true King bringing it through sacrifice. That’s what love does—it conquers by surrender. The revolution had begun, not with daggers but with forgiveness. Not with swords but with scars.

Reflection

Barabbas wasn’t the villain in this story. He was us. We were the guilty ones set free because the innocent took our place. But freedom always leads to a choice. Will we live like Barabbas—free but unchanged? Will we cling to bitterness like the mocking thief—demanding God prove Himself before we believe? Or will we bow like the repentant one—honest, broken, and willing to whisper, “Remember me”?

That’s where grace lives—not in perfection, but in presence. Papa never forces love. He invites it. And every day, He stands before us, not demanding loyalty but offering relationship. The question isn’t whether He’s real—it’s whether we’ll let Him be more than our rescuer. Will we let Him be our Father?

If you ever want to know what love looks like, look at the cross meant for Barabbas. That’s what it cost to call you son. That’s what it cost to call you daughter. Grace still offers three choices. The question is which one you’ll make.

Prayer

Papa,

Thank You for taking my place when I didn’t even know what You were saving me from. Thank You for loving me before I loved You, for freeing me even when I would’ve chosen the wrong kind of freedom. Help me not to live like Barabbas—free but unchanged. Help me not to sound like the mocking thief—demanding proof instead of trust. Teach me to see like the repentant one—to find grace even in pain, and to whisper, “Remember me.”

Because I don’t just want You to save me. I want to know You. I want to walk with You. I want to call You Papa.

Amen.