Written by Joe A. Sumners
July 27, 1981
[Ron Sumners delivered this monologue dressed as Barabbas might have looked a day after the crucification of Christ - with robe, sandals, and beard.]
My name is Barabbas. Please excuse my appearance. I have been traveling since I left Jerusalem yesterday and am exhausted and confused over things that have happened the past week. I have seen and felt so much that I must tell someone. Please allow me a few moments so that I may tell you my story.
To begin, I am, and have always been, a devout Jew. I was taught in my village synagogue to the know the law and prophets by heart. I have long awaited the Promised One of God, our Messiah. In my youth, I fervently prayed for this Messiah to come and lead my people in battle, and overthrow the Romans. But from my childhood I have felt only the humiliation and hopelessness of Roman oppression. Many times, I have felt that God had deserted us.
But oh, how my spirits soared when I heard the words of the Baptist. He gave me hope and courage as he spoke boldly, criticizing the Roman and Jewish authorities. He spoke with the power and authority that could have only come from God. I immediately followed him. I was convinced that he was the Messiah. But as I continued to follow and listen to his preaching I became perplexed. Instead of building an army, he denied that he was the Messiah, claiming only to be a messenger preparing the way for the one promised by the prophets. The words crushed my spirit. If John the Baptist was not the Messiah, then when would God hear our cries and send a deliverer? How long would we suffer?
The day I first saw the Nazarene Jesus was a warm spring day and the Baptist was at the Jordan River, baptizing those who responded to his message of repentance. When John saw that Jesus had arrived, he stopped his preaching, pointed to the Nazarene, and said, “Behold the Christ!” It was then that Jesus walked to the edge of the pool and asked to be baptized. The Baptist was reluctant, saying, “You should be baptizing me.” But John did baptize Jesus and there was no doubt that this was the one of whom John had spoken. From that day, I began to follow Jesus. I persuaded many from my village to follow also, for surely this was the Promised One. He would lead us to victory over the Romans.
Several weeks of following the Nazarene throughout the countryside left me heartsick. Although he was obviously brilliant and spoke words that touched my heart, I became more and more convinced that he was not the Messiah. The man sought no soldiers. He readied no army. All he did was talk. But he talked not of revolution against Roman oppression, but of love, compassion, righteousness, and forgiveness. I grew more impatient. Unable to conceal my frustration any longer, I confronted Jesus and asked when he would establish his kingdom. His reply was the complete disappointment that I had feared – “My kingdom is not of this world.” Rome had nothing to fear from this man. So, I left.
My patience had reached an end. I could wait no longer for the promised King. I could no longer bear to see my people trampled under the boot of Rome. I decided that to die in rebellion was a better fate then being a slave to Pontius Pilate. My conscious would allow me to do nothing less. And I was not alone. There were others who were disillusioned with Jesus, who were willing to join with me and my zealot companions. We preached revolution against Rome and went throughout the countryside raising an army of Jewish resistance. Many joined our group but there were others who continued to follow Jesus.
Throughout my travels, I continued to hear reports of the Nazarene Jesus. I heard of miracles that he performed, and of how he spoke boldly against the hypocrisy of the Pharisees. Even though I had left disillusioned and disappointed, I knew that this was no ordinary man.
After spending about three years traveling through the countryside, I had raised what I believed was a formidable resistance. But as the movement grew larger, it became apparent that more money would be needed to arm our small band of soldiers. I knew that if we were to have any chance of success, we would need more weapons and supplies for our revolution.
In order to get the money we so desperately needed, I organized a small group of the most dedicated for a raid on the Roman Treasury in Jerusalem. I led six of my most loyal men to the outskirts of Jerusalem, where we planned our raid. It was the time of Passover and the city was beginning to fill with Jewish pilgrims. We hoped that the confusion of the crowds would improve our chances of success. Two days before the Passover feast, the six and I entered the city at dawn. The treasury was located in the palace of Pontius Pilate with the gold locked in a guarded vault. It was our plan to overpower the guards who stood watch and force entry to the vault.
Things did not go as we had planned. We were successful in gaining entry to the palace by killing two surprised guards at the entrance, but when we finally reached the vault, we faced what seemed to be an army of Roman soldiers. My men fought bravely, killing four Roman soldiers, but only myself and two of my men were spared. We were beaten and thrown into prison.
I envied the four of my men who had been killed in battle. Their deaths were quick and noble. The fate before me would be different. The sentence for killing a Roman citizen was death by crucifixion, a horrible death. I had seen many men hanging on those crude wooden crosses. I knew that the death facing me was one of the most humiliating and painful possible. I tried to think of other things, but I could only think of the pain of spikes being driven through my hands and then my feet. I prayed to God that I should die quickly and not suffer for days as I had seen others do. I tried to be brave and comfort my men, but I knew that their thoughts were the same as mine – we would soon die.
It was the next day when I heard the unmistakable sound of Roman boots thudding toward our cell. I breathed a deep sigh as soldiers came and unlocked the cell and told us to come. It was with much effort that I forced myself to rise on legs that wanted to crumble. A feeling of fear and doom enveloped me as I realized that very soon my dead body would be hanging on a Roman cross. The soldier repeated his command, “Come!” and I obeyed.
The soldiers carried us to a courtyard where we were met by a finely dressed Roman who I recognized to be an aide of Pontius Pilate. He explained that I was to remain, but that my two companions were to leave with the soldiers. After the two had left, he turned to me and said “You are free.” The Roman’s words were so unexpected and unbelievable that I did not understand. It would have been the same as if he had said, “You are a stone” or “You are a tree.” The sentence for murder was death, and by Roman law, I deserved to die.
The Roman must have read my mind, for he said “No, you will not die. You are free. Jesus of Nazareth will take your place on the cross. It is your custom to release one prisoner on Passover and it seems the Jewish mob wants Jesus crucified. So, Pilate has set you free. A fine example of Jewish justice. You are guilty, Jesus is innocent, even Pilate says so. But he will die in your place.”
“You are free.” The words echoed in my mind. I, of course, knew of the Roman custom of releasing a prisoner on Passover, but I still could not believe this sudden turn of events. I was free. I would not die.
I was in a daze as the soldier led me from the courtyard into the street. But once in the street, I suddenly became aware of shouting and pushing as if a riot was taking place. My first impulse was to run as far away from the city as my legs would carry me. But for some reason that I cannot describe, I was driven toward the hill of crucifixion, Golgotha, the place of the skull.
I moved along with the crowd and made my way as near to the place of the three wooden posts as I could. Suddenly above the sounds of the crowd, I heard the shouts of soldiers ordering the way to be cleared. As I turned toward this new excitement, I saw my former cellmates, each carrying on his back a wooden crossbeam, tied around their wrists by rope. They plodded along under the stare of Roman guards and the taunts and jeers of the frenzied mob.
Trailing some distance behind was the man I had left in Galilee. He was not carrying a crossbeam. Jesus was being supported by a Roman soldier on each side. The heavy beam was carried by a large black man who walked ahead of him. My first sight of Jesus in two years struck me with horror. He was almost unrecognizable. His back was a bloody pulp, with dirt caked on his legs and body. A ring of thorns was piercing into his forehead, with blood staining his bruised face. It seemed as if he had no strength in his legs as he was half-carried toward Golgotha.
Again, I had the urge to run, but I could not. I watched the as they laid the two robber-murderers on the ground and drive spikes into their wrists to secure them to the bam. They then placed them on the horizontal post and drove a long spike through both feet. Never will I forget those screams of agony.
When they did the same to Jesus, he did not utter a sound. In total revulsion, I watched this brilliant and innocent man lying on the ground with spikes through both hands as both Jews and Romans taunted him, laughing and spitting at him. Several soldiers struck him in the face before driving the long spike through his feet.
As he hung on the cross the jeers and shouts of the crowd became almost deafening. But they soon began to grow silent as they saw that Jesus was about to speak. I will always remember those words of Jesus, “Father, forgive them. They do not know what they are doing.”
The jeers and taunts began as before. They, unlike myself, were not affected by the words of Jesus. After a time, the crowd began to drift away, leaving only a few of us at the foot of the crosses. It seemed as if Jesus was saying something to one of the men being crucified alongside him, but I could not hear the conversation.
As I looked into the eyes of those two men who I had known, I saw agony, fear, and death. It was the same look I had seen on countless others who had faced this horrible death.
Then I looked into the eyes of Jesus. Although his face was bloodied and bruised, his eyes were clear, gentle, compassionate and full of love. I wanted to run. In my mind, I kept hearing the words of Pilate’s aide over and over, “This man is innocent. He is dying in your place.” The man looking down at me with eyes of love was hanging on the cross meant for me. This innocent man was dying in my place. I felt as though my heart would burst as I screamed, “OH GOD, IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ME! IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!”
When I looked up again, I saw his head fallen on his chest and knew that he was dead. It was then that I heard a Roman Centurion who was standing at the foot of the cross as he said, “Surely this was the Son of God!” Sometime later when soldiers came to break the legs of Jesus, this same Centurion thrust his sword through Jesus side to show them that he was dead. It was then that I was able to do what I had wanted for so long – I ran.
So now, I am here with you. The events of yesterday have confused me, excited me, and I believe changed me in ways that I do not yet understand. Even now, I am plagued by the question, “Who was this Jesus? And what is he to me?” Whether he was the Son of God as the Centurion said, or the Messiah as his disciples believed, I do not know. But this I know – Because he died, I live. And I will never be the same again.
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