Guilt and Grace

By Harry Watts

By; Harry Watts

The guard dragged the broken man into the suffocating darkness and shoved him into a cave that served as a cell. The prisoner had been lashed. After locking the heavy iron door, the guard thrust a torch through the bars and was pleased to see the captive lying on the ground bleeding freely. Light from the torch illuminated marble rocks covering the floor, their sharp edges cutting into his already shredded flesh. Satisfied, the guard spit on the man and turned away, returning the prisoner to the smothering darkness.

The captive was Barabbas, a well-known revolutionary and murderer who had been newly captured, tried, and sentenced to death by crucifixion. But first he was flogged, and now, suffering excruciating pain, he waited for the guard to return and escort him to his final destination, Golgotha – the Place of the Skull, where a Roman cross awaited him.

Barabbas lay semiconscious in a growing pool of blood and cursed the Romans. He was not afraid to die. Death had always been his expected fate, but he wanted to die the death of a martyr, not a common criminal. The Romans had robbed him of this dream when they captured him for public crucifixion, rather than allowing him to fall in battle. He was contemplating this humiliation when the sound of approaching footsteps penetrated the darkness, signaling what was soon to come.

The guard arrived at the door, flung it open with a clatter, entered the cell, and roughly hauled the prisoner to his feet. Barabbas resisted, but his strength was almost gone. Certain of degradation, he briefly considered trying to escape. If he did, the guard would surely kill him. But instead, he surrendered and was unceremoniously pulled out of the darkness into the blinding light, surprisingly finding himself standing before Pilate, the Roman Procurator. For what reason, he could not fathom.

He stood there naked, blinded by a raging sun that seared the wounds covering his body. Squinting, Barabbas saw Pilate confronting a raging mob of angry Jews who were screaming for him to crucify the man standing opposite him. Barabbas looked closely at the other prisoner and saw the massive wounds, similar to his own, covering the man’s back and chest. Bones were visible through dangling ribbons of flesh. His hands were bound, and a makeshift crown of thorns was jammed onto his head. Streams of dried blood covered his forehead and trickled into his eyes. He had been scourged and would soon join Barabbas on the trek to Golgotha.

Barabbas recognized Jesus of Nazareth. He knew Jesus was one of the many so-called “Messiahs” wandering around Palestine in hopes of gathering followers and overthrowing the Roman occupiers. But Barabbas also knew this Messiah was purported to be different. So far as he knew, Jesus was not violent. He was not forming an army of revolt. He had not harmed anyone and had never spoken against the Roman occupiers. Jesus’ wrath was aimed directly at the religious leaders. The priests and scribes were his special targets. He called them a den of vipers bent on enriching themselves off the backs of the poor. As Barabbas gazed at the unruly crowd, he was not surprised to see many Temple priests and scribes among them.

“What was Jesus guilty of,” he wondered, “that deserved the cross?”

Barabbas moved to look away when Jesus suddenly raised his head and fixed him with his gaze. Barabbas saw something in Jesus’ eyes that was totally unexpected. Not anger, not hatred. No, nothing like that. Barabbas thought he saw love there, but he must be wrong. How could there be love in this place, at this moment? With this man? There could not be, could never be. Not here, not now. Didn’t he know he was about to die at the hands of the Romans?

The sound of Pilate’s voice broke the spell that captured him. “Whom do you want me to release to you?” Pilate called out to the crowd, his voice carrying over the angry shouts. “Barabbas, or Jesus who is called the Messiah?” Pilate’s voice was weary, and he knew the answer even before he asked. It was the custom during the festival to release one prisoner as an act of goodwill, and Pilate had hoped the crowd might show mercy to Jesus.

Barabbas blinked, confused. Release? He looked from Pilate to the crowd, struggling to understand. The crowd’s response was immediate and unified: “Barabbas! Release Barabbas!”

Pilate raised his hands, trying to quiet them. “Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?” He tried to reason with them, his voice laced with frustration. He knew Jesus had done nothing deserving death, but the crowd was relentless.

“Crucify him!” the mob roared; their voices filled with fury. Barabbas turned his head to look at Jesus, who stood silently, his eyes still calm despite the hatred directed at him.

“Why? What crime has he committed?” Pilate asked, but the crowd only shouted louder, “Crucify him! Crucify him!” The cries seemed to grow more desperate, fueled by the priests and elders who moved among the people, urging them on.

Pilate hesitated, then turned to the crowd. “I am innocent of this man’s blood,” he said, lifting his hands as if to wash them clean of the decision. “It is your responsibility.” But the crowd would not be satisfied until they saw Jesus condemned.

Finally, Pilate turned to his guards. “Release Barabbas,” he ordered, his voice heavy with resignation. A guard stepped forward, unlocking the shackles that bound Barabbas’ wrists. Barabbas stumbled, barely able to believe what was happening. He was free.

Barabbas looked at Jesus one last time. There was no resentment in Jesus’ eyes, only acceptance. Barabbas felt a strange mix of emotions—relief, confusion, and something else he couldn’t quite name. He was alive, spared from the cross that awaited Jesus.

As the guards led Jesus away to be crucified, Barabbas stood there, watching. He should have felt triumphant, but instead, he felt hollow. The crowd’s cheers echoed in his ears, but they sounded distant, almost unreal. Barabbas turned and walked away, free but burdened by the memory of the man who had taken his place.

Barabbas wandered the streets, struggling with his newfound freedom. He was haunted by the image of Jesus’ calm face and the inexplicable love he saw in his eyes. He drank to numb the emptiness that had taken hold of him, but the feeling persisted. He found himself drifting near Golgotha, compelled by some force he couldn’t understand. From a distance, he saw the three crosses standing against the darkening sky, and he felt compelled to move closer. Barabbas found himself in the crowd gathered at Golgotha, watching the crucifixion. He saw Jesus’ body hanging limp between two thieves, his face marked by pain but also by a serenity that struck Barabbas to the core. He stayed until the end, witnessing every agonizing moment, the taunts, the weeping of those who loved Jesus, and finally, the moment Jesus breathed his last. Barabbas could not look away. He felt a strange connection to the man on the cross—a man who had taken his place, a man who seemed to radiate forgiveness even in his dying breath.

Days later, Barabbas wandered the streets, struggling with his newfound freedom. He was haunted by the image of Jesus’ calm face and the inexplicable love he saw in his eyes. He drank to numb the emptiness that had taken hold of him, but the feeling persisted. He found himself drifting near Golgotha, compelled by some force he couldn’t understand. He could not escape the memory of Jesus—his silence, his acceptance, and above all, the love that seemed to emanate from him even in the face of death.

Survivor’s guilt gnawed at him. Why had he been chosen to live while Jesus, who seemed innocent, had been condemned? Barabbas had fought for his cause, spilled blood, and accepted that death was his fate. Yet here he was, alive, while the man who had harmed no one was nailed to a cross. The injustice of it all twisted inside him, and he found no solace in his freedom. He had wanted to die a martyr, but instead, he had been spared, and now he felt like a coward.

In the days that followed, Barabbas tried to return to his old ways, but something had changed. The fight no longer felt righteous. The hatred that had once fueled him now felt hollow, and the faces of those he had hurt haunted his dreams. He couldn’t escape the memory of Jesus—his silence, his acceptance, and above all, the love that seemed to emanate from him even in the face of death. Barabbas couldn’t understand it, but it had begun to change him.

One evening, Barabbas found himself in a small gathering of people who spoke of Jesus. They whispered of his teachings, his miracles, and his message of love and forgiveness. Barabbas listened from the shadows, his heart pounding. They spoke of resurrection, of hope beyond death, and something inside Barabbas broke open. He felt tears on his cheeks—tears he hadn’t shed even in the darkest moments of his imprisonment.

Barabbas didn’t know what the future held for him, but he knew he could no longer be the man he had been. The path of violence and hatred no longer called to him. Instead, he felt a strange pull towards the message of the man who had taken his place. He didn’t know if he could ever be forgiven for the things he had done, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could start anew. And maybe, in some small way, he could honor the man who had died in his stead.

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