The Choice – Sort of Short Stories

By: Harry Watts

The Roman governor, Pontius Pilate, walked out onto the veranda and stopped to gaze at the mob gathered below. The noise of the crowd—a cacophony of demands and anger—rumbled through the air. On either side of him stood two men, separated by only a few feet but worlds apart in their purpose and fate.

On his left was Barabbas, a notorious criminal. His face, hardened by years of violence, bore the scars of a life lived on the edge. A convicted murderer, Barabbas had led violent uprisings against Roman rule, and the sentence of crucifixion hung heavily over him. He had accepted his fate, a fate he knew he deserved.

On Pilate’s right stood Jesus of Nazareth, bound but silent. His face showed none of the terror or defiance Pilate often saw in men facing death. Instead, there was a calm—an unsettling serenity that unsettled the governor. Jesus had committed no crime that Roman law could punish. His offense was claiming to be a king, a title that meant nothing to Pilate but everything to the religious leaders who had brought him here. It was clear they wanted him dead. And they were relentless.

Pilate turned his gaze back to the crowd, his mind a battlefield of indecision. He had questioned Jesus at length, and nothing in the man’s answers suggested he was guilty of any wrongdoing, much less sedition. Still, the priests had been insistent—threatening to report him to Caesar for failing to act against a rebel. That threat gnawed at him. His position was already precarious, and a revolt here could mean his removal—or worse.

But as he looked into Jesus’ eyes, Pilate felt the weight of the moment pressing on him in a way that no imperial politics ever had. This man—what was it about him? There was no fear in his gaze, only something Pilate could not understand. It was as if Jesus knew what would come next and accepted it.

He sighed and wiped his brow, turning to address the crowd. “I find no fault in this man,” he had told them before, washing his hands of the affair in a gesture of dismissal. But the priests, unshaken, had stirred the mob into a frenzy, calling for Jesus’ crucifixion.

Now, in an attempt to avoid bloodshed, Pilate decided to appeal to their sense of mercy. It was the Passover, after all, and there was a custom to release one prisoner in honor of the festival. Perhaps this could save him.

Standing between the two men, he raised his voice. “It is your tradition that I release one prisoner to you during the festival. Whom shall I release to you—Barabbas, the murderer, or Jesus, the so-called King of the Jews?”

For a brief moment, Pilate allowed himself to believe they would choose wisely. How could they not? Barabbas was a threat to their own safety, a man who had taken lives in his rebellion. Jesus, by contrast, had harmed no one. He had spoken of love, of turning the other cheek. Pilate had heard whispers of his teachings—teachings of peace in a world that knew only force. Surely, they would choose Jesus.

But then the roar of the crowd grew, rising like a storm. “Barabbas!” they screamed, the name echoing through the courtyard. “Give us Barabbas!”

Pilate’s heart sank. He looked at the crowd in disbelief. How could they choose him? How could they choose a man of violence over this preacher of love? His mind raced. What was driving them? Was it fear? Was it the priests’ manipulation? Or was it something deeper—a collective rejection of what Jesus represented?

Pilate hesitated. His gaze drifted back to Jesus, who stood unmoved, as if already resigned to the path that lay before him. Jesus’ eyes met Pilate’s once more, and for a fleeting moment, the governor felt an overwhelming sense of pity for the man. What kind of world is this, Pilate thought, where a man who speaks of love is more dangerous than a murderer?

He had no choice now. The crowd, incited by the priests, was growing more volatile. A revolt would be disastrous for him—he could not afford to appear weak before Rome. He stepped forward, his voice heavy with resignation.

“What then shall I do with Jesus, who is called the Christ?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Crucify him!” The chant began softly but grew with frightening speed, the crowd’s rage building like a fire consuming dry wood. “Crucify him!”

Pilate’s heart pounded. He glanced at Barabbas, who was looking at the crowd in disbelief, unable to believe his luck. He saw in Barabbas’ eyes a glint of triumph, but also confusion—why would they choose him, a murderer, over this man who had done nothing?

But it was not for Pilate to question. His role was to maintain order, and the crowd had spoken. He signaled to his guards, his voice hollow. “Take him away. Have him crucified.”

The guards moved forward to seize Jesus, and Pilate stepped back, his mind racing. This decision—it would haunt him. Of that, he was sure. But Rome demanded control, and in the face of the crowd’s fury, he had done what was required.

As the guards led Jesus away, Pilate turned once more to the mob. The chants of “Crucify him” still rang in his ears. He scanned the faces of the crowd—some triumphant, others almost vacant. They had chosen. They had chosen violence.

Later that night, as Pilate sat alone, the events of the day weighed heavily on his mind. He stared out into the dark sky, feeling the burden of what had transpired. Would it always be like this? he wondered. Would the world always choose the Barabbas over the Jesus? Would violence always triumph over love?

He thought of the men he had seen crucified, their faces twisted in agony, and wondered what awaited this man, this preacher of love who had stirred so much anger. How long would it take before they realized the mistake they had made?

The truth, Pilate knew, was that this choice was not confined to this moment. It was an eternal choice—a choice humanity would face again and again. Presented with love or violence, mercy or vengeance, the crowd would always choose force. It was the way of the world. And yet, Pilate couldn’t shake the feeling that this man, Jesus, was different—that his death would not be the end of the story.

And so it remains today. When given a choice between violence and love, the world still tends to choose the former. Force continues to hold sway as the favored response to conflict, and yet it continues to prove ineffective. Pilate, in his heart, knew this. He knew it then, and he knew it now as he sat in the dark, alone with his thoughts. Perhaps, one day, the world would choose differently. But for now, the crowd’s cry echoed in his mind: “Crucify him.”

And somewhere, in the stillness of the night, the man who had preached love was led to his death, while the murderer walked free.