A couple of months ago, I posted a blog from an incredible writer I found on Facebook. It was by Farmer Girl, who I have found to be an amazing and insightful blogger. She is a young dairy farmer in northern Washington state. This blog is written from a different perspective than we are usually offered. I only wish I had her writing talent! Enjoy! Her link is at the bottom in case you wish to follow her.
Morning comes earlier than I would have preferred that day. Jerusalem during Passover is already a logistical nightmare before you add political drama to it. The city is swollen with pilgrims, every street is packed, and tensions sit in the air like dry grass in the middle of summer. All it takes is one spark and the whole place can erupt. Being the Roman governor during Passover is less about governing and more about making sure some religious argument does not turn into a full-blown riot before lunch.
And then they bring me a prisoner.
Jesus of Nazareth.
I had heard the name before. Everyone had. The man had developed quite a reputation wandering around the countryside healing people, teaching crowds, and generally making the religious leaders extremely uncomfortable. Which, if we are being honest, is not technically a Roman crime. But the priests had brought Him to me anyway, and when the priests bring you someone early in the morning during Passover, you can be fairly certain the day is about to become complicated.
Their accusation was that He claimed to be a king.
Now that part does get Rome’s attention. Rome has a very clear policy about kings. The policy is essentially that Rome is fine with kings as long as Rome appoints them and they do not start collecting enthusiastic followers who might someday decide Rome is unnecessary.
So I look at the man.
This is where things become strange.
I have seen rebels before. I have interrogated men who wanted to overthrow Rome. They tend to be loud, angry, dramatic individuals who shout about freedom while trying to kick a soldier in the knee. Those men are usually easy to identify because they cannot stop talking about how much they dislike Rome.
This man does none of that.
He stands there calm. Quiet. Almost like the entire situation unfolding around Him is something He has already seen play out before. It is not the posture of a man leading a rebellion. It is the posture of a man who seems oddly unconcerned about the fact that He is standing in front of the Roman governor with a crowd demanding His death.
So I ask Him the obvious question. “Are you the king of the Jews?”
His answer is…not exactly helpful. It is not a denial. It is not a direct claim either. It is one of those answers that sounds meaningful and mysterious at the same time, which leaves you standing there wondering if you just asked the wrong question entirely.
Meanwhile the priests behind Him are becoming increasingly agitated. They are listing accusations the way a merchant lists prices in the market. He stirs up the people. He claims to be king. He blasphemes. The more they talk, the more obvious it becomes that what I am looking at is not a political rebellion. It is a religious dispute that someone has dragged into a Roman courtroom.
Unfortunately for me, religious disputes during Passover have a tendency to become political riots very quickly.
That is the problem.
Jerusalem during Passover is a city waiting for a spark. The crowds are large, emotions run high, and the last thing Rome wants is a match landing in a field of dry grass. My job is to make sure the spark never becomes a wildfire. And at that moment, the crowd outside is beginning to sound very much like dry grass rustling in the wind.
Then I remember the Passover custom.
Each year during the feast, the governor may release one prisoner chosen by the crowd. It is a small political gesture meant to make the people feel like they have a voice while Rome still holds the actual authority. Think of it as a pressure valve for a city that occasionally forgets it is under Roman rule.
And suddenly I have what seems like a brilliant solution.
I will give them a choice so obvious that the situation resolves itself.
So I bring out another prisoner.
Barabbas.
Barabbas is exactly the type of man Rome usually executes without much debate. A violent rebel. A murderer. The sort of man who turns arguments into riots and riots into funerals. If you were designing a criminal to compare with a peaceful teacher, Barabbas would be the obvious example.
I stand there feeling quite satisfied with the elegance of the plan. On one side stands Jesus, quiet and bruised but calm. On the other side stands Barabbas, a man who has actually committed the crimes they are pretending to accuse Jesus of committing.
Surely the crowd will see the logic.
So I ask them the question.
“Which one do you want me to release to you? Jesus…or Barabbas?”
For a moment, the courtyard fills with noise as the crowd argues and shouts. Voices bounce off the stone walls while people wave their arms around like they have suddenly become experts in Roman judicial procedure.
Then the chant begins.
“Barabbas.”
I blink.
Surely they misunderstood.
So I ask again, louder this time so the entire courtyard can hear.
“Which one?”
“Barabbas!”
Now I am officially confused.
I gesture toward Jesus, who has been standing there quietly while this entire circus unfolds. “Then what shall I do with Jesus who is called the Messiah?”
The answer comes back like thunder rolling through the courtyard.
“Crucify Him!”
At this point I am staring at the crowd wondering if we have all collectively lost our minds. You want the murderer released and the teacher executed? I try once more, because surely someone in this crowd will notice the obvious problem with this arrangement.
“Why? What crime has He committed?”
But the moment for reason has already passed. The crowd is louder now, angrier, the kind of sound that makes a Roman governor start thinking about how close the nearest soldiers are standing.
“Crucify Him!”
The spark has landed in the dry grass. I can feel the fire beginning to spread through the crowd. If I push this any further, the city will erupt, and Rome will have a riot on its hands.
So I do the only thing left that might make it clear that this decision is not mine.
I call for water. Right there in front of everyone, I wash my hands and say the words that will likely follow me for the rest of my life. I tell them I am innocent of this man’s blood and that the responsibility belongs to them.
Which sounds very official and dignified until you realize what it actually means.
It means the governor of Judea just tried to let the crowd make the decision.
And the crowd chose the wrong man.
Barabbas walks free. Jesus is led away toward the cross. And somewhere in the back of my mind a quiet thought lingers that refuses to disappear.
I have judged many men in my career. But I have never walked away from a trial feeling quite so certain that the prisoner was not the one truly on trial that day.
Farmer Girl
Facebook Link
Instagram Link