Good Friday, Year C
St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church
April 18, 2025
the Rev. Jonathan Hanneman
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“Not this man, but Barabbas!” – John 18:40[1]
Not many of us give a whole lot of thought to Barabbas. He’s sort of throw-away character—the typical literary bad guy who gets away while the hero suffers on their continuing quest. Information about him is scarce, to say the least. No other ancient sources identify him, so the Gospels are all we have—and they don’t exactly offer much screen time: Matthew mentions his name five times in the course of eleven verses; Mark, three in the course of nine; Luke, once; and John, twice in the same verse. Apart from being in custody, only Mark and John give us any hints about his character, noting he “was imprisoned with rebels who had committed murder during an insurrection”[2] and that he “was a bandit”[3] (probably better translated as “insurgent” or “revolutionary”[4]).
Despite the lack of data, however, I’ve been thinking about Barabbas a lot over the last few months, mostly because of his name.
Barabbas—or bar-Abbas—isn’t just a random moniker; the two parts have a very clear meaning. “Bar-” translates from Aramaic as “son of,” much like how “Mc-,” “Mac-” or “ap” function in the British Isles. “Abbas”—or “Abba”—might sound a little more familiar, seeing that both Jesus and Paul use the term a few times.[5] It simply means “dad” or “father.” So when the people cry for Barabbas’ release, they’re literally calling for the “son of the father,”[6] a deep irony, considering their options.
Now, I have absolutely no sources to back this up, but I suspect that “bar-Abbas” may also have been a colloquialism, meaning something similar to our concept of “a man’s man.” It fits as a title for someone daring and bold; a person who takes action and gets things done, no matter what might try to stand in his way; the wizened, muscle-bound guy who carves his own track and creates his own destiny. My guess is that whoever this bar-Abbas was, he stood as a stark contrast to the “daddy’s boy” Jesus might have appeared to be. Both were considered revolutionaries—one embracing violence, the other bestowing love. Both were thought of as leaders—one forcefully attempting to overthrow the world’s most powerful government, the other presenting the lived reality of a greater, gentler, and more merciful realm than Rome. To achieve his ends, one struck with a sword and stole life from his foes while the other knelt with a towel and ultimately offered his life for the same.
For me, mulling over this bar-Abbas has highlighted how we make the same choices today, opting for power, spectacle, and machismo over service, simplicity, and acts of kindness. It makes sense: pretending we can manage our own fate is a core American trait. It’s just discouraging—disappointing, really—that 2,000 years after the fact, and with this story embedded into our society on a cultural level, we keep making the same, willful mistakes. Even as Christians—perhaps especially as Christians—we keep choosing to give reign to greed and hubris, to glorify selfishness, cruelty, and pride, and thereby we crucify Christ anew.
Words that cry “welcome” while our actions exclude? “Give us bar-Abbas!” Crying for unity while sowing division? “Give us bar-Abbas!” Watching Jesus wash unworthy feet and touch a slave’s bloody ear while demanding others find their own healing and somehow raise themselves from their own misery? “Give us bar-Abbas!” Any time we seek and flex our own power; whenever we act out of sexism, racism, classism, or any other bias; each time we demand other people hide or reject their own religion, traditions, history, or identity: “Give us bar-Abbas!”
We like to think that our society has evolved over the centuries, that we’re different—somehow better—than the crowd that clamored for Jesus’ death. But are we really? Before we demean, degrade, or point fingers at any ancient people, Good Friday sounds a sharp alarm for us to look at our own lives. Before we cheer for ourselves or pat one another on the back, the cross demands we address our own failings. Before we march forth certain of victory and superiority, we need to beware the blaring siren of our own actions. This afternoon, looking past our words and apparent devotion to Jesus, who would our daily and habitual choices reveal we actually want to release?
“Not this man, but Barabbas!”
[1] All Bible quotations are from the NRSVue unless otherwise noted.
[2] Mark 15:7
[3] John 18:40 | NRSV
[4] John 18:40 |NRSVue
[5] Mark 14:36; Romans 8:15; Galatians 4:6
[6] “Son of a father,” to be technical