The morning broke heavy over Jerusalem, as though even the sky hesitated to witness what was to come. In the courtyard of the governor, beneath the cold authority of stone and empire, two men were brought before the people. One was Jesus of Nazareth—the teacher, the healer, the man who had walked among the poor and spoken of a kingdom not built on gold or conquest, but on justice, mercy, and truth. His hands, which had lifted the sick and fed the hungry, were now bound. His face bore the marks of violence, yet his silence carried a defiance no chain could restrain.
Beside him stood Barabbas—a man known not for compassion but for rebellion, for bloodshed, for crimes that had already carved fear into the lives of others. He was no mystery to the crowd. He was no misunderstood figure. He was guilt made flesh.
And yet the choice was given.
Pilate’s voice cut through the restless air, offering what seemed unthinkable: one would be set free. The innocent or the guilty. The one who had given or the one who had taken. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, suspended between justice and spectacle. But the silence did not last. It never does. The crowd, stirred by whispers, by influence, by the dangerous comfort of shared noise, began to swell with a single cry—not hesitant, not uncertain, but fierce and insistent.
The crowd chose Barabbas.
Not once, but again and again, as if repetition could bury truth. As if volume could rewrite reality. The name rose like a chant, like a verdict forged not from evidence but from emotion, from manipulation, from something far more volatile than reason. And so the man who had taken from others was unchained, released back into the world without consequence. The man who had given everything was led away, condemned not by his guilt, but by the will of the many.
This was not merely a failure of judgment. It was a revelation. Because the story does not belong to the past. It lives, uncomfortably, in the present.
In the Philippines today, we no longer stand in crowded courtyards beneath Roman rule, but the choices we make echo just as loudly. The names have changed. The setting has shifted. But the pattern remains, disturbingly intact.
We still choose Barabbas.
And let’s be honest about it: this is no longer accidental. This is not a series of unfortunate lapses in judgment. This is a habit. This is culture. This is a system we have learned not just to tolerate, but to navigate, to survive, and at times, to defend.
We choose him when corruption is laid bare—when public funds meant for hospitals, schools, and the most vulnerable are siphoned into private wealth—yet those responsible remain untouched, or worse, are rewarded. We choose him when power protects the powerful, when investigations stall just long enough for memory to fade, when accountability becomes negotiable depending on who stands accused. We choose him when we patronize politicians—thanking them for the bare minimum, wearing their colors as if they were gods who grant us breath.
That is not ignorance. That is complicity.
Barabbas, in our time, does not hide in shadows.
He campaigns. He governs. He reinvents himself with every election cycle, dressed in new slogans, armed with old machinery. He knows something we refuse to confront: that truth, in this country, is negotiable—and memory is short.
He does not need to prove innocence. He only needs us to forget guilt. And unfortunately, we do.
We forget with alarming efficiency. We forget the scandals, the names, the numbers. We forget who stole, who lied, who abused power. Or worse, we remember—and decide it no longer matters. Because charisma is easier to digest than character. Because spectacle is louder than substance. Because sometimes, choosing Barabbas feels convenient.
And the modern Jesus?
He does not stand in temples or headlines. He stands in factories, in fields, in streets that flood when systems fail. He is the laborer who works through exhaustion just to place food on the table. She is the vendor who counts coins at the end of the day, hoping it will be enough. They are the drivers, the nurses, the teachers—the ones who keep the nation breathing even as it strains against its own weight.
They give. They endure. And here is the uncomfortable truth: they are easy to ignore.
Because they do not command attention. They do not dominate headlines. Their suffering is quiet, repetitive, almost routine. There is no spectacle in survival. No drama in doing what is right, day after day, with no guarantee of reward.
So we overlook them.
Not because they are invisible, but because we have learned not to look.
What makes this cycle unforgivable is not just that injustice exists—it’s that it persists with our participation. Corruption at the highest level does not survive on strategy alone. It survives on public tolerance, on selective outrage, on the willingness of people to move on before anything truly changes.
We have turned accountability into theater.
Investigations become performances. Hearings become soundbites. Consequences become optional. And once the spotlight fades, so does the urgency. The system resets, ready for the next scandal, the next outrage, the next forgetting.
This is not dysfunction. This is design, sustained by indifference.
Every lie plays a role in this.
It softens the blow of wrongdoing. It creates just enough confusion to paralyze action. It gives people an excuse to disengage, to say “we don’t really know the full story,” even when the story has been told clearly, repeatedly, undeniably.
And every time we accept that excuse, we participate in the outcome.
Every lie tips the scale. Every lie delays justice. Every lie frees another Barabbas.
So stop pretending this is still a tragedy we are merely witnessing. This is a decision we are actively making.
No more excuses about being misinformed. No more refuge in “both sides.” No more convenient amnesia every election cycle, every scandal, every stolen billion. At this point, the pattern is not hidden—it is repeated so often it has become undeniable. If it still continues, it is not because we don’t see it. It is because we allow it. Worse, it is because, at some level, we choose it.
We choose it when we reward thieves with power. When we defend the indefensible just because it benefits us, entertains us, or aligns with our loyalties. When we demand suffering from the honest and patience from the exploited, while offering comfort and second chances to those who have already taken too much.
Let’s be clear: this is no longer about ignorance. This is willful. This is deliberate. This is a nation looking at corruption in full view—and deciding it can live with it.
Every lie tolerated, every truth dismissed, every corrupt hand ignored—you are not neutral. You are part of the story. You are in the crowd. And the crowd has a hand in what happens.
Barabbas does not walk free on his own. He walks free because the crowd chooses him. And we keep on choosing him again. And again. And again.
Written by John Benedict N. Banday, Insight PH
John Benedict N. Banday, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
