Conclave

 As the world waits for a new Pope, one particular saying keeps echoing in my mind: “If you walk into the conclave as a Pope, you will walk out as a cardinal.” At first, it sounds clever—almost humorous—but beneath the wit lies a sobering truth. It speaks to the paradox of power and the quiet wisdom of humility. The conclave, after all, is one of the most sacred and spiritually significant gatherings in the Roman Catholic Church. Cardinals, each deeply experienced and qualified, gather not to promote themselves but to prayerfully discern God’s will. 

That reality made me pause. It nudged me to reflect on my own life—on the expectations I carry, the ambitions I sometimes mask as calling, and the subtle ways I walk into rooms—be it ministry spaces, academic forums, or personal relationships—hoping to be recognized, hoping to be chosen, hoping to be seen. Sometimes, it's not even about arrogance. It’s about longing. Wanting to be seen as capable. Wanting to feel like we’ve finally arrived. But the saying reminds me—and perhaps reminds you too—that ambition can be a silent disqualifier. That entitlement can close doors that grace would have opened.

Jesus teaches us in Matthew 23:12 that, “Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself will be exalted.” The kingdom of God turns human logic on its head. The way up is down. The throne belongs to the servant. The crown is laid upon the head of the one who bowed low. And Jesus didn’t just say it—He lived it. 

Philippians 2 reminds us that although He was in very nature God, He “did not consider equality with God something to be used to His own advantage,” but humbled Himself. Born in a stable. Raised in obscurity. Washing the feet of His disciples. Surrendering to death. No campaign. No self-promotion. Just faithful, quiet obedience.

And God exalted Him.

There’s a moment I always return to when I think about humility—not in the grand stage of theology or global leadership, but in my everyday life. It was during my time as a store keeper in a school. The days were long, the work unseen, and the people forgotten by much of society. I had no platform, no spotlight. Just a Bible, a heart, and a willingness to listen. And yet, that season became one of the most transformative of my life. 

Why? Because humility opens our eyes to what truly matters. It sharpens our sensitivity to God’s presence.

I often wonder: What would happen if we entered every space—every boardroom, pulpit, classroom, committee meeting, church pew—not as Popes but as servants? Not expecting to be crowned, but expecting to serve?

There’s a deep freedom in humility. It relieves us from the burden of self-importance. It reminds us that the world is not resting on our shoulders. That we are not indispensable, and that’s okay. God doesn’t ask us to prove ourselves—only to trust and obey.

But that’s hard, isn’t it? Especially when you’ve worked hard. When you’ve studied, prayed, sacrificed, given your all. It’s tempting to expect a reward. To walk into spaces with subtle entitlement. I’ve done it. And more than once, I’ve walked out disappointed. But God, in His grace, keeps teaching me that the reward isn’t in being recognized. It’s in being refined. It’s in becoming more like Christ.

Interestingly, the saying doesn’t shame the cardinal who walks in with papal dreams. It simply says he walks out still a cardinal. And maybe that’s not failure. Maybe that’s grace. Maybe walking out still robed in red is God’s way of saying: “You’re still called. You’re still needed. But I’m calling you to a different kind of greatness.”

Greatness that’s hidden. Influence that flows quietly. Leadership that kneels.

James 4:6 tells us that “God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble.” I want that grace. I need that grace. And I suspect you do too. So, here’s my quiet prayer—for myself and for you:

When we enter the next room, let’s leave our titles at the door. Let’s walk in as learners, not experts. As servants, not stars. As vessels, not brands. Whether we walk out as “popes” or “cardinals,” may we walk out having pleased God. Because in the end, it’s not about the robe we wear, but the posture we carry. And humility, dear friend, never goes out of season.

 

We all have our conclaves. Moments or spaces where we step in hoping that our efforts, our titles, our degrees, our service will finally earn us something more. That promotion. That affirmation. That seat at the table.

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Give us Barabbas!

"Kill him! Give us Barabbas!"                                   

 Luke 23:18–19

It echoes in my failure: You’re free.

It sings over my sin: You are loved, not because of who you are, but because of who He is.

 

Every time I read those words, they land heavy on my heart. Heavier now than ever before. Not just because of the injustice, though that alone is enough to crush the soul—but because of how clear, how final, how devastating the crowd’s choice was.

Two men stood before them.

One was a healer. A teacher. A man who fed the hungry, welcomed the outcast, spoke peace to storms, and whispered forgiveness into broken hearts. Jesus.

The other—a thief. A liar. A murderer. A man whose name was tied to violence and insurrection. A man imprisoned because he had stirred rebellion and shed blood. Barabbas.

And yet... they chose Barabbas.

I’ve wrestled with this story for years. As a student of the Bible. As a pastor. As someone who longs to live faithfully. But this year, something in it pierced me in a new way. Not from a distance. Not as a theological idea. But close—uncomfortably close. It was as if the Spirit whispered: “Don’t just look at Jesus in this story. Look at Barabbas. Look at yourself.”

I paused. I couldn’t turn away.

Barabbas didn’t deserve to walk free. And he knew it. His crimes were known. His sentence was ready. He didn’t beg for grace. He didn’t confess. He simply stood there, shackled by the consequences of who he had become. And yet, when the crowd shouted for a prisoner to be released, it was his name they screamed.

Not Jesus. Barabbas.

That moment—what a scandal. Jesus, holy and blameless, is handed over to be crucified. Barabbas, guilty and condemned, is unchained.

And something inside me aches with the wrongness of it.

But then—another voice within. Gentle. Relentless. This is the gospel. This is what grace looks like. This is what it cost.

Barabbas is not a name in someone else’s story. He is a mirror in mine.

I know what it means to be a thief—stealing moments from God to serve my own comfort, snatching glory for myself when it belongs to Him. I know what it means to lie—not always in words, but in the way I sometimes present myself, pretending to be more holy, more whole, more surrendered than I really am. And I know the murder of the heart—that quiet, cutting resentment that Jesus said is as deadly as a sword.

Barabbas is closer than I’d like to admit.

And yet... I am set free.

That’s the scandal of substitution. Jesus took my place—not just in theory, but in flesh and blood. The cross was not abstract. It was brutal, and it was real. And it was mine. But Jesus stepped into it, not because I earned it, not because I repented first, but because love made the first move.

I often wonder what Barabbas did after that day. Scripture leaves his story hanging. Did he pause to look back at the man who took his cross? Did he hear the hammer on the nails and realize that those blows were meant for him? Or did he run, disappear, vanish into the shadows, unchanged?

We don’t know. And maybe that silence is the question.

What do we do with grace when it finds us?

That question haunts me, especially when I think of all the times I’ve tried to live like I still belong in prison. Like the chains were never broken. Like I need to earn my release, even though it was already given.

Sometimes, I still carry the guilt of Barabbas. I still flinch at the thought of being chosen. I still wonder, why me?

And then I remember: grace isn’t about me. It never was. It’s about the One who loved me while I was still a thief. Still a liar. Still a murderer in thought and heart.

It’s about Jesus.

And the beauty of the gospel is that Jesus didn’t just die for Barabbas. He died instead of him. In his place. In my place.

When the crowd shouted “Give us Barabbas,” they unknowingly shouted the heartbeat of heaven. Give us the guilty, and take the blameless. Give us the rebel, and take the King. Let the sinner go, and let the Son be crucified.

This is not justice. It’s grace.

And that grace still speaks today.

It whispers in my shame: You’re forgiven.

Barabbas may not have understood what happened that day. But I do.

And I refuse to waste it.

So I walk forward—not in shame, but in awe. Not trying to earn what’s been freely given, but learning, slowly, how to live in response to it.

Because Jesus didn’t just die for the good and the grateful.

He died for Barabbas.

He died for me.

                                                                            Happy Easter! 

 

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