Betrayer

He was one of us. One of the twelve, chosen by Jesus himself, just like the rest. And now, he’s gone, having taken his own life. He snuffed it out like a candle. The flame of his life is gone forever, leaving us to ponder.

Reading about him from the distance of two thousand years may make it easy for you. You are free to de-personalize him, to see him, not in shades of gray, but only in black and white. But, of course, you live centuries after the fact. And I know it’s tempting to just chalk him up as a mistake, a person gone horribly wrong. Maybe you can go even further, and condemn him as innately evil: evil from the start, a bad seed, with no redeeming qualities.

I’ll come back to that later. For now, just let me ask some questions. Questions that frankly, are haunting me. You see, we were brothers, all twelve of us. Not literally, but in every sense other than biological. When you spend every day with a person, over a period of three years, and when you struggle, laugh and cry with that person, then you become close. And when that person suddenly leaps into insanity, it makes you wonder. Yes, wonder. I will never stop wondering.

So, here are my questions. First, did Jesus see this coming? Did he? If he did, why choose this man as his disciple in the first place? If not, then was Jesus somehow less than we believed? Or as some have said, did Jesus even set up his own betrayal? Personally, I find that very hard to believe. Jesus was not a manipulator.

And what about me? And the rest of us? Was there something that we should have seen? Some hint of what he was destined to do? Some clue as to what he was thinking? Could we see what he was capable of doing? Perhaps, but maybe, instead, this was something spontaneous, a thing of the moment, unplanned in any real sense. A sudden impulse.

I mean, as far as I could tell, all seemed fine, right up until that night (though we learned later that he had gone to the chief priests earlier in the day). We were enjoying the Passover meal. Together. Then, Jesus made his unfathomable prediction, that one of us would betray him. One of us who had shared the meal, had drunk from the same cup. One of us whose feet Jesus had just washed. One of us who for three years had walked with Jesus, followed him, shared meals with him, and gone out to countless villages, bringing the good news.

Had he failed to live up to Jesus’ expectations? Maybe, but as far as I could see, no more than the rest of us. In fact, we gave Jesus many opportunities to criticize any and all of us. No one was exempt. After all, he once called Peter “Satan.” And whenever any of us expressed an inflated opinion of himself and of future glory in our Lord’s kingdom, Jesus quickly put him in his place.

No, there was no early sign of a problem. But clearly, something was stirring in this man, something amiss, something that the rest of us failed to see. Did Jesus see it? I don’t know. All I know is that I did not.

So, who was this man? This man, whose very name defines betrayal? This man, who is universally condemned by the entire world, into the third millennium? This man, who seemingly had no good qualities, who never did anything commendable, and who must live for eternity in a prison of infamy?

I knew him. Or anyway, I thought I did. I walked with him, just like the others. We rowed the Sea of Galilee together, witnessing Jesus walking on the water. We fed the multitudes together. We stood in amazement together as Jesus healed the sick and the blind. None of the writers of the Gospels noted unusual behavior on his part, except for one comment by John, about his alleged thievery.

He did not stand out in any way as to arouse suspicion. He could smile. He could laugh. He could struggle. He could be moved, emotionally. After all, he accepted Jesus’ invitation to follow him. Wholeheartedly, it would seem. And he stuck with Jesus through three demanding years of discipleship, listening to Jesus, watching him heal and embracing the rest of us as brothers.

Was there evil in him? No more than in any of us, in my opinion. But there must have been something. Something different. Something weak. Something troubling.

In your century, you can read about what you call a “tipping point.” A point where something snaps, a point where a new course of action, a new thought or new belief takes hold and replaces what was there before. Something builds up to a point where we “tip” into a new idea or direction.

Was there a “tipping point” for him? Had something built up in him to the point where he finally turned against Jesus? If so, what was it? What was he feeling? What was building up in him to the point where he lost control of it?

Here is what our brother John wrote about this moment:

“After he received the piece of bread, Satan entered into him. Jesus said to him, ‘Do quickly what you are going to do.’”

Offering him a piece of bread could in no way be considered the “last straw” that prompted a reaction of betrayal. I shudder to think that this could happen to any of us, to you or me in a moment of weakness. Is it possible? Can Satan find such an opening in any one of us as we approach a tipping point? And if so, what can we do about it? How do we defend ourselves?

Next: was he justified in taking his own life? We can understand his remorse, can’t we? In plain terms, he played a role in the most despicable act in human history. I can’t describe it any other way. And his penitence? His suicide. Honestly, can you blame him?

Think about it: what if he had lived? What kind of life would that have been? Even Jesus said it would have been better if he’d not been born. Had he lived, could he ever have atoned for what he did?

But of course, that was not the way of Jesus. Not at all. You see, Jesus could have stopped him. Actually, think about the comment that it would have been better if he’d not been born. Jesus could have arranged that, couldn’t he? Or, during the meal, Jesus could have called him out, and the rest of us would have acted, keeping the betrayal from happening.

But Jesus wasn’t here to live to old age. He wasn’t here to assert power over others. His purpose, hard as it was for us to see, was to serve as a sacrifice and as the very embodiment of God’s love. Jesus wasn’t going to stop the betrayer, though perhaps inside, he might want to.

You see, Jesus loved Judas. Now, I’ve finally said his name. I will say it again: Jesus loved Judas. Jesus had ample opportunity to head off this betrayal but no, Jesus was obedient. Obedient to God’s plan, even unto death, and death on a cross.

I have heard it said that the worst attacks that we can suffer in this life will come from those closest to us. Yes, from the inside, not the outside. That was certainly the case in this betrayal, and I am sure that fact made it all the more painful for Jesus. In the end, he was betrayed by the kiss of a friend. And I can only imagine that the pain of rejection from that kiss hurt every bit as much as the nails in his hands and feet.

The Kiss of Judas (between 1304 and 1306) by Giotto di Bondone

Earlier, I asked if Judas could ever have atoned for what he did. Could he? I don’t think so. But that wasn’t the way with Jesus. The love of God, as expressed through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, has already atoned for all of our sins. Judas took his own life before Jesus could forgive him, as he did for Peter’s denials. Would Jesus have forgiven Judas if he’d had the opportunity? What do you think?

Looking back, I have tried to analyze what happened from every possible angle. Honestly, though, I’m at a loss to explain. But in my pondering, one thing keeps coming back to me, over and over, and I am almost afraid to share it.

You see, for me, it all comes down to this: it could have been me. Yes, I could have betrayed Jesus. I was capable of such an act. It’s hard to admit, but it’s true. In fact, it could have been any one of us. Forget all the brave talk, because any one of us could have betrayed Jesus. We can’t feel superior to Judas. Jesus loved us and he loved Judas. Despite everything. Nothing, nothing can separate us from his love. Not even betrayal.

Copyright 2021 Robert Westheimer