An Easter ending, even for Judas
Another year of asking what mercy might look like. Even for a man like Judas.
When it comes to Easter, I always look for something new. I’m on the search for a new character, a new angle, or a new perspective time and time again, not because it’s not an interesting story, but because for years now, I’ve heard the same one.
Noticing this want in my back pocket (and a writing goal to be met before the end of this month), I walked into my Good Friday service with ill intent. I wanted to marvel at something new, peel back the curtain on some missing puzzle piece, or perhaps find an ability to conjure feelings of dread or delight in this hallowed and haunting tradition.
I realized after awhile, I was doing too much. In my searching for something “new,” I clenched too tightly to an outcome, making it about me and my desired output. About halfway through the service, I prayed, “God, I’m not going to make anything more of this moment that is not here. Just let me sit and receive. Whatever feeling comes, comes.” And thank God he did.
Feelings did come, but none of them foreign. Like every Easter, I placed myself inside of the story best I could. I felt the bafflement and betrayal. I felt the confusion and chaos. I watched as the overwhelming sense of darkness encroached on our service, feeling Jesus’ sense of loneliness, dread, and dismay. The room blackened. The candles snuffed out. And like always, the service ended in total darkness, awaiting an Easter morning yet to come.
All of these traditions are not so much “new” anymore as they are reminders. I’ve been in church long enough to know that so much of the Christian story is one of waiting. Waiting and remembering. Remembering and waiting.
But the thing my heart felt most gripped by again was not the character of Jesus or Pilate or Peter this year. Like always, I’m once again captivated in curiosity by the person of Judas.
I wrote about Judas years ago, on a different Easter and a different (dormant) writing platform. I’m not sure why, but his story captures me more than most. From the underlying deceit to Christ’s destruction, the dawning of reality to his untimely death, I suppose my deepest question in his story is: Did it have to end this way?
I wonder how Judas’s story unfolds. Scripture details his untimely death. Upon learning the outcome of his actions, Judas tries to return the silver and to his shame, puts an end to his life in a rather gruesome way.
It’s heartbreaking, no doubt. But I want more. What happened in the aftermath of the garden? What regret seeped its way in? How long before it dawned on him, what he really did? And in his grief and regret, did Judas repent?
I’m curious to know if Judas’ fate was always meant to end this way. I wonder if Judas surprised even himself in his actions, and before the end cried out to his Savior, asking for another way.
Isaiah 53:6 tells us all, like sheep, have gone astray. My question remains: what separates Judas from the lot?
What makes me any better or worse in my decisions? What makes me more deserving of mercy? Were Judas’s actions really evil or ill-advised? And what separates him (and me) from the flock?
I always wonder what would have happened had Judas stuck around for a few more days. What if he retreated to pray instead of putting an end to his suffering? What if he went to the cross to see Jesus, and the Lord calmed him in his discomfort? What might have happened if he saw his Rabbi resurrect? And what if Judas, along with Thomas, put his hands on the scars of his Savior?
I guess I want to know how grace extends to someone like Judas because my heart is, and always has been, for the one in church that comes with a heavy heart. The one who comes with anger, or shame, or mistrust that’s weighty. The one who feels farthest or flees in pain. I ask these questions because I long to see how far mercy extends in our most Judas-like moments. And often, Jesus surprises me.
Jesus knew the ending. And yet, he still loved.
Jesus knew Judas would turn. And he still asked him to follow.
Jesus knew Judas would betray him. And he broke the bread anyway.
Jesus knew his fate. And yet washed the feet of Judas, too.
I’m not a scholar or preacher, and I can’t begin to paint a picture of God better than those who’ve studied the Scripture for millennia now.
But each time I doubt God’s goodness, attempting to measure his greatness against my own, I remember this Jesus who still loved Judas. I remember a God who loves deeper, gives more generously, and walked to the cross more readily than I do. Every time, his grace wins out, and I have no reason to believe his mercy won’t extend to the darkest places now, too.
Pastor Rich Villodas states that the Biblical story can be summed up in four phrases:
I love you.
I’m with you.
Do not be afraid.
You can come home.
I often think of Judas, because I wonder how his mistakes might’ve been met with mercy. I often think of Judas because I wonder if he believed his love ran out. I often think of Judas, because his story, like my own, is lined with ill intentions and deceit, and like all sheep, we’ve gone astray.
But from what I know, God’s mercy wins the day. From what I can tell, there is always a new ending. And from what I know of God, he still calls out in the wilderness. Even for those like Judas, I hope the Easter message still recounts: “You can always come home.”
So good.