I Am Judas - Reflections from Holy Week

My kids like to play with Play-Doh. They mold and shape and roll the vibrant colors into something unrecognizable and then lick the saltiness off their fingers. The outcome is always the same - as time wears on and red is combined with yellow, with a touch of blue mixed in the colors are marbled together, until eventually they become an in-between color that we have no name for and is anything but vibrant and beautiful.

I realized last week that the church has done this with the gospel story.

I went to a Maundy Thursday service at our church last week. The definition and origin of the word “maundy” is debated, but as a part of the Holy Week it is a remembrance of the night before Jesus was crucified during which he shared the Passover meal with his disciples and was later betrayed and arrested. Some churches use Maundy Thursday as an opportunity to bring together the Passover lamb of Exodus and Jesus’ sacrifice (in fact, in some languages the same word is used for both Easter and Passover). Our church focused this time on the betrayal and suffering of Jesus. It followed the ancient tradition of a tenebrae service which follows the suffering of Jesus through Scripture and symbolically decreases the light as the apostles all abandon Jesus, eventually leading to darkness. The mood was obviously somber and reflective, even to the degree that they took some familiar songs that we often sing and removed the last verses - the ones which triumphantly declare victory through the resurrection.

We took an evening and dwelt on our part in Jesus’ suffering.

As we sang the words of How Deep the Father’s Love For Us I was overwhelmed to tears at my role in the crucifixion.
Behold the man upon a cross, my sin upon His shoulders;
Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice call out among the scoffers.
It was my sin that held Him there until it was accomplished;
His dying breath has brought me life - I know that it is finished.


The church can be guilty of two things on Easter that minimize the power of the gospel. The first is to blame others for the crucifixion. We read the gospels, see film depictions of the crucifixion, and hear sermons and are outraged at the Jews who yelled , “crucify him!”. We are incensed by Pilate’s capitulation - though he saw no guilt in Jesus had him beaten and crucified anyway. We find ourselves yelling at Peter, “How could you sell out your Lord like that? I thought you said you would die for him?!?” And maybe we even find comfort in the justice of Judas Iscariot’s damnation. What was real to me in a more powerful way than ever before last Thursday night was that I am Peter - not just denying him 3 times in an attempt to save my own skin, but repeatedly, and for much weaker reasons. I am Pilate - I know the truth but crucify him anyway. I am the lynch mob - ashamed I hear my mocking voice call out among the scoffers, “crucify him!” I am Judas, but at least Judas received 30 pieces of silver; my betrayal is for a much lighter purse. The players in this passion account took nothing from Jesus that he did not lay down, and because I am the guilty one. May that be real to us every time we are tempted to blame someone else for the terror of the cross.

The second way we diminish the power of the gospel is to take the whole story, combine it into one colorless ball of Play-Doh and let the end of the story cover over the injustice of what my sin did to Jesus. We can call this the “all’s well that ends well” approach. If we only view the crucifixion in light of the resurrection I don’t know that we can fully grasp the devastation of our sin. And until we grasp the devastation of our sin we will never truly understand the glory of salvation and the wonder of grace. I have too often seen in the church and heard from it’s pulpits a message that Jesus took me, a pretty good guy, and made him a little bit better. No. A thousand times No! Jesus has lavished his grace upon me, the one whose sin held him on the cross. I made the crown of thorns, I beat him with a whip, I spit on his face, I nailed the nails. May we never see our sin with indifference because, oh well, it all turns out in the end.

The closer I get to Jesus the more I realize my own filth. I could exercise for hours in the heat and humidity, having not showered, shaved, or brushed my teeth for days, put on some nice clothes and fix my hair and make a presentation to a large audience and not feel overly aware of my own stench. If I were to converse with some of those people afterward I would be embarrassed of my bad breath, and would intentionally not talk too close. If I saw a good friend and we embraced I might apologize light-heartedly for smelling like a locker room. But if I went home to my wife and spent an intimate evening with her I would be acutely aware of my smell. I would feel guilt as my coarse stubble scratched her sensitive skin. I wouldn’t want her to kiss my sweat salty cheeks. And so it is with Jesus. If we observe him at a distance we think that maybe he won’t notice our unshaven appearance. Hopefully he can’t smell me from that distance. As intimacy increases, so does our awareness of our own mess.

And by the way, my celebration of the resurrection on Easter Sunday morning was sweeter and more joyous than it has ever been. If the resurrection is simply something the Son of God accomplished then it is a miracle. But if the Son of God was resurrected after my sin beat him, mocked him, and killed him, and he is not only victorious over death but has accomplished my redemption then my tears of mourning and regret on Thursday are also redeemed to tears of joy on Sunday. My freedom in Christ is only truly freedom when I have understood the weight of the chains that bound me. His grace is only amazing when we realize how undeserved it is. If we separate the cross from the resurrection then both are more powerful. But praise be to Jesus that eternity will never be able to put him back in the grave!

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