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Readings (click here for full text of the readings): Most of us probably think Judas was as evil as they come. That he was about the worst human being to have ever lived, whose last name wasn’t Hitler or Bin Laden. Maybe he wouldn’t come to mind immediately if we tried to put together our “Bottom Ten List of Humanity,” but if we thought about it a while, and realized that Judas betrayed the Son of God, then he’d be right up there. Or down there, as they case may be. Society has picked up on our rejection of Judas, too. We call traitors “Judas.” No one gives their children that name. And perhaps we don’t even want to play the role of Judas in a dramatic reading. But I wonder if we misunderstand Judas. Perhaps he wasn’t evil through and through. Maybe he really did love Jesus, but in his own flawed, needy, fearful way. Now that may seem ridiculous, because usually when we speak about love, we’re talking about what makes us feel good. We “love” the taste of chocolate or the sound of Mozart, the smell of flowers or the vision of a setting sun. And even when it comes to relationships with other people, love often refers to how the other person makes us feel. That feeling of being “in love” when your heart races and palms sweat, and the more substantive love that sometimes develops later – feeling at home, accepted, safe. These feelings are so powerful that when faced with the risk of losing the person who is loved, we see “the darker side of love” – possessiveness, jealousy, bitterness, spite. Tragically, for some people those are the most visible signs of love, from the insecure person whose heart is warmed by the jealousy of their partner, to the abusive husband who strikes his wife “because he loves her so much.” Graham Greene describes such dark love in his novel The End of the Affair. In it, Maurice, the main character, has an affair with a married woman named Sarah. When she breaks off the relationship, he is consumed with hatred and writes the following in his journal: Hatred seems to operate the same glands as love: it even produces the same actions. If we had not been taught how to interpret the story of the Passion, would we have been able to say from their actions alone whether it was the jealous Judas or the cowardly Peter who loved Christ? [1] We often think that Judas betrayed Jesus out of treachery or greed, but it might just as well have been out of jealousy. When Mary adoringly anointed Jesus’s feet with costly ointment, Judas erupted in a resentful, self-righteous rage. At the Last Supper “the disciple whom Jesus loved” reclined next to Jesus, evoking the jealousy of Judas. For Judas, love and hate were opposite sides of the same coin, and if he couldn’t “have Jesus,” then no one could. Perhaps Maurice was right – perhaps Judas betrayed Jesus precisely because he loved Jesus so. But this is not the kind of love Jesus spoke of. Jesus was vilified, rejected, attacked, and eventually executed, but instead of responding with hatred, instead of “an eye for an eye,” instead of saying, “If you hurt me, I'll hurt you,” Jesus suffered alone, in our place, for our sake. The love of the new commandment Jesus gave us – “love others as you love yourself” – bears no resemblance to hate; they aren’t flip sides of the same coin; their actions are wholly different. We are to love others not because they make us feel good, but because we want the best for them, even if that doesn’t include us. Jesus carried a cross so that we wouldn’t have to. Because of His sacrifice, we are free. To be His disciple is to love as He loved. Our crosses He took; let us now follow in His footsteps and walk our way of sorrows, carrying the crosses of those whom we love. Let us seek the joy of others rather than our own happiness. Let us enter into the suffering of our Savior, so that we can also enter into the suffering of our brothers and sisters, and so be His disciples, and so be healed. In The End of the Affair, Maurice confuses love and hate, but Sarah sees the truth. This is her final prayer, and ours as well: I wish I knew a prayer that wasn’t me, me, me. Help me. Let me be happier … Me, me, me. Let me think of [the agony of those who are dying]. Let me see [my husband's] face with the tears falling. Let me forget me. Dear God, I’ve tried to love and I’ve made such a hash of it. If I could love you, I’d know how to love them. I believe the legend. I believe you were born. I believe you died for us. I believe you are God. Teach me to love. I don’t mind my pain. It’s their pain I can’t stand. Let my pain go on and on, but stop theirs. Dear God, if only you could come down from your Cross for a while and let me get up there instead. If I could suffer like you, I could heal like you. [2] Amen. [1] Graham Greene, The End of the Affair (New York: Penguin, 1951): 27. |
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