A Eulogy for Judas

Image Credit: Artist Nikolai Ge, Wikimedia Commons

Did the Apostles grieve Judas? 

 In the pain and shock of that night, and the days following it, did the loss of Judas factor into the grief? After Easter, did at least some of that grief still remain? 

Some things, once lost, remain lost forever. Jesus came back. Judas didn't. 

Their Lord and Master came back, and there was cause for great joy. Jesus resurrected from the dead and defeated death and sin. Heaven was won, and their mission continuing, more glorious than ever because it was an eternal mission, was now a sure and certain thing. Their God had defeated death itself, and could now never be taken away from them.  

But all of that didn't change the fact that one of their own had betrayed Christ, committed suicide, and was gone. There were real, eternal consequences to Judas's action. God took that action and used it for good, for the highest possible good of all goods, but there was still an evil there that resulted in permanent, irretrievable loss. 

One of the things that I wonder is what finding out about that betrayal was like for the apostles, and for the disciples under them. 

In my experience, betrayal from a member of the clergy (which is what this was, when you get down to it. Every betrayal a member of the clergy commits against his flock echoes and copies and links back to that first betrayal in the garden) doesn't usually come from the guy slinking around in the back, from the one that everyone knows routinely struggles and falls. It comes from the talented ones, or the ones commonly understood to be in good standing. The ones you'd least expect. 

I wonder if the same was true for that first betrayal. Somehow, I can't see it as something everyone saw coming, as it often seems to be portrayed in films and other retellings of the gospel. It had to have been a shock. 

The loss of Judas's trust was compounded by his death. Judas's trust with the other apostles, and the disciples, was broken but he could have repented, as Peter did. Instead, he chose suicide. Not only had he betrayed them, but he was gone, and there was no hope of his repentance. 

On one hand, the other Apostles and the disciples would have been very clearly reminded what was important, and who they ultimately needed to follow-- Jesus, not the people who work for Him (or claim to). It's a plain truth that Christ ought to be our first priority, and that the authority of any other is only valid insofar as Christ Himself gives it validity. 

But on the other hand, there still had to have been immense pain in realizing and admitting that someone in their company, someone a lot of people probably looked up to, had not been what he presented himself to be. There's a real sense of grief when that sort of truth is revealed, because it reaches back into your previous relationship with them. You find yourself analyzing every interaction you had with them, wondering what was really motivating them in that moment. Or else you cut yourself off from the memories and try to act like they never existed. 

One moment has the power to shatter all the other moments, or at least to warp them. 

Jesus Himself carries, and will always carry, the wounds from that betrayal in His hands, feet, and side. By those wounds we are healed and find our salvation, yet wounds they remain. There was something that happened there that was wrong, and what was will never be the same again, yet even as there is a good that was destroyed, a greater good has taken its place. 

It's acceptable, maybe even necessary, to acknowledge pain and loss, even as we hope for and thank God for the glory that He will make of it. 

That's what hope is, when you get down to it. Not a denial of evil, nor a conviction that evil can be erased totally and things returned to the way that they were, but a conviction that it can be worked towards good and that God will work it for good if we give it to Him, either in this life or the next. That is the great apparent folly and the great gift of the Christian life, that we have the audacity to hope, and because we hope, to forgive.