By the midday meal, no one dared ask him any questions, and when the crowd began to drift away, Jesus dismissed them all. He led the Twelve out of the temple, through the Sheep Gate. Judas lost himself in the columns, towers, and stone. “Look, Rabbi! These stones are so large! Have you ever worked with anything so impressive? Surely the craftsmanship is unequaled. No wonder this temple is the envy of the world. Truly a fitting house for the Lord!”
Jesus turned back and scanned the temple gate, taking in the whole complex with his carpenter’s gaze. His shoulders sagged, and he said, “Do you see these great buildings? Not one of these magnificent stones will be left standing upon its brother. Every single rock and beam will be utterly destroyed.”
Then he turned and continued out of the city. None of them spoke. What could they say? Judas’s mind raced. This temple has stood as long as Solomon’s and after Herod’s renovations was grander by far—more than five hundred years since Babylon destroyed the Holy City. True, Rome is more powerful than Babylon ever had been, but isn’t that why the Messiah has come now? To conquer God’s enemies? To preserve God’s people? To defend God’s house?
Doubt grew like a weed in Judas’s mind as he recalled Jesus’ words by the fig tree. “If you say to this mountain, ‘Be raised up and thrown into the sea,’ it will be done for you.”
Once they were free of the city, Andrew asked Jesus what he had meant by his prophecy. But Jesus’ reply clarified nothing. He promised not conquest and victory but persecution, arrest, and betrayal. He foretold a desolating sacrilege, the enemies of God standing in the holy of holies as Pompeii had a century before. He promised suffering on a scale not known since Noah and the unmaking of creation. As they were passing the fig tree yet again, he gestured to it. “You know when this tree blooms, summer is here. So too, keep watch for these signs. The end of the world is at hand. Some among you will live to see it.”
They said nothing else on the way back to Bethany, but Jesus’ final words echoed over and over in Judas’s mind. Keep watch. Judas was watching, and what he saw was a man being crushed by the weight of his own mission. Jesus was cracking. He was supposed to challenge Rome—as he had when he rode into the city. But he had spent the past two days enraging the Jewish leaders, turning many in the city against him. And he was calling for the destruction of the temple, for the unmaking of creation.
As he followed his rabbi, his messiah, Judas thought of wind and waves obeying Jesus’ command. Of unclean spirits fleeing at a word. Of countless eyes opened and tongues loosened. Of the dead raised.
But in the slump of Jesus’ shoulders, Judas saw no power. He saw doubt—or worse: defeat.
TUESDAY NIGHT
That night, a man named Simon hosted a feast in their honor. Jesus had cured him of leprosy at the temple the previous day, and Simon spared no expense for the meal. He proved to be an excellent host. The cushions on which they reclined were comfortable; the slaves were attentive and unobtrusive as they washed feet and served the food, which was well prepared. Judas gathered that before his illness, Simon had been a man of some prominence in Jerusalem, perhaps a Pharisee. But even though a temple priest had declared him clean after the healing, Judas saw none of Jerusalem’s religious elite present for the feast. Not surprising after the confrontation today. A heavy foreboding lay just beneath all the talk and laughter around the table.
Suddenly the smell of death filled Judas’s nostrils. He nearly gagged as the air became thick with nard. Unbidden, images flooded his mind: Preparing his mother’s body for burial. The wailing of the mourners as they laid his grandfather in the family tomb. The baby brother who died before he could walk.
Judas looked back to see a woman he didn’t recognize cradling a jar of nard in her hands and pouring it carefully over Jesus’ feet. At first he thought she must be a slave, but she was not dressed as a slave. He noted the size and craftsmanship of the jar. That nard must be worth at least a year’s wages.
Those at the table began to simmer with confusion and disgust. Suddenly the whole area smelled like a funeral procession, the potent nard overwhelming the fragrance of the lamb and sauces. Judas could see he was not the only person who had lost his appetite, but none of them was sure what to do. Even Simon looked to Jesus, seated at his right in the place of honor.
But Jesus’ eyes were closed in silent meditation. He sat back from the table and allowed the woman to pour the nard over his head as well. As she rubbed the oil into his hair, Jesus opened his eyes, and they were damp. The tension Judas had seen in his rabbi’s shoulders seemed to fall away, and for a moment Jesus looked like nothing more than a baby cradled in his mother’s lap. He looked peaceful for the first time since they had arrived in Judea.
Judas felt fury rising in his chest. With tensions as high as they were, her display was in poor taste, even for a rabbi who routinely flouted gender propriety. He leaped to his feet. “Rabbi, what is the meaning of this?” The voices of some of the other Twelve joined his protest.
Jesus closed his eyes again and spoke, his voice weary. “Leave her alone, Judas. She has performed a great kindness for me.”
Peter objected, “But, Lord! Such a waste! We could’ve sold that nard for at least three hundred denarii!”
Someone else chimed in. “Think of all the poor we could help with so much money!”
Jesus seemed not to have heard them for several long moments. Finally he sighed, “You will always have the poor with you. You can show them kindness whenever you wish. But you will not always have me.”
Judas was stunned. You will not always have me?
Jesus continued. “She has prepared my body for burial. In the years to come, wherever the good news is proclaimed—anywhere in the world—what she has just done will be celebrated as an act of great faithfulness.”
He turned to the woman and thanked her, then reclined once more at the table to resume eating. After casting furtive glances at each other, Simon and the Twelve began to pick at their food. Slowly conversation returned, though more strained than ever.
Judas, however, said nothing. He found he could not eat with the cloying smell of death emanating so strongly from Jesus.
TUESDAY MIDNIGHT
The way down the Mount of Olives had been harrowing in the moonlight, but Judas now stood before the East Gate. An extra coin to the guard ensured his message reached the high priest’s house, and he didn’t have to wait long to be admitted into the city. As Judas entered the city, he reflected on the toll he had seen Jerusalem take on Jesus. The crowds. The priests. The merchants in the temple. But of course the city is mired in sin! Why else must the Messiah come?
Jesus’ words at the meal echoed in Judas ear. “She has prepared my body for burial.”
Judas arrived outside Caiaphas’s house and called out. A bleary-eyed slave answered, and Judas said, “I am Judas, son of Simon, called Iscariot by Jesus of Nazareth. Tell your master I bring the solution to his problem.” The slave grumbled but retreated into the house. Soon Judas heard the sounds of the household coming to life.
He nearly fled back into the darkness, but the smell of the nard seemed to cling to him. The weariness in Jesus’ eyes haunted him. Jesus’ words, “You will not always have me,” had chased him to the city, and now they held him there. Judas thought Jesus had lost faith in himself. But I have not, cannot, lose faith in Jesus.
Before the dinner with Jesus had ended, Judas had made his decision. If Jesus would not act, Judas would force his hand. If Jesus would not enact heaven’s kingdom on earth, Judas would.
Finally Judas was shown into a private chamber where Caiaphas sat with several other men whom Judas recognized from the temple courtyard earlier in the day. He had clearly interrupted important business. Without waiting to be announced, Judas spoke. “I have come to deliver Jesus of Nazareth, who some call the Messiah, into your hands.”
Several of the men whispered to one another in shock, but Caiaphas’s eyes narrowed, appraising this stranger. “And w
hy should we believe you, son of Simon? You are a known follower of the Nazarene.” Caiaphas’s tone revealed his contempt for Jesus’ humble origins.
“Listen to the shape of my words, noble Caiaphas,” Judas said. “I grew up near Hebron. My people have known the rule of the Herodians and the power of Rome. It is true that in recent years I have been following Jesus. You have seen with your own eyes his power to work miracles. You have witnessed firsthand the power in his words.” Judas saw one of the scribes frown at this barb and knew he must tread carefully. “But as the Passover drew near, we noticed a change in Jesus. I believe he aspires to be the Messiah some think him to be.”
Judas concealed his lie as a tare among grains of truth. “I am the only man from among the Twelve who has lived outside Galilee. These are simple men with simple ideas about the kingdom of heaven. They do not understand as we do in the South the power of Rome, of the delicate balance we must strike to remain faithful to God in the shadow of Caesar. A messianic revolt can only end in disaster for our people. Jesus must be stopped.”
Caiaphas snorted. “Your words are honey, Iscariot. How do we know this is not a trap? Perhaps you wish to embarrass us, to give credibility to your messiah.” His final word dripped with disdain.
Judas shrugged. “So don’t let him choose the confrontation. My master does not share his plans with us, but I fear for the day of Passover. What better day for the Messiah to reveal himself?”
And then Judas sprang his trap. “You must stop him. Tomorrow night. We will eat the Passover meal in the city. I can deliver him to you afterward, when we are returning to Bethany. Send the Temple Guard. You can take him outside the city, at night, away from the crowds. You have seen his followers. We are no army; most of us have held only the dull, rusted swords of our fathers. We are no match for the Temple Guard.”
Then Judas smiled. “Unless Jesus truly is the Messiah, in which case it hardly matters whether you take him tomorrow night or wait for him to announce himself.”
Several of the priests spat or pulled at their beards, but Caiaphas said nothing. He held up his hand to silence his fellows. “Why would you betray your master, Iscariot?”
“I have seen Jesus do much good. He gives hope to the poor. He heals the sick. He frees those oppressed by unclean spirits. And he calls us all to love God more. I would not see this end.” Then Judas lied easily, because it was no lie at all. “I love my master with all my heart. I wish to save him from himself.”
Caiaphas grunted. “Such devotion is admirable. Leave us, son of Simon. You will have your answer shortly.”
Judas followed the slave back to the courtyard of Caiaphas’s house, his heart pounding in his chest. Caiaphas was true to his word. One of the scribes came to Judas, gripped his arm, and whispered into his ear, “Come to us tomorrow night. You will be richly rewarded for your efforts.” Then he retreated inside as quickly as he had come.
Judas barely remembered returning to Bethany, and long after he sneaked back to his pallet, he lay awake, head filled with visions of glory. Tomorrow night, the enemies of the Messiah will strike. By Friday, the whole of Jerusalem will see Jesus exalted as God’s anointed. And who will be at his right side? Who else but the man who did not lose faith, even when Jesus himself did? Who else but the man who had the courage to follow Jesus’ mission all the way to the end?
When Judas finally fell asleep, only the words of the scribe rang in his ears. “You will be richly rewarded for your efforts.”
12
What Death Smells Like
The Betrayal of Faithfulness
As a pastor, I visit a lot of hospitals and nursing homes, and they all smell the same. Pungent, medicinal eucalyptus covers the faint but unmistakable odors of our mortality: urine, feces, blood, and death. Walking down the hall at a hospital reveals how powerful our sense of smell is. As the fragrances of our human weakness waft into our nostrils, memories flood our minds.
Maybe you sat with a family member as she struggled through a chronic illness or with a friend who just found out he had only months to live. You watched as chemotherapy ravaged the body of your child. Or you had to turn off a machine that was keeping your parent alive. Plenty of people simply won’t go to hospitals because the memories those smells conjure up for them are too painful. (There’s a reason Yankee doesn’t sell a hospital-scented candle.) Ultimately that smell is the smell of mortality, of the breaking down of our bodies, of death.
Death is the one great equalizer. No matter how much money we have, no matter how powerful our military, no matter how safe we play it, we all die in the end. That knowledge makes most of us afraid, so our culture has done everything it can to shield us from pain, the harbinger of our mortality.
We quarantine our elderly and infirm in hospitals and homes so they can die out of sight and therefore out of mind.
We buy our meat in sealed packages that look nothing like the animals they came from. We consume them happily, blissfully ignorant of the deplorable and inhumane conditions in which the animals were raised.
When tragedy strikes, we click the sad emoticon on Facebook or retweet a news story on Twitter. We set up a temporary profile picture assuring the world we are “PRAYING FOR ______.” If someone has set up a number to text, we might give ten dollars to the earthquake/tsunami/hurricane/shooting victims’ fund. Then we forget and go about our business.
We design systems to shield us from pain, from the reality of death. Religion is one of those systems. Church attendance here in the United States spiked after 9/11 because people were afraid. We felt vulnerable and powerless, so we went to listen to someone tell us God loves us and is in control. In that way, we were not unlike Judas and his contemporaries, clinging to the promise of a messiah because it gave them hope to endure under Roman oppression. Our own discomfort with death helps us empathize with Judas.
WORST. HUMAN. EVER.
The Bible tells us little about Judas. We get no story for his call. John tells us he is the “son of Simon Iscariot” (John 6:71). The meaning of “Iscariot” has long been debated. The most popular theory, also corroborated by some ancient copies of John’s Gospel, is that it means “man of Kerioth.”1 In this case, much like Mary Magdalene, whose title means “from Magdala,” and Jesus of Nazareth, Judas was identified by his hometown or possibly the hometown of his father.2
However Judas ended up living in the Galilee, his call was probably similar to those of the rest of the Twelve. He began to follow a provocative new rabbi who worked miracles, irritated those in power, and taught authoritatively about the imminent arrival of God’s kingdom. Soon this rabbi handpicked him to be part of the inner circle of twelve, and it became increasingly obvious Jesus viewed himself as some sort of harbinger of this new kingdom. Eventually the Twelve figured out that Jesus believed himself to be the actual Messiah, and to their own surprise, they believed it too.
The so-called confession at Caesarea Philippi is a turning point in Mark’s Gospel (Mark 8:27–9:1). Jesus asked the Twelve who people were saying he was and then asked them directly what they thought. Peter blurted out what was on all their minds: Jesus is the Messiah. What has been obvious to those of us reading Mark’s Gospel—with its opening line announcing “the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God”—is only now, halfway through the story, spoken aloud by the Twelve. Peter’s confession was a stake in the ground. Jesus confirmed that he was Israel’s long-awaited Messiah, and for his followers, there was no going back.
Messianic expectations in Jesus’ day were diverse, but everyone looking for a messiah was looking for some variation of the same theme: a ruler who would be even greater than David, Israel’s greatest king.3 For more than five hundred years, God’s people had lived in exile. Even after they were allowed to return from captivity to rebuild the temple and Jerusalem’s walls, they were a vassal state. And though they achieved independence under the Hasmonean king-priests, that dynasty was divisive, tumultuous, and bitterly brief.
By Jesu
s’ day, Israel was squarely under the boot of Rome. Israel’s kings had always been warrior-kings, so the Jewish people were constantly on the lookout for a mighty warrior to lead the armies of God against all of Israel’s enemies. The Messiah would take back David’s throne and rule in peace and justice. By Jesus’ day, plenty of would-be messiahs had raised armies, opposed Rome, and found themselves hanging on crosses outside the city.
But Jesus was different. He worked miracles—not just healings and exorcism but also miracles that affected nature itself. He demonstrated total dominion over even the forces of evil. And his teachings were unlike anything anyone had heard before. Again and again, he challenged the powerful and gathered the poor and oppressed. He danced past every trap and outsmarted every opponent. And eventually his followers figured out he was Israel’s promised Messiah.
The problem was that their picture of the Messiah was wrong. Jesus did not come to conquer as a mighty warrior. He came to die, to give his life for the good of the whole world. Mark used a bizarre story to warn us not to get excited that the Twelve had finally figured out that Jesus was the Messiah.
Immediately before Peter’s confession, Mark tells us a story neither Matthew nor Luke include in their Gospels (Mark 8:22-26).4 Jesus came across a blind man who begged to be healed. Jesus healed him, and the man reported he could see—but only sort of. “I can see people, but they look like trees” (v. 24). So Jesus healed him again, and then the man could see perfectly. What was going on there? Did Jesus not zap him hard enough the first time? Did he get distracted? Maybe the man was blind but also had an astigmatism, so Jesus had to cure him of two separate ailments.
No, Mark was warning us. When Peter confessed, “You are the Messiah” he was right, but neither he nor the rest of the Twelve saw Jesus clearly (Mark 8:29). They had an out-of-focus picture of what the Messiah had come to do. We know that because, after Peter’s confession, Jesus told them the game plan: he was going to Jerusalem to die and be raised from the dead.
Empathy for the Devil Page 14
