Spy Wednesday and Forgiveness
Reading about the many incidents of violence against Asians and people of Asian descent, including the horrific Atlanta murders, on top of the ongoing trial of Derek Chauvin, has made this Wednesday in Holy Week challenging to write about anything other than our failing one another in love. At the same time, many Christian leaders and institutions have failed to respond in any adequate way to the ongoing challenges of racism or inequity, and especially the threat and heresy of Christian nationalism, present in our society. And, of course, Christian organizations and pastors continue to be exposed for their abuse of women and children.
When you look at the sum total of Christianity in our country right now, it’s easy to see why people are walking away—in some cases fleeing—the church and this faith. Back in 2001, I talked to a wonderful Catholic priest about purgatory at the beautiful Our Lady of Sorrows church in Santa Barbara. His description of purgatory was as where we would see all the instances of our life where we could have shown love, but didn’t.
Most of what I see of the Christian church right now are the instances where we could have shown love, but didn’t. In stark contrast, everywhere in the Gospels, Jesus shows love to those who had been excluded as unclean or unworthy or insignificant or heathen. In every instance, Jesus shows us what love looks like.
This contrast has weighed so heavily on me over the past few weeks that I have spent more time than I should have feeling anxious and depressed.
A few weeks ago, I came across a post written by Christopher Pramuk discussing Holy Wednesday, or Spy Wednesday, during Holy Week before Easter. He wrote eloquently on the betrayal of Jesus’ disciple, Judas Iscariot. Of course, Judas makes for a convenient villain in the story of the Passion story. His actions are the catalyst to the crucifixion of Christ, and what follows, the redemption of all humanity. Jesus knew from before Judas was born that he would come to betray him, but he loved him nonetheless. When Judas betrayed him, he still addressed him as “friend.”
Pramuk brings up a fascinating point, which is that Judas’ real failing wasn’t that of betraying his teacher and friend, the son of God, the Messiah. In realizing his treachery, Judas Iscariot despairs and ends up taking his own life, as recorded in the Gospels.
Faced with the evil he had participated in, Judas didn’t see a way forward and lost all hope. He could not accept God’s unconditional love and forgiveness, even though Jesus promised it to all and spoke of it over and over again.
This is at the heart of despair, a besetting sin especially of melancholy types like myself. In this kind of darkness, we hear the lie that we can’t possibly be loved enough to make up for all the damage we’ve caused, the pain of existence, the guilt and shame that we bear for our words and our actions. The concept of wild, radical love beyond measure that forgives and always accepts us is extraordinarily contrary to our human intuitions and sense of reason.
The Christian faith is one of paradox. In dying, Christ restores our broken relationship with God so that all may live. By letting go of our self, we become more of who we are. The first will be last, and fools shame the wise. God is trying relentlessly to reorient our wayward hearts and minds to track better with the rest of creation. Paradox can be a powerful way to teach truth, but it is also hard to tolerate.
Christ didn’t condemn Judas, but Judas felt condemned nonetheless, no doubt in part because of the rigidity of his religion as he understood it. Judas’ inability to comprehend the overwhelming love and forgiveness of God—the heart of Jesus’ message—ended in his despairing, self-inflicted death. Here is where Judas’ life story reaches a point of contemplation for us to puzzle over today: are we willing to embrace God’s forgiveness as we attempt to find our way through this life, lest we fall prey to despair?
In “No worse there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,” one of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ dark sonnets, he writes:
“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there.”
Hopkins was Anglican, from a family of High Church Anglicans, and would have known the dangers of despair and suicide. From the early Christian councils as far back as the fifth century, self-death was condemned as “diabolical” and evil. As early as the 13th century in England, suicide was specifically deemed a criminal act, requiring an ignoble death of being thrown in a pit and staked at the crossroads, a practice that continued up through 1823.
Despair has a tense relationship with Christian faith. Despite many of the great biblical figures falling into despair and depression, its negation of hope makes it an affront to the promise of God’s redemption. But despair can also give insight, if we don’t give up entirely. As Joyce Carol Oates wrote, “For, if despair's temptations can be resisted, surely we become more human and compassionate, more like one another in our common predicament.”
God promised Judas he would be loved and welcomed, the preeminent traitor among a traitorous world of the fallen, but Judas didn’t believe him. The very idea that you could betray God and be forgiven seems preposterous, even to agnostics and atheists. But scripture makes clear that this is precisely why we need Jesus, our Savior. In our acceptance of Christ, we are free indeed, and no longer condemned to death but resolute in hope that one day all things will be set right. (John 8:36)
Reconciling this faith against despair is near impossible, but as we know, with God all things are possible. (Matthew 19:26) Christ loved Judas. God loves us. We are the living embodiment of the fall from grace; we are constantly susceptible to evil and perpetrate it and condone it. It’s up to us to ask forgiveness, to change our behavior and take action. John wrote, “Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” (1 John 3:18) We cannot remain silent or stand by while others are abused or killed. We cannot simply post on social media and hope it will be sufficient to change systems that perpetuate pain and suffering.
At the same time, and in the continual paradox that is at the heart of Christian faith, we have the chance to stop right where we are and change our course from one of malice, or complacency, or ignorance. In multiple places throughout scripture, God implores us through prophets to turn, take action and return to his loving embrace.
It’s up to us, standing as we are at our own crossroads when they appear, to embrace his forgiveness and emulate the love that Jesus showed indiscriminately to all who would seek him. There is still time to turn with all our hearts and become who we are meant to be: people of a faith that loves above all else, and as Nichole Nordeman writes in her song “Dear Me,” there are no exceptions.