Tuesday of Holy Week

Lectionary: 245

Reclining at table with his disciples, Jesus was deeply troubled and testified, “Amen, amen, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” The disciples looked at one another, at a loss as to whom he meant.

If I were to name the Great Evil which confronts every human being, which causes us to question the very existence of God and the possibility of goodness, I would call this mystery betrayal.

Natural catastrophes happen and they are often traumatic. Some people never get over the shock of watching a tornado rip through the ceiling, taking walls and roof with it. Others are appalled by the sudden death of a child by accident or disease. These things, we think, should not happen in God’s good world.

But betrayal is worse; its casual intentionality destroys us. We wonder, “How could you do this to me?” and “Why did you do this to me?” If we cannot trust our fellow human beings in this perilous world, who can we trust?

That “the disciples looked at one another, at a loss as to whom he meant” is telling. There were apparently no factions or cliques among them. They felt very comfortable among themselves and in Jesus’ company. If James and John had jockeyed for higher rank among them Jesus had gently, firmly escorted them back to their place. The rest of the group had apparently forgiven them for it. If Peter had been singled out as the spokesman for the group, they did not resent his position. They could not imagine that one of them – one who had served without distinction so far – might upend everything and betray the Master to his enemies.

Betrayal comes in many forms. It might be as brazen as Judas’ conspiracy with the Sanhedrin. But it might be more subtle: the promises made which were never meant to be kept; the heart-breaking infidelities within marriage; the parent who looks after his own interests first before that of his children; the shortcuts a contractor takes as he builds a building or bridge.

Because we need one another and rely on one another, we have to believe that relationships are dependable, promises are kept, and words mean what they say. Betrayal shatters the confidence we need to do something as simple as entering a building, crossing a bridge or filling a prescription. Worse, it threatens my sense of self-worth. Betrayed, I wonder if I ever “existed, mattered, or made sense” to my friend.

Jesus is the Word of God; his words have gathered this band of disciples to him. Judas’ betrayal denies his very existence; it opens through an impenetrable thicket of human laws, contracts, agreements, pledges and promises a broad path to his crucifixion. The unexpected, unthinkable will suddenly descend upon Jesus even as his disciples watch in horror.

Natural catastrophes happen; they come with the inevitability of death itself. Naturalists are fond of pointing to the new birth that follows in the wake of forest fires, hurricanes and earthquakes. They are not evil. 

But betrayal does not have to happen; there is no law that says it must. Like alcohol, it has no medicinal purpose. If good comes from betrayal it must be "supernatural," by the intentional, redeeming act of a personal God.