Judas” William Wood

Judas

from the eyes of Iscariot

BY: WILLIAM WOOD

“If it were up to me I’d kill you right now and sell your organs to a pig farmer,” the guard

said, eliciting a nervous laugh from his less-than-intimidating partner. The speaker was a confident

man, about four cubits high with broad shoulders and a high chest. His eyes were dark and intense,

underneath furrowed bushy eyebrows. His features were hard and sharp- the ideal Roman soldier,

while his partner looked no older than sixteen. The boy’s nervous smile and darting eyes were

painted on a clean, round face, evidence of pampering in his youth and inexperience as a soldier.

He likely was raised in a military family, perhaps with older brothers who were already commanders

because of their father ’s reputation. Once the boy was old enough to wear armor, he was practicing

stances and sitting at the men’s table during feasts. What a waste of effort and money, I thought to

myself. Why invest in another child when you could use the money to increase your prosperity?

“But unfortunately,” the square-jawed guard continued, “I’ve been asked to deliver you

unharmed to the Pharisees.” As he said this, he stepped closer and planted his booted heel on my

exposed sandaled foot, twisting to leave bruises and scratches that would make the average man

cower. I hardly felt the pain. I looked at him evenly, waiting for him to step off. His face contorted

in confused anger, then he backed off and shoved me past, already looking toward his next victim.

I had that effect on people. I possessed a certain unwavering confidence that stemmed from my

certainty that I was intellectually brighter than every man in the room. My father ’s words came back

to me. “Never flinch,” he would say as he crushed my fingers in his grip or cut skin from my arms

with his favorite shaving knife. “Never show weakness, always have a plan, and never do anything

unless it is for money.” Ever since I was seven, he would impart this loving wisdom upon me every

week on Sabbath. As a result, I could unblinkingly stare a man dead in the eyes like a statue of

Emperor Tiberius. Now there was a man I could respect. Before he was emperor, he allegedly sold

his two sisters and younger brother to bribe a Roman general into arresting a new competitor that

I walked down the hall and could not help but wonder at the cost of the buildings. The

pillars snaked up the walls like orchard vines. The marble underfoot was polished white and

reflected the dancing candlelight from the sconces. Portraits and monuments to the Emperors of

the past lined the walls, accompanied by the words of ancient prophets like Moses and Isaiah.

These verses echoed themes of power and obedience. I paused for a moment to read one written by

Moses in Deuteronomy: “ The man who acts presumptuously by not obeying the priest who stands

to minister there before the Lord your God, or the judge, that man shall die.” Fools, I thought to

myself. Here they are wasting money on marble inscriptions when they could be focusing their

resources on expanding their power and influence.

The hall opened into a circular chamber with eleven thrones arranged in a semicircle. On

the thrones sat eleven Pharisees, all dressed in expensive garb and extravagant jewelry. Their

feet were clean and manicured, their clothes washed and white. All but one had large grey beards

that covered their round chins. They wore frontlets on their foreheads and left hands bearing

the words of the prophet Moses. Their garments were purposefully fringed at the edges- another

commandment of the Law. Some wore purple garments and silk girdles. The air was rancid with

perfume, and I had to stifle a gagging sensation as I silently stood there.

The silence lasted for a few uncomfortable moments. They glared upon me with condemning

eyes. I stared back at them, slowly scanning my audience until I held each of their gazes. Finally,

the middle Pharisee spoke -smoothly, eloquently. “Greetings Judas the Iscariot, son of Simon

Iscariot of Kerioth. I am Caiaphas, High Priest of the people. Why have you come before us today?”

He had the posture of an experienced judge, with a straight but relaxed spine and shoulders

back. Caiaphas was a man well-accustomed to being in control. His baritone voice was rich and

creamy, like steamy fish soup soaked in olive oil and consumed with expensive wine. I hated him

immediately, but the business realm is no place for emotions. And business is what I was here for.

“I have come because of rumors in the streets,” I said. I knew I had their attention, and I

could feel them leaning forward ever so slightly.

to arrest the Rabbi Jesus. Now, I am no expert politician or consul, but it is difficult to arrest

someone whose whereabouts are unknown, is it not?” A few of the priests glanced at each other or

fiddled with their bronze rings. I let the question hang suspended in the air until finally, Caiaphas

responded. “We have… resources. We will find him and remove him. Whether it be in the light of

day or in the darkest night, there is nowhere he can hide.” The other priests nodded in agreement,

their thick robes shaking up and down.

Always be willing to walk away, or at least act like it, I reminded myself. My father may have

had unusual methods, but his lessons stuck with me. “ Very well,” I said, “then you have no need for

what I can offer.” I turned to leave, but the lone priest with the black beard exclaimed, “Of course,

any assistance would be appreciated.” He paused, then added, “And rewarded handsomely.” With

my back to them, I smiled. An evil smile, I have been told, that creeps on my face at the mention

of money. How easily even the most powerful of men can be manipulated. Play your audience, my

father said to me. I turned back around, still smiling, and said, “I knew men of your stature could be

reasonable. Now, let us proceed.”

Peter led us to the house where the Passover would be that night. It was a humble home,

with low ceilings and cracked walls. It smelled of mild perfume and the few furnishings inside

were clean. I took in my surroundings as we prepared to eat. Matthew was rambling about some

new wine. John was by the Rabbi’s side, as usual, not saying anything but observing everything.

Everyone was anticipating this feast, for Jesus had said it would be his last one with us. We received

our Seder plates and began to eat. The Zeroah shankbone was small, but delicious nonetheless. The

Beitzah egg was slightly over-cooked, but it was tolerable. I ate without speaking much, not wanting

to draw attention to myself. Suddenly, the Rabbi rose and lay aside his outer garments. I watched

him closely to see any sign of his knowledge of my betrayal. None. He tied a towel around his waist,

poured water into a basin, and approached Simon Peter to wash his feet. “Lord, do you wash my

feet?” Peter asked. Jesus answered him, “ What I am doing you do not understand now, but afterward

you will understand.”

“ You shall never wash my feet,” Peter said.

“If I do not wash you, you have no share with me.”

does not need to wash, except for his feet, but is completely clean. And you are clean, but not

every one of you.” At this, he looked and scanned the disciples. When his eyes reached mine they

seemed to linger for an eternity. The world froze around me. I stared back into his brown eyes,

and for the first time since my youth I feared another man. Finally, Jesus looked back down and

said, “Not all of you are clean.”

He continued cleaning our feet. One by one he approached each disciple until finally he

was before me. I was numb. The water was warm but it shocked my skin. I was paralyzed in fear of

this man who was kneeling and washing my feet. The thirty pieces of silver in my pocket suddenly

became an anchor pulling me down into the darkness of the sea. I flinched at his touch when he

began to scrub my feet. He took special care of my right foot where the guard had stomped me.

I watched him slowly wipe the scabs and dirt away, reminding me of a mother who cleans her

child’s feet before Sabbath.

Then he looked up into my face. Our eyes locked. He knew. Time stood still. He and I

were the only people in the room. Brown met brown. His stare was piercing but soft, knowing

but curious. And in those eyes I saw a hint of sadness. Not a sadness from losing a treasure or

forgetting something significant. But the sadness of a mother who loses a loved child. His eyes

reflected the pain a father feels when his son lies to him. The longing of a shepherd to find his

lost sheep. But hidden behind this pain was an impenetrable peace. I saw a vexatious joy that

danced through his iris. And instead of fearing this man, I found myself amazed by him. Here was

a man who knew no greed, felt no shame, and did no evil. And yet, it was for these reasons that

I knew he must be killed. It was unfair that I had toiled and suffered and lied and cheated to get

where I am today, but this man had accomplished more without any of those actions. He claimed

to be the Messiah, and perhaps he was, but he had not seen what I had seen about mankind.

Mankind was evil and not worth saving. The only way to rise in life was to be more evil and

mendacious than your neighbor. I had lived this way my entire life and knew no other truth. But

this Rabbi came and defied all my expectations. He gave away wealth and turned away pride. He

loved the most dishonorable sinners and blessed the weak. He taught love and compassion and

performed miracles to validate his godliness. But even if he could raise a man from the dead, the

cries that made Roman blood curdle. He was no Messiah and his claim to be the Son of God was

blasphemous. His arrest and punishment would be justified. I would be justified.

I looked away, unable to stare at this man any longer. He retrieved his clothes and began

to talk to the rest of the disciples. I could not think. The realization that he knew of my treachery

speared my heart. The Rabbi was saying something to the group, but I was not listening. I felt

once again the weight of the pouch in my pocket and noticed that Jesus was handing me a piece

of dipped bread. I took it and saw the disciples astonished faces. Peter ’s face quickly turned

deadly, and he began to rise when Jesus interrupted him with a wave of his hand. The Rabbi

addressed me, “ What you are going to do, do quickly.” My head split with the impact of these

words. He confirmed my suspicions and did not thwart my escape. I rose from my place on the

cushions and made my way to the door. I felt His eyes on the back of my head. I could sense the

disciples looking at each other in horror. When I reached the exit, I looked back one last time.

There, surrounded by his disciples, was Jesus of Nazareth. The manifestation of everything good

and hopeful in this world, and I, Judas Iscariot, was going to kill him. I turned back and hurriedly

escaped the room, feeling nothing but hate for His perfection as I fled into the comforting

darkness of the night.