The Magnitude of Mercy and the Gravity of Grace: A Creative Reflection on a Betrayer’s Backstory

The Magnitude of Mercy and the Gravity of Grace: A Creative Reflection on a Betrayer’s Backstory

April 6, 2025

The Fifth Sunday of Lent

Matthew 27:3-5

By John Gribas

Intro

I have so appreciated this sermon series focused on Jonah. Pastor Mike’s observations and insights have, for me, been incredibly powerful.

I am not surprised, though. I have always loved the Jonah story itself. It has such dramatic flair. Such strong and clear and recognizable narrative structure. It is in some ways extremely relatable—this poor guy who is asked to do something he really, really does not want to do and ends up causing himself a lot of grief trying to avoid his charge. In Jonah’s case, being handed a call to repentance and message of hope and forgiveness and being asked to share it with a people Jonah sees as unworthy.

Jonah was given a message of mercy and grace and was asked to share it. Instead, he held on to it for dear life, intent on making sure that message would never reach Ninevah.

You know, we tend to think of mercy and grace as unburdening things. Relieving. Releasing. Reviving. Uplifting. Things that lighten the load of pain and hurt and guilt.

And they are. But they can also be weighty and burdensome things…particularly when we hold on to them. Refuse to offer them.

When we do hold on, I think we come to know…the magnitude of mercy and the gravity of grace.

I think Jonah came to know these things in a very personal way. Think about his time on the boat to Tarshish and the storm. Jonah discovered that the mercy he was withholding had far too much magnitude to fit in that boat. It had the kind of magnitude that could conjure a great storm. A tempest. A real doozy!

And when he realized the storm would not subside so long as he held on, he allowed himself to be thrown overboard. And then he came to know the gravity of the grace he withheld. Gravity powerful enough to pull him to the very bottom of the sea.

And when you think about it, Jonah was not only withholding grace and mercy from the Ninevites. He was also withholding them from himself. Those sailors on the ship with Jonah—they wanted to find a way to spare him. Jonah said, “Throw me overboard. This is my fault.” His fellow seafarers did their best to offer Jonah a little mercy. A little grace. They grabbed some oars and gave it their all trying to get to land and safety. But in the end, Jonah, so intent on withholding God’s mercy and grace, could not receive the mercy and grace offered to him. Instead, he chose the dark waters of the sea and, ultimately, the belly of the great fish.

Why are mercy and grace such tricky things? Too offer to others, and also to receive for ourselves? The Jonah story gives some insight. For a little more, I ask you to allow me a bit of creative license, and I ask you to explore with me the backstory of another bible character who seemed to struggle with mercy and grace. This time, a character from the New Testament and someone whose struggles are clearly tied to this season of Easter.

A Creative Backstory

[Put on shawl. Pick up coin bag. Take one out, hold it up, and look at it.]

If you let go a coin...it must fall to the ground.

[Dropping coins to ground.] One...two…three…

[Hold bags with remaining coins up.]

Thirty.

[Drop bag to ground.]

Eye-een teh-khet eye-een, shane teh-khet shane. [Hebrew translation for "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth"]

I am Judas Iscariot. A Jew. Judean by birth. Follower of Jesus of Nazareth. One of the twelve chosen to be apostles. Treasurer and keeper of the common-purse.

Judas. The betrayer...the one who led the authorities to him. The one who sent him to his death with a kiss.

I am Judas Iscariot...the man! Judas the human being, for I am a human just like you. I am...just like you. I was...just like you. Perhaps no more, but once...ah, once I was a boy.

And I was a good boy, always tried to make my father proud of me. He was a good and respected man, and he had high expectations for his children. We worked hard to live up to those expectations, and I, more than any of my brothers, succeeded...most of the time.

I remember one particular failure quite well. I was young, about eight or nine years old. I had accompanied my father on a journey to a distant city. He was there on business and wanted to show me "the ways of the world."

While there, we occasionally used public transportation to get from place to place. I was a curious boy, and I became fascinated with the little mechanism attached to the public wagon or chariot that, with every so many turns of the wheel, would pop a pebble into an empty box. At the end of the ride, the driver would count the pebbles to determine the fare my father would pay.

We tried our best to accept rides only from Jewish drivers. But once, no Jewish drivers could be found. We were forced to accept a ride in a public Roman chariot.

I could tell by my father's hesitation that he didn't like the idea. I was sure there must be some Jewish law forbidding the activity, and I dreaded the thought of being "unclean" and wondered what type of sacrifice or purification process might be required.

Was it religious piety...anti-Roman zeal...or just plain naughtiness? I can't really say, but for some reason, I was overcome with a sense of disgust at the thought of paying a Roman with my father's hard-earned money, and I soon found my eyes fixed on that little box on the side of the chariot.

It was slowly accumulating more and more pebbles. The quiet, regular "chink...chink...chink" as they fell seemed to grow and grow and echo in my ears until it drowned out all else. Then, before I even realized it, I had a handful of smooth pebbles clenched in my fist. No one had seen.

The ride ended soon. My father paid the Roman driver in silence. And we went on our way down the road, my fist clenched tight, the pebbles burning into my palm. I felt satisfied.

All was well, until we came to a busy intersection where my father, often distant but always protective of his children, reached down and grasped my hand to cross. I had been found out.

My father, he...well, let's just say that he "disapproved." We marched back down the street, unfortunately the chariot driver was still there, and my father paid the man what we owed, plus twenty percent for proper restitution.

I was appropriately punished. And I spent many hours working for my father's friends to reimburse what I had stolen. "In this world," my father told me, “there are actions, and there are consequences we must pay."

Still, the most painful and lasting punishment was the memory of watching my father apologize to a Roman...because of me.

That boy grew into a man. And, with the help of my father's guidance, a model Judean. I worked hard, and I excelled in my studies. I learned a trade, and I earned an honest wage. I knew the law well, and I kept it. Yes, a model Judean.

Then I met him.

Jesus, a carpenter turned teacher. His words, drew me. Not only me, but the whole Jewish world has been waiting for the Messiah, the leader who will overthrow the Roman oppressor and restore the Jews to power and usher in the Kingdom of God.

Still, with the world so filled with wandering teachers, prophets, and self-professed messiahs, it is strange that I would be drawn to this one, particularly considering that this one was from Nazareth. As a Judean, I learned early in life that Nazarenes were rather crude, lacking in culture and education.

In many ways, Jesus was no different from the others who claim to be Messiah. There were the healings and other sorts of Egyptian magic we had come to expect from these holy men. But Jesus was unique. He had power, but he was gentle. Authority, but he was humble.

And the religious leaders, who so easily discredited religious frauds in the past, ended up looking like fools when challenging Jesus. If any could usher in the Kingdom of God, this man could.

But Jesus...he changed. Or maybe I changed. But how can you take seriously a Messiah who blatantly challenges religious authorities, who seems to believe he can step outside our laws, our traditions. What Messiah would eat with tax collectors and other sinners, keep company with harlots? What was this man's purpose?

It is fine to preach "mercy," but mercy will not topple Rome.

Jesus was wasting time and resources on unproductive things. I was disappointed. I was worried. I was confused.

Finally, we were to go to Jerusalem for the Passover. Jerusalem! Jesus knew that the Jewish authorities were seeking him. He was choosing a very dangerous path, and he was taking us with him.

How ironic that we were about to celebrate the Passover, the day God delivered the Jewish people from captivity in Egypt, and here we were, Jews, about to follow one who claimed to be God's son right into our own captivity.

[Pausing...unsure of what to say.]

I helped them find him...went to the Jewish authorities...told them I'd find an opportunity for them to arrest him without his crowd of followers around. The opportunity came during Passover.

We were sharing the Passover meal. Jesus, somehow he knew...he knew what I was planning to do. He told us all that one of us would betray him..."One," he said, "who eats with me from my bowl."

Then he dipped a piece of bread in the bowl and handed it to me.

I left immediately and went to the authorities. I took them to where I knew Jesus would go after the meal, to the Garden of Gethsemane.

Since it was dark, we had arranged a way for me to identify their man. I was to join the apostles in the garden, find Jesus, and greet him with a kiss on both cheeks. This I did.

The memory of the look in my father's eyes when he apologized to the Roman chariot driver for my error...that is painful. But it is nothing in comparison to the memory of the look in the eyes of Jesus as I betrayed him.

There was sadness, yes; yet I sensed that it was not for himself, but for me. There was calm, there was resolve, there was mercy...a terrible, terrible look of mercy.

Then, he was executed. Tried, beaten, and nailed to a cross. If you have ever seen one, then you know that there are not good and bad crucifixion deaths. There is only one kind of crucifixion...slow, painful, agonizing, and complete.

There are actions, and there are consequences...

Why did I do it? WHY? Was it because I knew he was not the Messiah but, instead, a deluded fanatic?

Was it because I believed that he was the Messiah and needed to be pushed into some sort of real action?

Was it for the silver given to me as a reward? Was I just afraid?

Maybe it was all of these...maybe it was none of these. Why did I take those pebbles from the box? I just don't know.

But what does it matter? He is dead. An innocent man is dead, and it is my doing.

So much for his life, his work. So much for mercy. Clearly, his death is evidence that mercy does not fit this world. If one such as he could not secure mercy from this world, then none can...and I am no exception.

In this world, there are actions and there are consequences we must pay...there are consequences I must pay.

[Pick up coin bag from the ground.]

If you let go a coin, it must fall to the ground.

But Jesus, if he were alive and here right now, I know what he would say. He would tell me..."But Judas. My dear friend Judas. If they fall, I can pick them up again."

But hands that have been crucified…can hold very little.

[Drop bag again.]

Eye-een teh-khet eye-een, shane teh-khet shane.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

A life…for a life.

[Remove shawl.]

Conclusion

Matthew 27:3-5

When Judas, his betrayer, saw that Jesus was condemned, he repented and brought back the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders. He said, "I have sinned by betraying innocent blood." But they said, "What is that to us? See to it yourself." Throwing down the pieces of silver in the temple, he departed; and he went and hanged himself.

Mercy. It is a thing of great magnitude.

Grace. It holds a powerful gravity.

For Judas, too much magnitude and too much gravity to offer to his enemies, the Romans. Same for Jonah. Too much to offer to the Ninevites. And for both, apparently also too much to receive. So strange.

Or maybe not strange at all. Am I…are we…all that different from Jonah? From Judas?

I share this imaginative backstory for Judas to suggest some reasons he may have had such a difficult time with mercy and grace. I also share it to encourage each of us to reflect on our own backstory.

As we approach Easter, if you find mercy and grace tricky things—to offer or to receive or both—look back and consider why.

Maybe something about your upbringing.

Maybe a specific hurt or wound or trauma.

Maybe the incessant messages from culture and media that promote vengeance and justice and paying your dues as ultimate values.

Maybe, God forbid, it somehow was baked into what you heard in your own religious upbringing—from your Sunday school class or from sermons or from the words and actions of others regarded as respected leaders in your faith community.

Maybe you will come to the conclusion that there is just something about being human that makes it really difficult to properly receive and digest mercy and grace.

As you reflect, let God touch and heal. Not imagining that you will suddenly find yourself able to carry these weighty things—mercy and grace—on your own. I think, perhaps, that we were never meant to carry mercy and grace…only to offer and to accept them.

So my hope, instead, is that your reflection on all of this allows you to let go…and to remember the one who did in fact carry the weight of mercy and grace in his life, and also in his death. And whose spirit, now living in us, can and will bear the magnitude of mercy and the gravity of grace, so that we may both give and receive.

Amen.

Benediction

The Lord bless you and keep you.

The Lord make His face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you.

The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.

Charge

So let us go, recognizing the magnitude of mercy and gravity of grace. Not holding. Not withholding. But, instead, offering them as gifts—to ourselves, to each other, and to the whole world. Amen.