A sermon by Associate Minister Elsa A. Peters, August 8, 2010
Mark 14:43-50
He’s the betrayer. When he first appears in the gospel account, we meet him by this name. The betrayer. The traitor. “One of the twelve,” but not like the rest. He’s “Judas Iscariot, who betrayed him.”
In some of the gospels, this is explained. It’s not just that he’s a traitor. It’s not just that he’s fallen short. There’s a reason. “Satan entered into Judas called Iscariot.” It’s for this reason – because “the devil had already put it in his heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot” – that we have this story. This story under the cloak of night. This story tucked away in a garden. This story about a kiss.
And yet, of the one who bestowed this fatal kiss, we have only this story. There is nothing else to fill in the gaps. There is nothing else to make sense of his actions. There is only this story where “Judas, one of the twelve, arrived… with swords and clubs, from the chief priests, the scribes and the elders.”
We might not know anything about Judas – but they knew what would happen. The chief priests, the scribes and the elders had planned it. Judas had come to them. Before the last meal Jesus shared with his disciples, Judas went to the chief priests. They promised to give him money. And it was in that moment that Judas “began to look for an opportunity to betray [Jesus.]”
And though it is not said, it must have been decided that this would be the sign. This would be the way that it would happen. This dark story would be sealed with a kiss. This is how it would happen. This is how Judas would betray him. It would happen with a kiss.
And yet, no disciple would have greeted his teacher first. Not with a kiss. Not with a handshake. Not even with a nod. The disciple would wait. The teacher would address the student. Not the other way around. Not like this. This isn’t just a signal to the mob. It’s not only a sign to the chief priests. This kiss is “a calculated insult.” It’s a sign that Jesus is no longer in control, that he can’t be in control, that everything will change with this one kiss.
You know what that kiss feels like. You know it’s respect. You know it’s tenderness and its warmth. The affection is real. It charges the moment. It heightens the passion so that your eyes lock. It’s electric, but when your lips part, you know that everything will change. Immediately. Everything will change.
You know what that kiss feels like. You’ve felt that power as sure as you know when you’ve been betrayed. You know the affection as much as you know the violation, the breach of trust, the horrible feeling that you’ve shared so much with this person who’s now done you wrong. You’ve been kissed like that before.
Haven’t you?
Jesus was. Jesus knew that kiss. When Judas greeted him as “Rabbi” before puckering up, he felt it. Of course, that’s how we feel this kiss. We experience this kiss as we believe Jesus did. We experience it as if we were the one that was betrayed. It’s easier that way. It’s easier to imagine yourself as the betrayed than to be the betrayers. No, we would never do what Judas does. We wouldn’t choose to betray Jesus in this way. Not in this way. Not with this sign. Not with this kiss of death.
But, haven’t you? Haven’t you betrayed God in some way? Haven’t you felt that this isn’t the way that it’s supposed to end? Haven’t you felt that something has gone terribly wrong? Haven’t you ever tried to correct the situation yourself? Haven’t you assumed that you know better? Haven’t you kissed God in this way? No matter how wrong it is. No matter what judgment others might pass upon you for your overt betrayal, haven’t you been there?
I have. Many times. Maybe even once a day. I pucker up. I kiss God right where it counts. I insist that I have all I need to figure it out on my own. I don’t want any help. I don’t need any help. Like Judas, I’m just fine. No, it’s more than that. It’s the certainty that I know what’s right and that I have the power and the ability to make it right. And so, I kiss God.
Haven’t you?
We can label Judas with all kinds of names. We can call him the betrayer. We can name him a traitor. We can demean him by calling him a bad guy or dismiss him by labeling him as possessed, but he’s part of this story. Not just the story of how Jesus died. He’s part of our story. He’s part of our stubborn insistence that we know better than God. He’s there every time we try to look God in the eye. Every time our affection brims. Every time our heart breaks. Every time we demand an answer for things we don’t understand. Every time we rely on our own wisdom. Every time we kiss God.
Haven’t you? Haven’t you kissed God before?
The 11th century Catholic theologian Thomas Aquinas wrote a poem about this kiss. Not Judas’ kiss, but his own failed attempts to kiss God. It goes like this:
I said to God, “Let me love you.”
And He replied, “Which part?”
“All of you, all of you,” I said.
“Dear,” God spoke, “you are as a mouse wanting to impregnate
a tiger who is not even in heat. It is a feat way
beyond your courage and strength.
You would run from me
if I removed my
mask.”
I said to God again,
“Beloved I need to love you – every aspect, every pore.”
And this time God said,
“There is a hideous blemish on my body,
though it is such an infinitesimal part of my Being –
could you kiss that if it were revealed?”
“I will try, Lord, I will try.”
And God said,
“That blemish is all the hatred and
cruelty in this
world.”
Haven’t you? Haven’t you kissed God before? Like Thomas Aquinas, we might try. Lord, we might try but it’s hard to kiss the hatred and cruelty in this world. It’s hard to look it in the eye and love it just as much as you want it to change. This is what Judas knew. This is the legacy he leaves us.
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The poem offered here is entitled “Could You Embrace That?”. It can be found on page 136 of a wonderful book of poetry entitled _Love Poems From God_ (New York: Penguin, 2002).