We Don't Need a Judas

John 1:29-34

New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition

The Lamb of God

29 The next day he (John the Baptist) saw Jesus coming toward him and declared, “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! 30 This is he of whom I said, ‘After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.’ 31 I myself did not know him, but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel.” 32 And John testified, “I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove, and it remained on him. 33 I myself did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water said to me, ‘He on whom you see the Spirit descend and remain is the one who baptizes with the Holy Spirit.’ 34 And I myself have seen and have testified that this is the Chosen One.”[a]

Homily: “We Don’t Need a Judas”

Jesus’ disciples are remembered as saints. There is Saint Peter, Saint James, Saint John, Saint Bartholomew, Saint Matthew, Saint Andrew, Saint Mary—even Saint Thomas. But you have never heard of Saint Judas.

That is understandable. A man as infamous as Judas Iscariot, the one who betrayed our Lord, certainly doesn’t deserve sainthood. His deed was treacherous, and it was grave.

And yet, I believe Judas has borne more than his fair share of disgrace in the life of the Church.

Let me be clear: I do not wish to trivialize the gravity of Judas’ betrayal. What he did was awful. It cost Jesus dearly, and it cost Judas everything. Still, there is evidence within our Christian canon that suggests the early church gradually narrowed communal guilt and placed it squarely on one man.

A case in point is the story of the woman who was rebuked when she anointed Jesus with expensive oil. We find this story in all four gospels, with a different twist in each gospel.

For Your information this story is found in Mark 14:3-9, Matthew 26:6-13, Luke 7:36-50 and John 12:1-8.

In each gospel, the woman is rebuked for this generous display of affection for Jesus. But in each case, there is a slight nuance regarding the source of the rebuke.

In Mark’s account, no individual is named. Mark simply says that others objected to the woman’s act of grace.  So we know from Mark’s gospel, the oldest of the four gospels, that more than one person complained about this woman who anointed Jesus.

Matthew gives us greater detail. He tells us that all the disciples were indignant about the gracious act of this woman.

Luke assigns the protest to the Pharisee who hosted the meal.

But John—writing many years later, when all the other actors have long since disappeared—places the blame squarely on Judas Iscariot.

What we see across the Gospels is a narrowing of responsibility. Guilt moves from the many to the one, from the community to a solitary figure. The disciples are remembered as saints; Judas becomes the villain.

Jesus becomes the sacrificial lamb. Judas becomes the scapegoat.

I do not raise this point to absolve Judas of responsibility. Rather, I raise it to illuminate a persistent tendency in human nature: our habit of shifting blame.

It happened in the early church. And it still happens today.

It happens in families, where one quiet or vulnerable member becomes the problem bearer for everyone else.

It happens in congregations, when something goes wrong and instead of bearing responsibility together, we single out one person to carry the weight.

It happens on a national scale as well. It happened in Nazi Germany. It happens in our own country.

Over and over again, blame is shifted from the many to the few. African Americans. The Irish. The Italians. The Poles. The Jews. Nearly every ethnic group has taken its turn as the nation’s sin bearer.

And yes—as I said before, it even happens in the church. Something goes wrong in the body of Christ, and instead of collective confession, we look for a Judas to blame.

Lent invites us to a different posture. This is a season of soul-searching. A time for honest self-examination. A time when we ask NOT “Who is to blame?” but “How am I complicit?”

Each of us, if we are honest, shares in the violence done to this gentle man from Galilee.  And we share in the ill that sometimes we inflict on our fellow sojourners.  Yet our human instinct is to point the accusing finger elsewhere—to an ancient Judas or a modern day one.

Judas must shoulder his share of guilt. Indeed, he has. His betrayal cost him the trust of his companions and, ultimately, his life. But there is no reason to stack guilt upon guilt.

Each of us is guilty enough. And while that guilt can feel heavier than we can bear, the way to unload it is not by placing it on someone else.

That kind of psychological crutch may have served ancient Israel, with its scapegoat sent into the wilderness. But that is not the way of the Christian faith.

We have Jesus Christ, who bore the sin of the whole world. He is all sufficient. We do not need a Judas thrown in for added measure.

As for sainthood, it is not achieved by standing with finger pointed toward the guilty. Sainthood is found by kneeling at the foot of the cross—at the feet of Jesus Christ, the Lamb slain from the foundation of the world.

Purity comes not from shifting our sins to another person, but from confessing them to the Crucified One.

Sainthood comes not from using a gullible Judas, but from trusting in a gracious Christ.

Lent is not the celebration of Judas’ complicity. It is the reenactment of Jesus’ passion.

So let us come and kneel before Christ. Let us leave our sins there. Let us leave the scapegoat in the desert, and let us cling to the sacrificial Lamb of God—Jesus, and Jesus alone.

Amen.