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Judas ate with God for three years and never flinched.
Sat at the fire. Said the prayers. Watched blind men see. Watched dead men stand up. Watched lepers get clean skin back. Saw all of it. Touched all of it.
And it did nothing to him.
That should make you sick.
Because you know men like that. You’ve sat next to them in church. They sing the hymns. They say amen. They put the money in the plate. And they go home and do things in the dark that would get them killed in any century but this one.
Jesus called him a devil. Not after the betrayal. Before it. John 6:70. He looked at twelve men and said one of you is a devil. And then He let the devil stay.
He let him hold the money. Let him sit at the table. Let him hear every parable. Let him watch Lazarus walk out of a tomb.
And Judas saw resurrection with his own eyes and thought, what’s that worth in silver?
That’s not weakness. That’s not a man who lost his way. That’s a creature wearing human skin at the table of God, calculating the price of the blood on his plate.
Jesus washed his feet.
Read that again.
God kneeled in front of the thing that was about to murder Him and washed the dirt off its feet.
Not because Judas deserved it. Because the eleven men watching needed to see what love looks like when it’s aimed at something that will never love you back.
That’s the sermon your pastor won’t preach.
That Jesus didn’t die confused. He didn’t die betrayed. He sat across from a devil, broke bread, and said what thou doest, do quickly.
He gave evil permission to finish.
Because the cross was never Plan B.
And the son of perdition was never a surprise.
He was a prop in a story written before the foundation of the world. A creature who thought he was the predator and turned out to be the instrument.
The tomb didn’t stay shut.
But the field Judas bought with his thirty pieces? His guts are still in the dirt.