Dear Judas,

Every year on Good Friday, I remember your story. It hits a place in my heart I’m not fond of. Maybe because I can imagine the darkness and the shame and the selfishness that led you to do such unthinkable things.

Judas, your story is so sad and full of dark and impenetrable shame. I imagine you got used to it, though, living in the darkness, not letting your soul see the Light.

I read your story and I wonder, Judas, how did it feel to have God Himself wash your dirty, stinky feet all covered in dust and sweat and grime? Did you realize the irony as you walked those very feet straight to the enemy to turn Him over?

By Joshb (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia CommonsDid you recognize the irony of the grime in your heart that only Jesus knew about?

When Jesus bent over to wash your feet and wipe them clean, did you feel any sense of remorse? Or did it just make you more angry, more bitter, more jealous? Did Jesus’ unendingly pure love strengthen your resolve and stoke the fire of hate inside your belly?

When Jesus handed you that piece of bread and said

did your face go flush with the wash of terror-filled adrenaline that floods your veins when you’re found out? Did you wonder how He knew? Did it even cross your mind that maybe He knew because He actually was Who He said He was?

Did you run out because you made yourself sick? Or were you so focused on the money that you couldn’t wait to get it? Did you have a plan for all that cash? I wonder what you were going to do with it. Buy a new home for your family?

Or some new shoes?

As much as I don’t want to acknowledge it, I actually know where you were coming from, Judas.

All those times I’ve been so focused on what I want that I’m willing to do almost anything to get it. I know how it feels to not want to hear what Jesus has to say, not want to know how much He loves me, not let His love penetrate anything but the tough skin on my feet.

I wonder if you realize now that you actually helped God’s perfect plan along. The very thing you did to thwart it actually led to the working of it. Those people you turned Him over to? They killed Him.

Then He killed death itself.

And, now, I can live forever.

So, thanks.

Today, I read the story of how Jesus washed your feet. And something struck me like never before.

When Jesus bent over and washed your feet that night, He did it from the knowledge that He had all power. All strength to love even those who would betray Him and murder Him and nail Him to that cross.

I read this and realized I need my feet washed too.

They have walked dirty paths of selfishness and shame. Just even these last few days.

Searching for someone to blame for my own discontent and letting it fall on anyone but myself. Feeding a demanding and critical spirit where gratitude belongs. Then striking out with hateful words to those I hold most dear.

Letting myself get lost in my own selfish disappointment and losing to the rage that should have died when I let Jesus wash my soul with His blood those years ago.

Oh, Judas, my feet have seen some dirt these last few days.

Still, He called you His own. And, amazingly, He calls me that, too.

Loving you, Judas, loving me, and washing our feet — I believe it took every ounce of every bit of love Jesus had to give.

He knew we’d go dirty up those clean feet again, but He cleaned them anyway.

And I am humbled in my deepest of deeps. Because that’s how He rolls. That’s how He loves.

Even you, Judas.

Even me.