Thirty Pieces of Silver

Trigger Warning: Implied Suicide

You didn’t think they’d kill him.

The thought is naive and a bit stupid, two things you didn’t think you’d ever be, especially not after the three years you’ve had. But looking back at everything now, you realise the weight of what you’ve done.

A little too late for that, little viper a voice snickers inside your head. It’s not the devil’s; it’s your own voice, one warped by greed, the voice that had seized you earlier and you have to admit, it had given you the strength to do what you would have otherwise not done.

Still, the conviction you felt earlier is so far away, absolutely nothing compared to the guilt you feel now. Now, your teacher is dead, your little family of twelve decimated and whatever kingdom that had been promised to you is gone.

You look back to the last meal you all had together, before you went and did what you did. Before you went and sold everything for a meagre sum of money that you don’t even have now. Before you sold your soul to the devil.

You keep replaying the scene in your mind: the look in everyone's eyes, the anger in Peter’s eyes, the confusion in Matthew’s, the revulsion in John’s; the collective horror reflected on all their faces. The soldiers, their weapons glinting in the dim light, the fire flickering and highlighting everything in a hellish glow. Most of all this: your teacher’s eyes, so different from your comrades’, with an unearthly compassion and understanding, his gentle face as you drew close to him to deliver the kiss of betrayal. 

His soft voice when he’d said, “Do what you came for, friend.”

He’d called you friend. He’d called you friend when you’d just forsaken him to his enemies.

If you could go back in time, would you do it again? Or would you fall at his feet and grovel for forgiveness? Would you have confessed the truth to him at supper? Would you have told your brothers—former now—the truth so they could have cut you down where you stood?

You grip your hair and cradle the head that has brought you this agony. It’s been a whole day since they killed the man who loved you like no one else had. A day since you threw him to the wolves and destroyed the only good thing you’d ever had the fortune of having. 

You don’t remember how you got here. Everything after the Garden is a blur to you. Your mind cannot make sense of what has happened. When you’d gone to the temple to take back your betrayal, you can only remember the white and black robed vultures, not their faces. The ones who’d aided you and the ones who’d looked at you in disgust when you’d flung the leather pouch on the floor. They’d turned those disgusted eyes on the money too.

You’d always held wealth close to your heart; the only thing that hadn’t let you down. You are clever enough to make money out of nothing, to save money and to make sure you’re not left wanting. Maybe that’s why you took the thirty coins. The gleaming silver that you’d thrown at the feet of your co-conspirators flashes in your vision, tormenting you. 

Was thirty silver coins all he was worth to you, little viper? 

Everything you’d learnt in the last three years has ceased to make sense. Your teacher taught you that you need nothing but the Word to sustain you and yet you’d stabbed him in the back for silver. Your teacher taught you to treat everyone with kindness and yet you’d delivered him to his persecutors. Your teacher taught you to love those who hate you and yet you’d turned your hate on the one who’d loved you. 

You don’t deserve forgiveness.

No, that’s not true. Your teacher also taught you that you can always come back to him. You’ve seen how he’s treated sinners. You’ve seen him break bread with prostitutes and tax collectors. You’ve heard him speak about forgiveness. Surely, he would forgive this too.

But you killed your teacher, didn’t you?

The despair that overtakes you is staggering. You’ve committed the worst sin of all: murder. And it’s not only murder, it is murder of innocent blood. You’ve betrayed your teacher—your father, really—your brothers and the only family you’ve ever known. A low sound reaches your ears, a wounded noise, the sound of a dying animal. You realise it’s from you. 

Through a blurry vision, you register that the room around you is in shambles. You distantly remember someone shepherding you to the room, perhaps a servant girl who’d taken pity on your sorry state. You wish she hadn’t. You wish one of the soldiers had caught you or better yet, one of your former brothers. They’d have put you out of your misery. 

But while scampering from shadow to shadow, you’d heard the news: everyone had fled. Just like you had. Perhaps not as badly as you had, but they had run away. In the end, your teacher had gone to his death alone, tortured, humiliated and scorned. 

What happened to his body, you wonder. Was there anyone to claim it? Your teacher’s mother does not have the money for a proper burial. Neither does anyone in your former family. Your teacher had made you all believe that having him was enough. And for a while, it had been more than enough. Until it wasn’t. Now you wish you’d taken the money to Mary. You know she wouldn’t have accepted it. In fact, she would have cursed you out for killing her son. Or worse, she’d have embraced you and consoled you when you didn’t deserve it. 

Was there any way for you to atone? All the prophecies in the Scripture had spoken of you. When your teacher had quoted the Psalms at supper, you’d felt lightning strike you where you sat. But even that lightning hadn’t stopped you from leading your father to his death. 

You look at the shattered pieces of mirror on the floor and a cold realisation occurs to you. If the prophets of the old had known about your crime years before you were even born, then surely your sin was foretold. You were predestined to commit this blasphemy. To kill the Son of the Most High.

When the tears hit, a hysterical laugh escapes your throat. Of course. Of course it was you who had been chosen to carry out this deed. You who reveres money and pride and status as ornaments of glory over the love and kindness your teacher had preached about. It seems like you were always the villain of this story, and this is how it was always meant to be.

(If your actions hadn’t impeded your thinking, then you’d remember that there is no such thing as fate. That the God you worship is a living one, one who is not controlled by trivial forces like fate or destiny. But you’ve gone past yourself and your mind has run away from you along with your soul).

You keep laughing as memories fly past your mind. The funniest thing—not funny at all—is that your teacher had known what you were going to do. Being the Son of God, your teacher had known all along. He’d known when he’d called you to follow him, he’d known what you’d do when he broke bread with you at every meal in the last three years. He’d known you were his enemy and yet not once had he done anything to suggest the truth. No, that was not who your teacher is, was. No, your teacher was kind and merciful, and despite your inane behaviour, he had loved you till the end.

Oh, what have I done? Oh, Rabbi, what have I done?

The anguish is blinding. Time passes in a vacuum. You feel unmoored, like a ship tossed about in a storm. You keep wondering how and why you did what you did. You’d believed that your teacher was the Messiah, truly you had. But he had not seemed to be the Messiah the Scriptures had spoken of. You’d hoped for a warrior, a mighty man who’d save you and your people from oppression. You’d hoped for a revolution, a rebellion that would send the little Romans running for the hills. You’d hoped for an avenging king who would shake Rome and its pagan foundations. Instead the man who called you to him was the son of a carpenter; a generous man, a man who was so tender and compassionate, so unlike. You’d hoped he’d change with time. But he hadn’t.

It had made you angry. You’d pinned your hopes on him and he seemed to have failed you. And so in your anger, you’d offered yourself up as a traitor.

Truly, you didn’t think they’d kill him. You thought they’d perhaps flog him a little, make a mockery  of him and send him on his way back. Maybe Rome would make an example out of him; a warning to suppress all future insurgency. Or maybe the teachers of the law would have him excommunicated from the Synagogue; a lasting warning against false preaching. But no. They killed your teacher. They had made an example out of him, just not in the way you had expected. 

Where does this leave you? You don’t know. For the past three years, your life has been unplanned, a vast change from the life you used to live before. There were days when you went hungry, days when you slept on the hard ground and days when you wished you’d never joined the hodgepodge group of fishermen and tax collectors. Now you’d give anything to go back. Anything to sit around the fire and listen to your teacher. You’d give all the blood in your body for one last glimpse of your  Messiah’s eyes.

What’s done is done. What is the next step?

Like a lantern in the night, a thought comes to you and with it, a numbness that leaves you detached. 

You get up and make your way around the room, looking for what you need. There was no going back from this and you didn’t want to either. You deserve this remorse you’re feeling. Your pain is nothing compared to how your teacher died. You might as well have hung him on the cross yourself so you don’t deserve another chance. Not when he was still dead. 

You briefly consider going back to the temple, to grab hold of the chief priests—and make them pay for their hand in the plot—but quickly dismiss the thought. What good would that do? Would that absolve your own guilt? Would it bring back your teacher from the dead? The elders had made it clear; they’d washed their hands off and had shown no remorse for their part in the Rabbi’s death. They would not take responsibility.

But you will. 

If holding yourself accountable was the last thing you’d ever do, then this will be your way to redemption. Surely, your actions now will speak for themselves. Surely now history will remember you, not as a betrayer but as one who loved the Son of God to the point of death. 

A small part of you warns you against what you are about to do. You choke the life out of it and make your way to the potter’s field. 

Think before you leap, Judas. 

But you are done thinking. Every plan you’ve made, every denarius you’ve stolen, every hurt you’ve inflicted has led you to this moment. You’ve made up your mind and this will be the last plan you ever make. 

The ground on which you stand is deep red, the mud rich with high-quality clay. At the moment, it reminds you of blood and you swallow the nausea that wells up. 

The lone tree is not in bloom yet. Perhaps you missed its season. Perhaps it will never bloom. In any case, it will serve its purpose. You prepare yourself.

You’re not a coward. You’re not stupid. You loved, no, love your teacher. No one will be more proud of you than him. What better way to pay for your sin than with blood? What better way to go than for love? 

You think of Jesus. The first time you met him and the last time you met him. You wish you could see him again, if only to fall at his feet and beg for forgiveness. If only to confess your sins. You have no doubt he’d have embraced you. But you killed him. So if you can’t see him here, then you will meet him in the beyond. 

You dug your grave. You must now lie in it. And even if you’ve never done anything for love all your life, you will rest assured knowing this was done in love. As all things should be. 

-Dainty Aalaiah (Day)