Isaiah 50:4-9a; Psalm 70; Hebrews 12:1-3; John 13:21-32
In Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, the assassination of Caesar includes one of his closest friends. As the conspirators surround Caesar and, one by one, draw their daggers, he turns and sees his friend, Brutus. As their eyes meet, Brutus plunges his dagger into Caesar’s chest. Caesar then falls, mortally wounded. It is, as if to say, that swords alone could not have taken the life of Caesar. What killed him was the betrayal of a friend. Because, you know, there are places where a friend can stab you that no one else can.
Jesus wasn’t simply captured by temple guards, condemned by Jewish bureaucrats and executed by Roman soldiers. No, the hand on the dagger that stabbed the deepest was the hand of a friend, Judas.
It all begins with Jesus and his disciples sharing not only a meal, but community. But, in our little community, says Jesus, betrayal is not far away. The disciples are stunned. One of us will betray Jesus? Surely, not one of us. If someone is going to betray Jesus, it must be one of them, not one of us. Eyes dart around the table. Distrust, division, doubt creeps into the room, pushing out community.
When Jesus says that he will be betrayed by the one “who receives the bread,” it is Judas who does so—and Judas who rises to go out into the dark of night. But, even then the disciples don’t understand what’s happening. They hear what Jesus says. They watch Judas take the bread and leave. They just cannot wrap their minds around the thought that one of them, one of their own community is off to betray Jesus.
But, by definition, betrayal is always by a friend. Where there is friendship, or community, the possibility for betrayal is never far away. Remember how after the fall of the iron curtain, when the files of the East German secret police were opened, people discovered that neighbors had informed on neighbors, family members had turned in each other, and pastors had informed on parishioners? Betrayal cannot happen between strangers. It works best with someone close to you. It was like that for Jesus.
A bishop turns away, a priest crosses boundaries, a friend breaks a confidence, a spouse cheats, a colleague defames, a neighbor steals, a parent abuses, a sibling lies, a fellow church member wrongfully judges. Betrayal shatters the fragile bonds that hold us together, and when we lose our ability to live peacefully together we ourselves become broken. Betrayal not only hurts, it destroys—it destroys community, trust, and joy.
Six months ago, when I invited eight leaders in our church to help me exhume our buried past, no one knew what to expect. To be clear: this was about us, not someone else. It wasn’t about focusing on someone, on blaming or defaming another; it was about helping a parish to heal. A parish and a people I happen to love very much. I believed then and believe now that we have an untold story of redemption to tell—and, that by telling it we can offer hope for others. I also believe that the embrace of our history, truthfully, completely and fully, is crucial for our true identity to emerge.
But, the willingness to shed light onto a painful past and to tell the truth takes courage. It takes faith to venture back into a time fraught with controversy, division, doubt, chaos, rumors, allegations, and inappropriate behavior. To be asked to remember the painful unravelling of one’s beloved church, and then to share with others that memory, calls for spiritual grounding, substantial strength and committed resolve. These things are necessary, for what is hidden, or denied, cannot be healed. Secrets that remain buried out of fear keep us stuck.
And, so, I am grateful to the small group of eight who undertook this journey with me. What this meant to them is a story that is theirs to tell, but I believe their participation has everything to do with their great love for this church, their trust in God’s goodness, and their desire for mending our brokenness. That we are here tonight, for this public service of healing with our bishop, is the grace of this group’s work together—and, our on-going healing with the diocese and with one another.
For the bishop to say to our small group that what happened here was not our fault, and to acknowledge that the diocese failed to respond the way it should have, was the beginning of putting some of the cracked and broken pieces of our past back together. Like unearthing the fragile pieces of a broken bowl and placing them on the table before us, we are beginning to fit the pieces back together. By doing so, we are able to see that while much of our brokenness has been about betrayal, we can mend the brokenness and be reshaped into something useful and whole.
The Japanese have an art-form for mending broken objects. Translated as “golden repair”, kintsugi (or kintsukuroi) is the technique of filling the cracks with a mixture of powered gold. Not only is there no attempt to deny or hide the damage, but the repair literally is illuminated. Broken pieces that were mistakenly seen as damaged and useless are built back up into something exquisite. The belief being that when something has suffered damage and is repaired, it becomes even more beautiful than before.
Just so, difficult and trying times, even times of betrayal, if mixed with God’s goodness and grace, can be turned into usefulness, wholeness and beauty. The repair—admitting the betrayal, the miss-behavior, speaking the truth in love, being honest, forgiving one another, maintaining community—becomes part of our story, the story of God’s working among us. It isn’t to be hidden. It is part of our story—and God’s glory.
In tonight’s Gospel, after Judas has departed, Jesus says “now the Son of Man has been glorified.” That is, even in the darkness of betrayal, and the brokenness of community, God will work for good and will bring glory to the Son. On the cross Jesus will say “it is finished.” The division between us and God, between us and each other, is now bridged, the brokenness mended.
Now, this isn’t to say, that with the cross, or with this service tonight, there is no longer any pain or sorrow from the past. Such things take time. Some of us here tonight know this. But, in this week called “Holy” we can at least bundle up our hurt and sorrow, our anger and bitterness, our resentment and blame, and, tired of their awful weight, we can take them to the cross and lay them at the feet of Jesus. These things need not burden and divide us any longer.
Friday’s coming, with its sorrow and darkness. But, then it will be Sunday, and as an Easter people who celebrate Jesus’ resurrection and the triumph of love, we know that with Jesus there is always new life. The resurrection of Jesus is good news for those of us who seek wholeness and healing from the sting of betrayal. As a church that has a mission to be a “joyous, growing, inviting, caring Episcopal Church” it should matter to us that we choose the restoration of relationships over continued separation and loss.
So, how much are you willing to do to mend what has been broken? What burdens are you ready to release into the hands of a loving God? Whom are you willing to forgive? Who needs to hear you say “I’m sorry—forgive me”?
The time that follows—and our future together—is a time for prayer, a time for the laying-on of hands, a time of blessing, anointing and healing, a time of reconciliation and forgiveness and peace.