Maundy Thursday is a roller coaster of a ride as we sit with Jesus and his disciples at the Last Supper, then watch him agonize in the garden of Gethsemane, and finally see Judas betray him.
Thanks for this Christine, there is a quiet fire beneath this reflection—a smoldering ache that burns gently through the surface of Holy Week, where the betrayer is not always the villain in the corner, but the trembling one within. In Desert and Fire, I’ve often tried to name this mystery: that our spiritual journey is marked not merely by the high notes of fidelity, but by the long shadows of faltering love. Betrayal, in this telling, is not only Judas’s kiss—it is the sleep in Gethsemane, the turning of the crowd, the subtle avoidance of the cross when it demands too much.
And yet, the glory of Christ is not that He surrounded Himself with the loyal, but that He endured the wound of their weakness and loved them still. The thread that binds the Upper Room to the beach at daybreak is not moral superiority, but the refusal of Christ to let betrayal be the final word. In the desert, God asked, “Where are you?”—not to shame, but to call Adam and Eve out of hiding. On the shore, He does the same with Peter—not asking for explanations, but for love.
The Cloud of Unknowing taught me that true return does not come through perfect knowledge or crafted apologies, but through surrender into the nameless mercy of God. So too with Peter. He leaps into the water not because he has figured it out, but because love drew him. That is all Christ ever asks.
So thanks again for this. You remind us that in a world haunted by betrayal, the holiest act may be to break bread once more—with those we’ve wounded, those who’ve wounded us, and the God whose hands never withdrew, even from the one who fled.
So well said...Both Judas and Peter (and all of us) as betrayers. It was "at the foot of the cross" a few years ago that I finally forgave my betrayers--and found healing from the anger that I was only punishing myself with. More recently, I was given the opportunity in a retreat setting to "exchange" the shame of my own betrayal for the loving embrace of Jesus.
Thanks for this Christine, there is a quiet fire beneath this reflection—a smoldering ache that burns gently through the surface of Holy Week, where the betrayer is not always the villain in the corner, but the trembling one within. In Desert and Fire, I’ve often tried to name this mystery: that our spiritual journey is marked not merely by the high notes of fidelity, but by the long shadows of faltering love. Betrayal, in this telling, is not only Judas’s kiss—it is the sleep in Gethsemane, the turning of the crowd, the subtle avoidance of the cross when it demands too much.
And yet, the glory of Christ is not that He surrounded Himself with the loyal, but that He endured the wound of their weakness and loved them still. The thread that binds the Upper Room to the beach at daybreak is not moral superiority, but the refusal of Christ to let betrayal be the final word. In the desert, God asked, “Where are you?”—not to shame, but to call Adam and Eve out of hiding. On the shore, He does the same with Peter—not asking for explanations, but for love.
The Cloud of Unknowing taught me that true return does not come through perfect knowledge or crafted apologies, but through surrender into the nameless mercy of God. So too with Peter. He leaps into the water not because he has figured it out, but because love drew him. That is all Christ ever asks.
So thanks again for this. You remind us that in a world haunted by betrayal, the holiest act may be to break bread once more—with those we’ve wounded, those who’ve wounded us, and the God whose hands never withdrew, even from the one who fled.
Thank you for this beautifully eloquent response to my post. Breaking bread together is such a powerful force of love and forgiveness.
So well said...Both Judas and Peter (and all of us) as betrayers. It was "at the foot of the cross" a few years ago that I finally forgave my betrayers--and found healing from the anger that I was only punishing myself with. More recently, I was given the opportunity in a retreat setting to "exchange" the shame of my own betrayal for the loving embrace of Jesus.
Such forgiveness really is like moving from death to life isn't it.