The sun hangs low over the hills, painting the sky with streaks of gold and crimson. The crowd has dispersed, their murmurs fading into the evening air, leaving only the rustle of olive leaves and the distant bleat of a goat. I stand alone by the rocky outcrop, my heart heavy with the weight of what was said—and what was not heard. The sermon is over, the words of the Kingdom spoken, seeds scattered on hearts both fertile and fallow. But one was absent. Judas.
I saw him coming, late, his cloak catching on the thorns as he hurried up the path. His face was flushed, not with shame but with frustration, muttering about a delayed merchant or a stubborn mule. The details blur—excuses always do. He arrived just as the last of the crowd turned away, their eyes bright with wonder or clouded with doubt. He missed it all. The words of life, the call to follow, the glimpse of a Kingdom that turns the world upside down. He missed me.
I knew he would be late. I know all things. The Father’s plan unfolds before me like a scroll, every moment written in lines of fire. I see Judas’s heart, the tangle of ambition and fear, the hunger for something greater than himself, yet twisted by a shadow that will grow. I see the coins, the kiss, the rope. I see the cross. And yet, here he stands, panting, his dark eyes searching mine, unaware of the path he’s already treading.
“Rabbi,” he says, his voice sharp with irritation, “why didn’t you wait? I was held up—business, you understand. I meant to be here.”
I look at him, my heart a storm of love and sorrow. He is a man, like the others, made in the image of my Father, yet so frail, so easily swayed. I could call him now, urge him to follow, to hear the words he missed. I could speak them again, just for him, as I did for the woman at the well, for the thief in the night. But I hesitate. The weight of the future presses against my chest. If he follows, he will betray. If he stays behind, perhaps… perhaps the story changes. Or does it?
“I’m sorry you missed it, Judas,” I say, my voice steady though my spirit churns. “The words were for all who came.”
His brow furrows, a flash of something—anger? pride?—crossing his face. “I’m here now. Tell me what you said. I want to know.”
Do you? I wonder. Do you want the truth that sets free, or the truth that will bind you to a choice you cannot unmake? I see the garden, the torches, his lips on my cheek. I see the anguish that will tear him apart. Part of me longs to spare him that pain, to let him walk away now, to live a life untouched by the destiny that awaits. But another part knows: his choice is his own, and the Father’s will is not mine to rewrite.
“The Kingdom of God is near,” I begin, watching his eyes. “It is not of power or wealth, but of love, sacrifice, and surrender. Follow me, Judas, and you will see it.”
He shifts, uneasy, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his cloak. “Follow you? To what? More sermons in the dust? I heard you speak before, Jesus. You talk of kingdoms, but where’s the proof? Rome still rules. The priests still scheme. What’s in it for a man like me?”
His words sting, not because they surprise me, but because they are so human, so blind. He wants a king with a sword, a revolution with gold. He does not see the cross, the empty tomb, the glory that waits beyond. Should I be relieved? If he turns away now, perhaps he will not bear the weight of betrayal. Perhaps he will live a quiet life, a merchant counting coins, free from the torment of what is to come. But then, who will take his place? The Father’s plan requires a betrayer, and I cannot escape that truth. If not Judas, another will rise. The cup will not pass.
“Judas,” I say, stepping closer, my voice soft but firm, “what you seek cannot be found in markets or temples. It is found in giving up all you hold dear, in trusting the One who sees beyond today. Will you come and see?”
He looks at me, and for a moment, I see a flicker of longing, a crack in the armor of his cynicism. But it fades. He shakes his head, his lips curling into a half-smile, bitter and resigned. “I don’t know, Rabbi. I need more than words. I need something real.”
He turns, his footsteps heavy on the path, and I let him go. My heart aches, torn between relief and grief. Relief that he may escape the darkness that waits. Grief that he may never know the light. I know what lies ahead—his choice will return, in another moment, another place. The Father’s will is not thwarted, but neither is Judas’s freedom. I am the Son of God, yet I stand here, human, feeling the weight of a man’s soul slipping through my fingers.
The wind stirs, carrying the scent of dust and olives. I close my eyes and pray. Father, your will be done. For Judas. For me. For all.
I LOVED IT, THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! OMG, I HAD IT IN MY INBOX FOR SIX MONTHS BECAUSE I GOT THREE OR FOUR AND I ALWAYS ENDED UP PUTTING OFF READING IT.
I recently realized that if you send it on Anon Tumblr doesn't notify you when you get a reply, and I'm so sorry I didn't do it sooner. I hope you're a follower and can see that I replied 😭.
I love, love, love Jesus' perspective and the part where he says that the decision has to be Judas' and that the Father's will cannot be rewritten. How true!
I loved it 💕 I have three more unread in my inbox, I'll try to take another look at some of them this afternoon 🤧🤧.
(People who asked for a request months ago, I DIDN'T FORGET ABOUT IT, this week at least one or two will be posted ❤)
