Like so many others, Pope Francis has long held a fascination with the figure of Judas in the Gospels. In his book “When You Pray, Say Our Father” (Quando Pregate, dite Padre Nostro), Francis cites a decorative column atop the church of Vézelay, France, which has long been interpreted to depict Christ the Good Shepherd carrying the lifeless body of Judas on his shoulders. It led to a related contemporary painting which the pope reportedly esteems, and that served as the central image on the front page of this year’s Holy Thursday edition of L’Osservatore Romano, the Vatican’s daily newspaper. That Holy Week edition carried a number of articles and reflections on the role of Judas in the Christian tradition, some of which sparked protest that Francis was trying to “rehabilitate” the notorious traitor whom Dante put in the very deepest pit of hell (along with Brutus and Cassius, the duplicitous murderers of Julius Caesar) being eternally gnawed by a three-faced Satan in a mockery of the Trinity.
Whether justifiably or not, history has not been kind to Judas. Avery Dulles argued that many theologians, Augustine and Aquinas among them, seem to imply that it is a revealed truth that Judas was “reprobated,” or cut off from any hope of salvation. This is largely due to the condemnation ascribed to Jesus, that it would be better had he never been born, cf. Mt 26:24; Mk 14:21. (I myself have often wondered if Judas’s mother agreed with that sentiment and, if not, where that puts her in terms of a graced relationship with the Lord. Would pity for her son be held against her, given the other biblical statements about a mother never forsaking her child?).
The most reviled figure on the planet was then in subsequent centuries intertwined with repulsive anti-Semitic tropes in art and literature, linking the Jewish people with the denial of Christ’s salvific mission and the mercator pessimus (“the most vile merchant”) in what would eventually lead to ferociously violent pogroms, ghettoes and death camps. As you must know from the current news, these types of atrocities are not limited to the past, as similar attacks are lamentably on the rise in our own country again.
We (and the French) have effectively separated Saint Jude from Judas in a manner in which almost no other language does. In Italian for instance the same “Giuda” can refer to either the saint or the “friend” (as Jesus calls him in the Garden, though some translations claim it is closer to an ironic “comrade”) who betrays the Son of Man with a kiss. That’s likely why the word Iscariot was added so frequently, perhaps referencing a locale but more probably stemming from a corruption of the zealous rebel Sicarii, or “assassins.” Unlike the hostile innkeeper in Bethlehem, who looks a bit more sympathetic if we realistically imagine he simply didn’t want a destitute couple delivering a baby in his place of business, Judas’s identity has not been lost to the sands of history.
The articles in L’Osservatore Romano, by Andrea Monda, Primo Mazzolari, Giuseppe Berto, Giovanni Papini and Cardinal Carlo Maria Martini, offer differing perspectives, with the entire paper referencing frequently the central “scandal of mercy” in relation to this still-mysterious figure.
Berto reconstructs a hypothetical conversation between the Teacher and his one-time disciple: “I, Judas, marked by you as a Son of Perdition, was simply an instrument for the fulfillment of Scripture.”
Pope Francis has said, “I do not claim that Judas is in heaven. But I do not claim the opposite.” We obviously can never know on this side of eternity. But can we really refute Mazzolari referring to Judas as “our brother,” in light of the church’s constant teaching that all humanity has a common origin in God, and a shared collective hope for an eternal destiny (cf. Nostra Aetate, 1)?
We can certainly rest assured that an unqualified love of money cannot withstand the withering attacks of the Gospel on those who worship mammon, and would sacrifice anything for its accumulation. Thirty quite small pieces of silver was not an inordinate sum of money at the time, especially by contemporary American standards, and certainly not enough to become the most hated villain in human history. Whether he warranted such a label or not is a quite different, and still unresolved, matter.
Originally from Collingswood, Michael M. Canaris, Ph.D., teaches at Loyola University, Chicago.
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