In a poetry class in college, I studied a poem by the American poet, James Wright. It was entitled “Saint Judas”. The poet found that in reading the New Testament, the death of Judas Iscariot is mentioned in only two accounts, Matthew’s Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles (the Gospels of John, Luke, and Mark, while acknowledging his betrayal of Jesus, never mention his death). The manner of Judas’ death is different in the two accounts. In Matthew’s account, Judas dies by hanging himself. In Act, he falls upon the field, he has bought with the money, suffering disembowelment. In Wright’s poem, Judas, on his way to end his life, encounters hoodlums beating and robbing a man. Shaken by the sight the poem continues …
“Banished from heaven, I found this victim beaten,
Stripped, kneed, and left to cry. Dropping my rope
Aside, I ran, ignored the uniforms;
Then I remembered bread my flesh had eaten,
The kiss that ate my flesh. Flayed without hope,
I held the man for nothing in my arms.”
In this poem, the death of Jesus not only saved the world, but even saved the life and the soul of the one who betrayed him. Judas, no longer ruled and controlled by avarice, finds his life emulating that of the one he betrayed. He has become a man of compassion and love.
On this Easter Sunday, where do we find ourselves? Do we find ourselves with the brave women, Mary Magdalene, Mary, the mother of James, and Salome going to the tomb of Jesus? Do we find ourselves in the person of Peter, crushed by his denial of Jesus? Do we find ourselves numbered with the apostles fearing for their lives cowering in the upper room? Or, do we find ourselves, as in this poem, with Judas Iscariot, who believes his sin has damned him for all time? It matters not with whom we find ourselves. The death, passion and resurrection of Jesus has brought salvation to humanity. All we need to do is believe and embrace Jesus, the One who is the way, the truth, and the life.
Here is the complete poem.
SAINT JUDAS
When I went out to kill myself, I caught
A pack of hoodlums beating up a man.
Running to spare his suffering,
I forgot My name, my number, how my day began,
How soldiers milled around the garden stone
And sang amusing songs; how all that day
Their javelins measured crowds; how I alone
Bargained the proper coins, and slipped away.
Banished from heaven, I found this victim beaten,
Stripped, kneed, and left to cry.
Dropping my rope
Aside, I ran, ignored the uniforms:
Then I remembered bread my flesh had eaten,
The kiss that ate my flesh.
Flayed without hope,
I held the man for nothing in my arms.
Wright, James. Collected Poems (Wesleyan Poetry Series) (p. 86). Wesleyan University Press. Kindle Edition.
