The way of Love (Matthew 26:14-27:66)

What if the story we are entering is not only about suffering, betrayal, and death, but about courage, truth, and a radically different kind of power? What if Palm Sunday was the original “No Kings” protest? Jesus enters Jerusalem with humility, surrounded by ordinary people crying out “Hosanna!” A cry that is not just praise, but longing, to be Saved. Cloaks are laid down, palm branches are lifted, and in that moment the crowd becomes a movement.  And right there, we begin to see what power and authority look like in Jesus. They look like love that refuses to dominate, truth that refuses to bend, and courage that refuses to withdraw. This is the same power that carries Jesus through the upper room, through betrayal, through denial, through the cross. And it is here that the story becomes deeply personal.

 

Because we often read this gospel as a story of heroes and villains, Jesus the victim, Judas the betrayer. But what if it is first and foremost a revelation of how Jesus chooses to live and love? Jesus does not react to betrayal with anger or self-protection. He does not shame Judas, expose him, or cast him out. He does not close himself off. Instead, he remains open, steady, and true. He continues to love, even knowing the cost. And perhaps that is because Jesus understands something that we are still learning: that to love deeply is to become vulnerable, and to be vulnerable is to become betrayable. That word’betrayable’unsettles us. We are taught to avoid it. To protect ourselves. To be careful. To trust wisely, or not at all. Somewhere along the way we learned: Look out for yourself. Don’t get hurt. Don’t be naïve. But Jesus lives differently.

 

He surrounds himself with the imperfect. With those who are fully human, fishermen, sinners, the overlooked, the struggling. He builds a life that is full of love. And that love makes him betrayable and this is where Judas’ story begins to touch our own. It is easy to define Judas by his worst moment, to reduce him to his failure. But something in us resists that, because we know what it is to fall short of who we want to be. We know what it is to live beneath our truth, to make choices we cannot fully stand by. If Judas is only a betrayer, then we can keep our distance. But if he is complex, if he carries confusion, fear, disappointment, and struggle, then we begin to see ourselves in him. And maybe that is the deeper truth: that betrayal does not begin with grand actions, but with small, quiet moments of self-betrayal.

 

We betray ourselves when we act out of fear instead of truth. When we let discouragement or exhaustion shape our choices. When we forget what matters most. When we settle, shrink, or give up.  When we lose sight of who we are. Before Judas ever betrays Jesus, something within him has already been compromised. And yet, even here—Jesus does not withdraw his love. He does not regret choosing Judas. He does not regret washing his feet. He does not regret loving him fully.

 

And so, this gospel leaves us not with easy answers, but with a question that reaches into our own lives: How betrayable are we willing to be, for the sake of love, truth, and what truly matters? Because in the end, the way of Jesus is not about avoiding betrayal. It is about living so fully, so truthfully, and so lovingly that even betrayal cannot take away who we are.

 

- Lilly Pushpam PBVM