Judas is with the high priests now

Judas is with the high priests now.

Whispers in the shadows.

Silver clinks against calloused palms—

the price of betrayal.

While the others prepare the upper room,

he prepares to sell the Light of the world for the cost of a slave.

They make room for Jesus—

he makes a deal with death.

We read this and shake our heads.

How could he?

But if we’re honest—

how often have we betrayed Him

for far less than thirty pieces of silver?

A moment of pride.

A grudge.

A silence when we should have spoken.

Comfort over calling.

How quickly we trade His presence

for fleeting pleasures.

But even now—

even as the plot thickens and the shadows stretch long—

someone is preparing a place for Jesus.

Someone is baking bread.

Pouring wine.

Sweeping floors.

Lighting candles.

Setting a table for the Savior of the world.

Someone is opening their home,

offering what little they have.

Someone is serving—

quietly, faithfully, without applause.

Don’t let the treachery in the dark

blind you to the beauty in the unseen.

Not everyone is betraying.

Some are building.

Some are still believing.

Outside, the palm branches lie wilting in the streets. Yesterday’s hosannas hang in the air,

fading echoes of a crowd already forgetting.

The parade is over.

Normal life resumes.

They do not know.

They do not see what is coming.

The weight of Gethsemane.

The kiss.

The trial.

The thorns.

The nails.

Only Jesus and Judas know.

And yet—

Jesus treats Judas with such kindness

that no one suspects him.

He washes his feet.

He feeds him bread.

He does not expose him.

He does not shame him.

Love, even now.

He knows Peter will sleep through the agony.

He knows James and John will run.

He knows Peter’s denials are coming—

not once, but three times,

with curses and distance and fear.

And still,

He kneels.

He kneels before them—

dirty feet and all.

He wraps a towel around His waist

and washes the ones who will leave Him.

Love stoops low.

Grace gets beneath the grime.

He knew.

He knew, and still He loved.

He knew, and still He served.

He knew, and still He invited the weary, the weak, the wondering

to sit at His table—

like beggars welcomed by a King.

He knew what the night held.

What the cross would demand.

He knew how heavy the silence would be

when the sky went black

and the earth trembled.

And yet—

He also knew what Sunday would bring.

He knew the stone would roll away.

He knew the tomb would be empty.

He knew that every lash, every thorn, every nail

would be swallowed by resurrection.

He knew death would not win.

He knew Love would have the final word.

And so He endured.

With tears.

With sweat like blood.

With a heart breaking wide open

for the ones who didn’t understand.

For the ones who would run.

For you.

For me.

He knew Sunday was coming.