Jesus Redeems Our Deepest Hurts

As you awake, you wonder where or how you will celebrate Passover. With anxiety about the details but confidence in your leader, you ask him, "Teacher, where do you want us to make preparations for the meal?" After he explains, you spend the rest of the day buying ingredients, preparing the meal, and setting up the room.

Soon after the sun sets, you recline on your cushion, set around the low table. After Jesus opens the meal in prayer, you dip some bitter herbs into salt water, remembering the sorrow of your people in slavery. The suffering of your ancestors is close to home, as you recall darting around the Roman soldiers stationed throughout your capital. You consider how your people have been robbed by its leaders, as the Temple elite greedily collaborates with the Roman occupiers.

But at this meal, there's hope. The dry, crisp matzah bread reminds you of your mother. As you look at Jesus, your heart fills with pride: you're seated next to the true Messiah. And you feel significant, part of an unprecedented movement. Jesus has handpicked you and your closest friends to establish the kingdom of God. God empowered Moses to deliver the Israelites from the Egyptians; now, you sense he will work through Jesus to deliver his people from the Romans.

For years, you've seen Jesus do miracles, teach an electrifying message of salvation, and build public support throughout Israel. You've returned to Jerusalem, and it seems the end is imminent. You are still bewildered by Jesus' prediction that he will be crucified, but this evening, everything seems well. You're safe in a friend's home, eating a sacred meal with your most trusted allies, celebrating God's ability to save his people, and anticipating a consequential message from your Messiah.

As the harsh herbs sting your tongue, Jesus shocks your ears: "Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me." For a moment, your eyes fail, your heart sinks, and you croak, "No, not me?!" Betrayal is impossible. You've given up everything. Without Jesus and the other disciples, you'd have nothing.

Your mind races: what could motivate one of your brothers to turn against God and his deliverer? Who? Why? How? Everything that felt certain now seems disorienting. A space that was holy and secure feels tainted and unsafe.

The matzah bread turns to dust in your mouth as Jesus indicates that Judas is the traitor. He had earned the right to secure the group's money; he was the last person who could be duplicitous. How long has Jesus known? Is there anyone else? What does this mean?

...

The Gospels give a spare accounting of this scene, but we can responsibly imagine what it was like by meditating on the emotional turmoil that David experienced centuries earlier. In Psalm 55, we read the anguish David felt when he was betrayed. He cries out to God,

Now, it is not an enemy who insults me—

otherwise, I could bear it;

it is not a foe who rises against me—

otherwise I could hide from him.

But it is you, a man who is my peer,

my companion and good friend!

We used to have close fellowship;

we walked with the crowd into the house of God.

…

My friend acts violently

against those at peace with him;

he violates his covenant.

His buttery words are smooth,

but war is in his heart.

His words are softer than oil,

but they are drawn swords.

When we're hurt, we're often angry — and David is furious. He wants vengeance, asking God to confuse and humiliate his enemies. He's unfiltered, pleading with God to cut their lives in half.

So, how does God respond to David's bitter prayer? He consecrates it as a holy Psalm, and descends to experience this betrayal for himself.

If anyone understands the significance of a violated covenant, it's God. He knows that we thrive by depending on him and one another. He sees that betrayal cuts at the source of our greatest needs: the need for love, security, and stability.

We rightly feel isolated when someone targets us and lures us into a trap to prey upon us. Religious betrayal lets us know that those leaders are empty frauds. But does it mean that God is absent too?

Have you been betrayed in a sacred space?

I'm still working through what it means that Ravi Zacharias - and RZIM - used the language of truth and goodness to hide lies and bully anyone who dissented. Ravi designed an elaborate cover, even funding a ministry to support vulnerable women so that he could more readily access new victims. My head spins as I consider what they suffered.

As I've tried to find healing, I keep meditating on what Jesus endured. Jesus experienced betrayal from one of his closest friends on one of the most holy days. Not to mention, the prestigious religious leaders of his day orchestrated a plot to force his imprisonment, torture, and death.

After a religious leader violates our trust, pious prayers seem cheap and fake to me. I've had no choice but to be honest with God. I know he hears raw lament. He not only listens, he came to identify with us in one of the cruelest experiences of our lives.

After betrayal, whether by trusted friends or revered leaders, we find ourselves standing on the edge of existential and theological precipices. The stability we once found in sacred communities is shattered. We can't help but cry for justice and yearn for security.

And it is here that the Christian faith enters. God is not a detached observer of human pain; He is the very embodiment of empathy. He came down to partake in our suffering, to be betrayed by those He called friends, and to be forsaken by the institutions that were supposed to uphold righteousness. In a world where our sacred spaces can become venues of violation, God enters as the victim, the betrayed, and the forsaken. Judas' plans achieved nothing; he is now a disgraced footnote in a story of God's overcoming love.

We don't need to veil our disillusionment; the Psalms give us a language to lament, to rage, and ultimately, to hope. Our cries are not ignored; they are heard by Jesus, who prayed in despair: "My God, why have you forsaken me?" And in this shared lament, we discover healing: though everyone else may fail us, God's commitment is unbreakable.

The path forward from betrayal rarely travels in a straight line. There will be setbacks amidst steps of progress. On difficult days, we circle back to laments we thought were left behind. But we do not have to traverse this road alone. I have found pockets of community that embrace honesty, believe my story, and walk alongside me in the mess. In their company, I gained the courage to stand up for justice while learning to release bitterness and forgive. I still have unanswerable questions, but I am learning how Jesus, who experienced the ultimate betrayal, can redeem even our deepest hurts.

If you have endured violations of trust, the truth is you have always deserved trustworthy friends and honorable religious leaders. If you can, seek out professional counseling to help process the trauma. Pursue friendships that make space for both tears and hope. Hold fast to those who speak the truth with love. Distance yourself from those who stay silent. We can refuse to let betrayal embitter us or define us.

Instead, our broken trust can crack open our hearts so that empathy blossoms. We can build communities worthy of our trust once more. And when it is too much to handle, we can tell God exactly how we feel. He has always seen, always heard, and always cared for those who are betrayed.

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