Something strange is going on in Matthew 26.
It is the last supper. Jesus has the disciples gathered and is telling them someone will betray him.
“They were very sad and began to say to him one after the other, ‘Surely you don’t mean me, Lord?’” (Matthew 26:22, NIV)
You can almost imagine the scene. Jesus’ statement has taken them by surprise. The Twelve are utterly shocked at the notion that there is a traitor among them. Their eyes zip around the room from one face to another of young men who have become brothers to each other. Each of these men has seen and performed amazing miracles. They have heard incredible things. They had watched Jesus heal people and raise Lazarus from the dead. How could one of them betray Jesus? Without even realizing it, their minds began processing every flicker of emotion on each other’s faces for a sign of their guilt.
But as quickly as their thoughts had turned to others, they now turned back on themselves. Just as they had looked at the faces of others for a sign of guilt, suddenly, each of them realized that twenty-two eyeballs were scanning their own face.
Maybe you know that feeling? The moment when mom is trying to figure out who ate the last brownie. You try to keep a poker face but you feel sure she is examining your chin for crumbs. Even your siblings who didn’t eat the brownie suddenly feel pressure to “look innocent.”
“Just as they had looked at the faces of others for a sign of guilt, suddenly, each of them realized that twenty-two eyeballs were scanning their own face.”
You might have to use your imagination a bit, but can you put yourself in that room with Jesus? Can you feel the weight of that moment where the shock of the news of a betrayal quickly gives way to the fear that someone might think it could be you? All around the room, the disciples murmur, “Surely you don’t mean me, Lord?”
Jesus responded by indicating that the person who had dipped his hand into the bowl with him would be the one to betray him. Passover traditions have changed over the centuries but often include bowls of broth or bitter herbs to dip bread in. Rather than one large bowl at the center of the table, these bowls are often arranged between sets of people. Whatever was in the bowl, it seems clear that Judas was sitting beside Jesus in what some would consider a position of honor or high trust. Apparently, Jesus’ statement was clear enough that Judas knew Jesus was referring to him alone, and he quickly replied.
“Then Judas, the one who would betray him, said, “Surely you don’t mean me, Rabbi?” (Matthew 26:25a, NIV)
Let’s focus on this moment because it is when something very interesting happens. Moments before, when everyone feared being accused, Jesus was referred to as “Lord.” In the Greek text, this is the word kurios, which means high authority, such as a Lord, God, or master.
“Then Judas, the one who would betray him, said, ‘Surely you don’t mean me, Rabbi?'”
Now, in this moment where the spotlight of accusation is focused on Judas alone, he refers to Jesus instead as “Rabbi.” This Hebrew word is carried forward in both Greek and English texts. It is a title of godly teacher. It is a word of high respect, and it can still hold the idea of master over the student in its meaning. But it is primarily a title. There were many rabbis. For centuries after Jesus, there would be many more rabbis. For disciples of Jesus, there is only one Lord.
Judas employs what modern linguists call “code-switching,” which changes vocabulary or speech patterns based on the situation or social dynamics. We all do it, and we often do it without knowing it.
If you have ever been talking with colleagues when your spouse calls, and they snicker at how your voice softens, and you call them “sweetheart,” you have code-switched. Judas uses a specific type of code-switching known as “linguistic distancing.” This is when you use language to emotionally distance yourself from a person or situation.
A good example of linguistic distancing might be when someone messes up and says, “Mistakes were made,” rather than, “I made a mistake.” Judas is removing the word that best describes his relationship with Jesus, “Lord,” and replacing it with one with lower obligations for himself: “Rabbi.” Thus he is creating some relational distance between him and the person he knows he is about to betray.
“He is creating some relational distance between him and the person he knows he is about to betray.”
Before we go too far down the path of psychoanalyzing someone who lived two millennia ago based only on a few words, let’s move the focus of this into our own lives. I don’t know about you, but I have been as guilty as Judas of doing the same thing. How often have I cried out to God in intimate terms during worship—only to later refer to Him in the third person when my own shame burdens me? How many of us have skipped communion or church altogether after a week of failing to live up to His commands? We become like the prodigal sons living destitute in a far-off land, just sure our father doesn’t want to even lay eyes on us. If we can create some emotional distance, maybe it won’t sting so badly.
But we don’t serve a God who responds to our sin by yelling, “Get out of my sight!” David cries out in Psalm 139 that removing ourselves from God’s sight is impossible.
“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.” (Psalm 139:7-10, NIV)
We serve a God who sent his Son to close the distance between us. He sacrificed it all so that we might be close to him. Perhaps we can learn to fight against this innate desire to distance ourselves from our Maker. Perhaps we can find the strength to fall at his feet and still call Him Lord.
