The Last Days of Judas Iscariot

No parent should have to bury a child . .. No mother should have to bury a son. Mothers are not meant to bury sons. It is not in the natural order of things.

I begrudge God none of this. I do not curse him or bemoan my lot. And though my heart keeps beating only to keep breaking—I do not question why.

When people ask me who my son was, I tell them that story.

So consider this: Your friend Judas? He had Jesus for three years! Think about that, Cunningham. Three years in the foxhole with the best friend ya ever had, then he shot him in the back for a pack of Kools. Think what that says about the essential character of the man. Now go home and stir sat into your wee Gypsy teapot! Petition’s invalid, Motion denied! Next case!

If there’s an insinuation at the end of that statement, Cunningham, I suggest you don’t make it!

Good. Now, when I come to court dressed as Ethel Merman in a one-piece bathing suit, that'll be my signal to you that I want your opinion!

Most worshipful lord and master: very tiny problem. My license, I seem to have left it in my other suit. I could rush back to Hell and retrieve it—

Well, know it again!! Peter took out his sword and started chopping off the ears of the authority! Can you imagine?! Jesus had to correct him, put the ears back on—it was a big mess, really.

Without further hesitation, your grace. Forgive the delay, I was simply enamored to be in her beatific presence, your eminence. I love Mother Teresa, great one. In Christian Egypt, she is a great star—as a young boy, I used to don a towel and my mother’s nightgown and stalk the back streets of Cairo looking for dying things to comfort and salve.

But if you were Judas, Simon, and “doing what you had to do” ended up getting you thrown into despair and hanging from a tree and then sent to Hell to live in misery and infamy in perpetuity—if you were Judas— wouldn’t you have kinda wished that Jesus had maybe said something else instead?

The real truth is that God’s Love for us is Conditional—isn’t that right?! You failed to meet God’s conditions, and he threw you in the trash! Judas failed—and he’s in a catatonic stupor!

Mister Satan, I asked you a direct question and I am demanding from you a direct answer!

“God and the Kingdom of Heaven and Earth versus Judas Iscariot”!

I believe you have the device, sir.

Your name, please, ma’am?

And “Hell” is nothing more than the Absence of God, which, if you’re looking for a good time, is not at all a bad thing. You wanna play the lute, sing Mary Chapin Carpenter—that’s what Heaven’s for. You wanna rock? Apparently, Hell’s the venue.

Thank you. Look, I didn’t make you people, God did, okay? But there was a design flaw in the creation: He gave you Free Will—and to balance that out, you were designed to Self-Correct. But, unlike the “Free-Will” muscle, the “Self-Correct” muscle is not a particular favorite of the Homo sapiens. Vd say “Self-Correct” falls somewhere between “Colonoscopy” and “Firing Squad” on most people’s holiday “wish” lists. At any rate, the truth is: I don’t have to actively compete for human souls—I don’t have to lull or flatter or tempt or deceive—because with God at the helm and you people running around wreaking havoc: I’ll be honest, I spend most of my time on a sofa watching one- hour dramas on HBO.

Cunningham, please don’t take this personally, but your father never really loved you or wanted you, right? And the only reason your mother didn’t abort you was because she was afraid of scarring—I think she told you that once, didn’t she—Just because your parents resented you doesn’t mean that God does.

See, now, I don’t recall that conversation.

I ama man—and defense counsel may dispute this— who happens to know something about Remorse—personal and otherwise. In my day, I stared into the eyes of perhaps ten thousand accused men and sat in judgment of them. I spared a few, and executed plenty. I sent people to face the whip, the cell, the gallows, and the cross. And I pet A ire home, as well. Remorse is rare, but when you sec it, it is unmistakable. Judas Iscariot had no Remorse—His Fear left no room for it. His Fear was one hundred percent EgoDriven and Self-Serving. One hundred percent panic. Zero percent remorse. If you believe nothing else—believe that.

Did I stutter, girlie?

Did you say something?

I know what I know. What do you want to know?

Boy, God can lead us anywhere, but sometimes, the people, they doan wanna go. And if the people doan wanna go, then, whaddya gonna do?

*Say something you think would fit*

You forgave Peter and bullshit Thomas—you knocked Paul of Tarsus off a horse—you raised Lazarus from the fuckin? dead—but me? Me? Your “heart”? ... What about me?! What about me, Jesus?! Hub?! You just, you just—I made a mistake! And if that was wrong, then you should have told me! And if broken heart wasn’t sufficient reason to hang, THEN YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME THAT, TOO!

Why . . . didn’t you make me good enough . . . so that you could’ve loved me?

I see a lot of things!

Don’t you think . . . that if I knew that it would have changed your mind . . . that I would have?

How about him? Do you see him? Do you know him? Call unto him. Touch him. He is not there. Because he does not exist, Judas. Rather, they must conjure him, and still he is but a vapor blown away by a hummingbird’s breath, He is false. He is a lie. He is not real. Touch him. Go ahead.

If a thousand strangers spit on me and kick me as they pass, I will smile. But if the brother of my heart gives me . only a passing hard look, then, Judas—I will not sleep that night, nor sleep—at all—till he will let me love him again,