I walk slowly into the church and take a seat toward the back. No one is here, but still I’m not comfortable. People like me don’t belong in a church. I’m surprised God didn’t kill me with a bolt of lightning when I walked inside.
I look at the wooden crucifix up at the front; the figure of Jesus elegantly carved. I feel sorry for him. He was selfless. He died for all people, but most of us don’t give a damn one way or the other.
In a flash of insight, I realize the word "selfless" applies to someone of this world. He toils on in a basement office, his quest not for personal gain, but for the people, to reveal the truth to them. The word "self" is not in his vocabulary. He risks his reputation, his job, and his life for the truth and doesn’t give it a second thought.
But if he is Jesus, then I...I am Judas. The traitor. I worked for the devil, did his dirty work, and I liked it. For a while. Until he tried to kill me with a car bomb. Me. My life is all about me, about personal gain. I couldn’t be selfless if I tried.
Suddenly guilt weighs heavily on me, and I can’t look at the crucifix anymore. I wish there was forgiveness for me. Of its own volition, my body slips forward on the seat until I’m kneeling, my arms and forehead resting on the back of the pew in front of me, my eyes closed. Words flow from my mouth, and I can’t stop them.
"Forgive me, God, please...I’m a liar, a murderer. I killed someone’s father, and I didn’t even shoot him face-to-face, I was behind him, hiding in the shower. I’m a cowardly murderer. And I killed someone else’s sister, but she wasn’t supposed to die, she was an innocent woman...but they’re all innocent, aren’t they, the ones who get caught in the crossfire, the ones who the devil wants dead...but it doesn’t matter. A murder is a murder, and I’ve committed two. I’ve betrayed someone I would have liked to call a friend, someone selfless, a virtual saint in this world of lies and treachery. But it’s too damn late for that, because I was working for the devil and I lost the chance. The saint hates me, he beats the shit out of me every time he sees me now, and I don’t really try to fight back, because I know I deserve every blow he deals me."
I feel something wet on my cheeks. I’m crying. For a moment this amazes me, because I haven’t cried since my childhood. It feels right, though, to cry now, while pouring my heart out to a God I never thought about much before, but who hopefully is now listening to this Judas’ plea. The words start coming again.
"I left him in the gulag, joined my Russian friends, switched sides as easily as most people change clothes in the morning. But I guess I got my due for that. This fake arm is a poor substitute for the real thing..."
My voice trails off as a strange feeling flows through me. I feel...peaceful... I look up at the crucifix again, my face streaked with tears. I’m still guilty for what I did, I probably always will be, but there’s something else. It’s as if God is willing to forgive me, to begin negotiations to bring redemption to this Judas. I get up off my knees and walk out of the church, wiping the tears from my cheeks. I look up and down the street and wonder where I can find a bookstore that sells bibles.
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