Jesus said to him, “Amen, I say to you, this very night before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.” Peter said to him, “Even though I should have to die with you, I will not deny you.” And all the disciples spoke likewise (Matthew 26:34-35).
In a poignant scene from the 1971 Stephen Schwartz musical Godspell, Jesus bids farewell to his friends/disciples before the calamity of his betrayal, torture and execution. The scene’s plaintive song, “On the Willows” (https://youtu.be/Y-b4Q_kanRc), is a melancholic allusion from Israel’s history to the communal heartbreak of the Babylonian Exile, when prisoners of war were forcibly removed from their homeland to Babylon, and taunted by their captors to sing the songs of Zion. Their response, “How can we sing the Lord’s songs in a foreign land?” (Psalm 137:1–6) In the setting from Godspell, the song captures this intimate moment of Jesus offering his touching farewell as he prepares to enter into his “hour” of suffering and death. How do we ever say goodbye to our closest friends?
The story of Jesus’ betrayal is especially devastating in this context, because it was purported to be an “inside job.” Judas was the infamous disciple who was one of Jesus’ inner sanctum, his twelve closest friends, according to traditional canonical gospel accounts. Judas’ name became synonymous with betrayal thereafter. The extra-canonical Gospel of Judas notwithstanding (where Judas is Jesus’ chosen betrayer, see “The Lost Gospel of Judas Iscariot?” https://www.npr.org/2006/04/06/5327692/the-lost-gospel-of-judas-iscariot), this very personal, devastating betrayal makes Jesus’ final goodbye that much more crushing. And Judas’ betrayal isn’t even the most devastating part of the story in my book. They all abandoned him. The very same friends who promised to be there and stand by him in his hour of need subsequently ran away and deserted him, especially the one friend he came to trust absolutely. It is Peter’s denial and betrayal that is especially agonizing.
Caravaggio, “The Denial of St. Peter,” 1610
In one excruciating gospel scene echoed in all four canonical accounts, Peter (>Gk. πέτρος = petros = rock), the “rock,” (a familiar name, a term of endearment) denied even knowing Jesus, and denied the intimacy of their relationship (Mark 14:69–70; cf. Matthew 26:73–75, Luke 22:55–62, John 18:13–27). “I do not know him!” It is a heart-breaking, knotty scene of betrayal that the later epilogue of canonical John tries to untangle, when the risen Christ invites the intimate companion he used to call Peter, his rock, back into a relationship of love: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” he asks him three times (John 21:15–17). Note Jesus’ favorite name for him, Peter, is absent from Jesus’ lips. Not even Peter’s weeping bitterly at his own failure could have been more painful than to be asked three times, with the more formal, “Simon bar John,” as his lead-in.
Many of us have encountered some measure of betrayal in our lives. Confidences not held in trust. Deliberate exclusion. Ghosting. Selling out for power, preference, status or protection in place of love. Denial of the intimacy of the relationship itself. Lying and libel. It eviscerates us, drives us to our knees. It is reminiscent of Shakespeare’s Brutus plunging the dagger into Julius Caesar’s back, triggering Caesar’s shock, disbelief and horror at the turning of his trusted friend. “Et tu, Brute?”
Maybe we ourselves have been the betrayer. Turned the knife, sold out for thirty pieces of silver or saved our own necks in a moment of panic. Maybe we have heard the cock crow and remembered when it was already too late. Maybe we have gone out and wept bitterly that we have betrayed our beloved friend.
When betrayal enters our lives, we need an anchor, some way to “belay” or put a rope around our resultant goodbyes. Much like mountain climbers who anchor themselves or are anchored by a partner, this practice of tying oneself to something solid that also allows a little slack for freedom of movement, can be not only reassuring during an arduous climb, it can also be life-saving.
Sometimes, the anchor can take the form of forgiveness, even when the one who hurts us doesn’t ask for it. Even if forgiveness is for ourselves. It can be both grounding and freeing to relinquish any desire for revenge or punishment, and let go of lingering resentment. It also does not mean trust is automatically reinstated when we forgive those who betrayed us. That posture of self-protection can save us from further damage in cases of betrayal. However, practicing self-protection in one relationship of damaged trust can also bleed over into other relationships and become our automated, calcified default.
Sometimes, the anchor we seek can mean forgiving and then letting this friendship go, as precious and treasured as it may have been. By ritualizing or “praying our goodbyes,” as spiritual writer Joyce Rupp, OSM, suggests (Praying Our Goodbyes: A Spiritual Companion through Life’s Losses and Sorrows, Ave Maria Press, 1988), we can remember our gratitude for the relationship of love, trust and friendship that was once there. We can choose not to deny that there was goodness, mutuality and trust at one time, even if that trust has since eroded and/or died. We can ritualize the loss with reverence and solemnity. We can pray for our former friend who betrayed us, and for ourselves. We can also hopefully move on, learn from our experience of brokenness, and become a better friend/confident/trusted companion ourselves.
Perhaps most important is the ability to reverence our goodbyes, not just to pretend the betrayal never happened or we can easily forget or stop hurting. It might help us to put up healthy boundaries and employ physical distance for a while. Even if we have to continue interacting with former friends for the good of the family, social unit, or due to some requirement of prior commitment or service, being able to anchor ourselves to a sacred goodbye allows us some closure. It releases us from replaying the betrayal and the feelings of woundedness, rejection and loss, and allows for an authentic desire for healing and wholeness. It allows us to leave just the tiniest space open for a fresh breath of reconciliation and healing, like the risen Jesus on the beach, creating a way for his former friend, that “rock,” to come back to a relationship of love, to begin again.
As Christians around the world are reflecting on the paschal mystery these days, maybe we might try belaying our goodbyes. We might find ourselves both anchored and freed, blessed in a new and surprising way, ready for hope and new life.
A Blessing for the Breakup of a Relationship
by John O’Donohue, To Bless the Space Between UsNow you endeavor
To gather yourself
And withdraw in slow
Animal woundedness
From love turned sour and ungentle.When we love, the depth in us
Trusts itself forward until
The empty space between
Becomes gradually woven
Into an embrace where longing
Can close its weary eyes.Love can seldom end clean;
For all the tissue is torn
And each lover turned stranger
Is dropped into a ruin of distance
Where emptiness is young and fierce.Time becomes strange and slipshod;
It mixes memories that felt
The kiss of the eternal
With the blistering hurt of now.Unknown to themselves,
Certain small things
Touch nerve-lines to the heart
And bring back with color and force
All that is utterly lost.This is the time to be slow,
Lie low to the wall
Until the bitter weather passes.Try, as best you can, not to let
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart
All sense of yourself
And your hesitant light.If you remain generous,
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on pastures of promise,
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.
—Laura Weber, Prairiewoods associate director and retreats coordinator