My Lies Crucified Jesus

Thirty pieces of silver. That was the price, it seemed, to send an innocent man to his death.

I did not haggle over the amount, for I gathered from whispers such a sum had worked in the past and would serve its purpose again.

I bore no hatred toward the man. He had done me no wrong. And my testimony was true.

Earlier, I heard the prophet from Nazareth claim our sacred temple would fall, and that he would raise it again. When, how—I had not asked. But if the Sanhedrin were determined to find a charge against him—if they had resolved to take his life—why should I not gain from the matter?

His declaration regarding the temple seemed small compared to his greater offense. He dared call our religious leaders children of the devil.

“You brood of vipers! By your words and deeds, you reveal your true father, the devil. How can you speak good when you are evil? You long to carry out his will. He was a murderer from the beginning and Cain belonged to him. For this reason Cain slew his brother. But by the will of my Father, I give the right to become children of God.”

For this charge and the threat to our temple, they burned with fury, They presumed, I suppose, that descending from Abraham was sufficient to be declared righteous. As if the righteous acts of our ancestors could be imputed unto us. Even I know each man stands or falls based on his own actions, beliefs, and words.

The healings, his raising of the dead—these miraculous, each sign and wonder, these too drove them to greater rage.

When he gave sight to the blind man, the religious leaders cast the poor beggar from the synagogue. Those with eyes to see were not welcome among those blinded by pride and self-confidence. Any who saw the prophet from Nazareth as one who spoke God’s word with authority—who offered life, healing, forgiveness, provision, and abundance had no place in the temple. No, he must die.

And so, for thirty pieces of silver, lied. It was a handsome sum for such a small act of indiscretion. Besides, as I say, others had already betrayed him for a similar amount. If even his disciples abandoned him, why should I not profit from his demise?

I repeat myself. Perhaps the words circle in my mind because guilt gnaws at me, growing sharper with each passing hour. He hangs on that cross now. While two others cry out in pain, he remains silent. While thieves beg for mercy, he looks down at those who surround his naked, beaten, and bleeding body. I watch as well, but am careful to turn away when his gaze falls upon me.

I knew they wanted him dead. But not like this. Not by Roman hands. When I heard they had appealed to Pilate, dread knotted in my gut.

I remember another crucifixion. I was just a boy. My father forced me to watch. For two days and more, the man fought for breath, legs trembling, back torn, splinters driven deep. When he neared the end, they offered water—one sip, one last cruelty to prolong his agony.

This prophet now suffers the same fate. Yet… he does not flinch. He does not groan like the others. He meets death—not with resignation, but with a strength of resolve I did not expect. It’s as though he views his torture and execution as a battle to be won, a conquest that will endure.

The scourging, the nails, the cross—weapons used against him—could they hint at a greater purpose?

Do I regret lying about what he said or did? Why should I? The deed is done. I cannot take back my words. And even if I could, I would not. The thirty pieces of silver will feed my family and prosper my fields. My conscience is clear—mostly.

And yet, though I have shirked back into the crowd, his eyes continue to seek me out. He finds me now and while I expect to see hatred and disappointment, his expression is one of compassion.

In an intimate moment amidst this public spectacle, he looks right at me and mouths, “Father, forgive him. He knows not what he’s done.”

Instantly, the weight of the thirty pieces seems more than I can carry. I am driven to my knees. My lie is too much to bear.

Oh, Lord, forgive me.

From the cross, a voice hoarse but strong calls, “I have, son. I have. You are set free.”