The room was dimly lit. The oil lamps flickered against the clay walls, and the smell of roasted lamb mingled with the sharp scent of bitter herbs. We reclined around the table, leaning on cushions, each of us half lost in thought. The Teacher was quiet that evening, his eyes deeper than usual, as if He saw beyond the walls of this upper room.
Judas sat to His left. It was an honored place — no one disputed it. After all, he held the purse; he managed what we had. When we needed food, he bought it. When we needed to help the poor, he gave it. If Peter was our voice and John our heart, Judas was our reason.
I watched as Jesus dipped a morsel into the dish and handed it to Judas. The gesture was intimate — not a warning, but a mark of friendship. Judas’ eyes met His, and for a moment I thought I saw pain pass between them, as if two brothers silently acknowledged a secret too heavy for words.
Then the Teacher spoke softly: “What you are going to do, do quickly.”
The words hung in the air like a chord that has lost its final note. We looked at one another, confused. No one dared ask. Some thought Judas was being sent to buy something for the feast; others, that he was to distribute alms. I thought perhaps it was a private task, one of those mysterious errands the Teacher often gave him. None of us imagined betrayal. Judas was the most proper among us, the least suspect of all.
He rose quietly. His robe brushed against the table as he turned toward the door. The light caught his face — pale, determined, and trembling. Then he disappeared into the darkness of the night.
The Teacher looked down for a moment. His hands rested on the table, open, as if releasing something invisible. Then He said, “Now is the Son of Man glorified.”
It was only later that I understood. The glory began not with crowns and angels, but with the departure of the one whom we trusted most. That night, love and betrayal sat on either side of Him, and He blessed them both — for both would lead to His cross, and from that cross, to our salvation.