I was drying dishes and absentmindedly singing the song that had been stuck in my head for days when my husband suddenly came barreling down the staircase and into the kitchen. Looking frantic, he asked me what had happened. We were both confused; he was convinced that I had cried out in pain, and he fully expected to walk in on a grisly cooking incident. We quickly realized the source of the miscommunication. The song I’d been singing was Lady Gaga’s “Judas,” and I sounded like a lady in distress as I belted out, “Judas, Juda-a-a.”
Many of us Protestants have lost a sense of connection with the apostolate. When was the last time, as we were installing church leaders, that we asked the question, "Have you truly, genuinely experienced the resurrection of the Lord?"
Maybe the real reason we show betrayers so little compassion is that we’re afraid there is some Judas chromosome within all of us.