THE "THIRTY PIECES OF SILVER."

A SERMON. BY ORVILLE DEWEY, D.D.

Then Judas, who had betrayed him, when he saw that he was condemned, repented himself; and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, saying, "I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood." And they said, "What is that to us? see thou to that." And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and went and hanged himself. — MATT. xxvii. 3, 4, 5.

IN the New-Testament history one portentous example appears, one prodigy of wickedness, for which no pity, no consideration, has ever been felt, for which no mitigating circumstances have ever been pleaded; but from which the thoughts of all men have retired and shrunk in unmingled horror. We read of the betrayal of the dread innocence of the Son of God; we hear of a disciple of the Holy One as the son of perdition: and when we learn that, in the agony of remorse, he went and hanged himself, we simply feel as if it were some natural catastrophe, fit close to such a career; we scarcely think of the act as anything human; we scarcely think of the agonized heart,- that human heart, wounded, broken, bursting with grief,-which consummated its fate in the voluntary relinquishment of life, in the awful deed of selfmurder.

But there are traits of nature and truth in the life and death of Judas, and in connection with the conduct of those around him, that illustrate the principles of good and evil, and that are worthy of our attention. Like the lurid nighttorch which some of the old painters have introduced as the light of their pictures, and which presents everything around in glaring distinctness, such is the deed of Judas in the group of Christ and his disciples. Let us attend to his story, and see if it will not help us better to understand the things we are wont to meditate upon in the sanctuary: the beauty and sanctity of goodness, and the misery and baseness of evil.

We know nothing in particular of the introduction of Judas

into the company of the disciples. The surname which he bears, Iscariot, has lead commentators to suppose that he was of the city of Cariot, or Carioth. It may be safely presumed that it was with no bad intention that he sought, or consented, to be enrolled among the immediate followers and companions of Jesus. Something of personal ambition may have mingled with the motives that drew all the early disciples to him; but they saw that he was a teacher of severe morals; and the kingdom which they expected him to set up, even though they connected with it some worldly hopes, was to be established by the power of God: it was to be a religious dominion. In short, it was a moral and religious enterprise that invited the co-operation of the disciples; and that amid circumstances presenting no allurements to the selfish and bad, amid poverty and wandering and common reproach. Indeed, it is not probable that the disciples, when they first forsook all to follow Jesus, regarded him in any other light than as a teacher of religion and righteousness. "Master," "Teacher," was the title by which they always addressed him; not "Prince," nor "King." The men, therefore, who were drawn to him were doubtless men of some religious and good dispositions, impressed in some degree with the beauty and loftiness of the Master's teaching, and desirous to learn more of his doctrine and mission. And such, it may be presumed, was Judas. And, if he had heard himself announced as in the list of the disciples recorded in the 10th chapter of Matthew, he would as little have thought as any one of them that his name was to be taken out of the sacred band, and put on the roll of everlasting infamy; or, rather, to be set apart and sent down to all ages as the vilest comparative, and very surname, of all that is basest and blackest in human ingratitude. His fellow-disciples had their faults, doubtless: yet men venerate them, name their children after them—but who ever thought of calling his son Judas Iscariot?

The next that we hear of Judas is on the occasion of Mary's annointing the feet of Jesus in Bethany. This was an Oriental usage, indicative of the highest respect. It was

not, according to the customs of the country and the time, a piece of reckless extravagance. The conduct of Judas shows that the Master had very little impressed his mind; that with that lovely and touching expression of veneration and gratitude which Mary gave he had no sympathy; nay, that already that passion was stirring in his bosom, which was soon to push him to the awful deed that has made his name accursed forever. "Six days before the Passover," we read, “Jesus came to Bethany, where Lazarus was, who had been dead, whom he raised from the dead. There they made him a supper; and Martha served; but Lazarus was one of them that sat at table with him. Then took Mary a pound of ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped his feet with her hair: and the house was filled with the odor of the ointment. Then saith one of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, Simon's son, who should betray him, Why was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor? This he said," adds the Evangelist, "not that he cared for the poor, but because he was a thief, and had the bag and bore what was put therein."

It is said in Matthew that the disciples made this objection yet Judas doubtless took a leading part in it, and from a sinister cause. But certainly it was a strange want of sympathy with an action most fit and beautiful. Jesus was the revered and beloved Master of this most tender and affectionate disciple; she had often sat at his feet, forgetful even of courtesy and hospitality, in her devotion. No words. could tell her reverence and affection: nothing but the look, the manner stronger than words, nothing but that symbolic action. Silent, while perhaps others spoke their gratitude and wonder, she kneels at the feet of the venerated Friend; she pours upon them the precious ointment, and wipes them with the hair of her head. "Why," says a harsh voice," was not this ointment sold for three hundred pence, and given to the poor?" Almost with sternness our Saviour replies, with rebuke which alone perhaps such a mind could understand, "Let her alone;" disturb her not: "against my burial hath she done this." He takes the part of a beau

tiful sentiment, even against the positive claims of charity. All things have their fitness; poverty is to be considered, but it is not the only thing to be considered: "the poor ye have always; but me ye have not always." Nay, more: "Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hath done be told for a memorial of her."

The next time that Judas is presented to our notice is at the last supper, where occurs a conversation that discloses his purpose and precipitates his fate. The Master and disciples sat at meat for the last time, the Master in the midst of his little band of friends; and he said, "Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me." Struck with sorrow and wonder, they began every one of them to say to him, "Lord, is it I?" And he answered and said, "He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish, the same shall betray me. The Son of Man goeth as it is written of him; but woe unto that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed: it were good for that man that he had not been born." Then Judas said, doubtless with a gloomy brow," Master, is it I?" And Jesus answered, "Thou hast said." And then he added, with solemn brevity, "That thou dost, do quickly." I say with solemn brevity; for that seems to me the manner in which Jesus treats the hardened traitor in every instance in which he addresses him. He makes no tender appeals to that callous heart. Nor let this representation be that to conflict with the gentleness of his disposition. We are not to consider his whole nature as resolved into one emotion of pity: his head is not always bowed down in sorrow and tenderness. He had a just feeling for every occasion; and for base betrayal, for the traitor before him, I doubt not that his look and tone, though free from anger, were full of solemn and appalling rebuke.

Again the traitor comes forth at the head of an armed band to the Garden of Gethsemane; and to point out Jesus to the officers amid the obscurity of the night, by a previously concerted signal, he gives him a kiss: as if nothing should be wanting to the atrocity of his deed, he uses the

language and manner of friendship; he says, "Hail, Master," and kisses him. "Friend," is the reply, not that this word was used in a peculiar sense, but only in common address, as any one may use it to another," Friend! betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss?" No reasoning with him, no lengthened appeal: but a brief and indignant remonstrance, as it were, a comment on his baseness, "Betrayest thou with a kiss?"

The last act in the awful tragedy of this man's life is recorded in our text: "Then Judas, when he saw that Jesus was condemned, repented himself, and brought the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, and said, 'I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood.' And they said, 'What is that to us? see thou to that.' And he cast down the thirty pieces of silver in the temple, and went and hanged himself." Some additional circumstances attending this catastrophe are mentioned in the 1st chapter of the Acts, where it is said, that, "falling headlong, he burst asunder in their midst." He may have fallen from a tree or a precipice where he hanged himself, and that could well have happened which is here described. This manner of his death, at any rate, is spoken of as well "known to all the dwellers in Jerusalem."

Let us now attend to some reflections that may be gathered from this impressive and appalling story.

I. And, in the first place, we may briefly note, in passing, the testimony which Judas gives to the character of our Saviour: "I have betrayed the innocent blood." It is remarkable that his enemies not only never attempt seriously to prove anything against him, but that they never bring against him any charge of moral dereliction. Pilate says, "I find in him no fault at all." And the betrayer exonerates him in a similar manner. If Jesus had not been a faultless being, Judas must have known it. With a keen and no friendly eye he had watched him. He had followed him from place to place: he had seen his daily life. His very remorse must have prompted him to find, if possible, some exculpation for what he had done, in the life of his Master.