Let me say this up front: I’m a fan of The Chosen. A big fan. I’ve seen every season, and when new episodes release in theaters, I’m there. I appreciate the care, the creativity, and the reverence the creators bring to the story of Jesus. They’ve brought His compassion to life in ways that have stirred my heart and deepened my appreciation for the cultural and emotional layers of the gospel.
But there’s one place where the show and I part ways.
It’s their portrayal of Judas.
I understand what they’re trying to do. They want to give us a fuller picture of a man history has come to define by one treacherous act. They want to show his charm, his intelligence, his desire to belong. They want us to see him as sincere—perhaps even likeable—before things unravel. In short, they want us to feel something when he betrays Jesus. And to be fair, it makes for good storytelling.
But here’s the thing: when it comes to Judas, we don’t have to wonder how Jesus felt about him. Scripture already tells us. And what it says should stop us in our tracks.
This wasn’t a story of confusion or heartbreak. This wasn’t a tale of a well-meaning man who simply lost his way.
Jesus wasn’t confused about Judas. He never was.
In fact, John tells us plainly:
“For Jesus knew from the beginning who those were who did not believe, and who it was who would betray him.” (John 6:64 ESV).
From the beginning. Not halfway through. Not when Judas started acting suspicious. From the very beginning, Jesus knew what was in Judas’s heart. He knew the betrayal before it ever entered Judas’s mind. And He still chose him.
He even said it out loud to the group:
“Did I not choose you, the Twelve? And yet one of you is a devil.” (John 6:70 ESV).
Jesus didn’t say Judas had devilish tendencies. He didn’t call him wounded or misunderstood. He said, “one of you is a devil.” That’s not a poetic flourish—it’s a revelation of the spiritual reality behind Judas’s intentions.
And those intentions? They weren’t noble. They weren’t born out of confusion or frustration. They were born out of greed. Long before Judas sold Jesus for thirty pieces of silver, he was already betraying the trust of the group.
John tells us that when Mary anointed Jesus with expensive perfume, Judas objected—not out of concern for the poor, but because he saw money slipping through his fingers:
“He said this, not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief, and having charge of the moneybag he used to help himself to what was put into it.” (John 12:6 ESV).
Judas wasn’t just the betrayer at the end—he had been betraying them all along.
And still, Jesus washed his feet. Still, He shared bread with him. Still, He gave him every chance to turn back. But Judas didn’t. He followed through with his plan, and Jesus didn’t stop him.
At the Last Supper, Jesus made it plain:
“Truly, truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me.” (John 13:21 ESV).
The disciples looked around, confused. But Jesus wasn’t. When they asked who it was, He said:
“It is he to whom I will give this morsel of bread when I have dipped it.” So when he had dipped the morsel, he gave it to Judas, the son of Simon Iscariot. (John 13:26 ESV).
And even when Judas tried to keep up appearances:
“Judas, who would betray him, answered, ‘Is it I, Rabbi?’ He said to him, ‘You have said so.’” (Matthew 26:25 ESV).
Jesus wasn’t trying to spare Judas’s feelings. He wasn’t trying to protect the moment. He was calling it out for what it was: evil, calculated betrayal.
And let’s not overlook what Jesus said next. These are some of the most sobering words in the entire Bible:
“The Son of Man goes as it is written of him, but woe to that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed! It would have been better for that man if he had not been born.” (Mark 14:21 ESV).
Those are not the words we use for someone who just made a mistake. That is the sentence of divine judgment on a man who had aligned himself with darkness.
Even in the garden, when Judas arrived to carry out the betrayal, Jesus didn’t flinch. He looked him in the eyes and said:
“Friend, do what you came to do.” (Matthew 26:50 ESV).
Some have tried to read that as a sign of affection. I believe it was Jesus extending dignity one last time before the end—but not because He admired Judas. He knew exactly what Judas had chosen. And even then, He was in full control.
Judas would later feel regret. He returned the money. He acknowledged he had betrayed innocent blood. But regret isn’t the same as repentance. Feeling sorry isn’t the same as being transformed. In the end, Judas took his own life, overwhelmed by guilt but never changed by grace (Matthew 27:3–5).
Here’s why all of this matters.
When we portray Judas as a sympathetic figure, we blur the line between weakness and wickedness. We confuse inner turmoil with inner rebellion. We trade the spiritual reality of betrayal for a more comfortable psychological narrative.
But the Bible doesn’t give us that luxury.
Judas wasn’t the broken tax collector crying out for mercy. He wasn’t Peter, weeping bitterly after denying his Lord and later being restored. He was the man who walked with the Light and still chose the darkness. And Jesus knew it all along.
That’s not just a small footnote in the Gospels. It’s part of what makes Jesus’s mission so powerful. He chose to walk with the one who would betray Him—not because He was fooled, but because He was fulfilling the Father’s plan.
So yes, I love The Chosen. I’m thankful for how it’s brought Jesus into homes, hearts, and conversations.
But this is one place where the show and I diverge.
Because if we get Judas wrong, we risk getting Jesus wrong too.
And that’s something we can’t afford.
I’m in Exodus in my daily Bible reading, and I’ve noticed something odd. We spend chapters reading about Moses—the plagues, the burning bush, the Red Sea, the mountain encounters with God—but when it comes to his family, especially his sons, the narrative grows quiet. Almost silent.
We do know their names. When Jethro brought Moses’ wife and sons to him in the wilderness, Scripture says:
“The name of the one was Gershom (for he said, ‘I have been a sojourner in a foreign land’), and the name of the other, Eliezer (for he said, ‘The God of my father was my help, and delivered me from the sword of Pharaoh’).” (Exodus 18:3–4 ESV).
Those names speak volumes about Moses’ journey. Gershom reminds us of Moses’ exile in Midian. Eliezer points back to God’s deliverance. These boys were part of the story—but they never seem to enter the spotlight.
We never read about Gershom or Eliezer standing beside Moses in the tabernacle. They aren’t the ones carrying on his prophetic legacy. In fact, they’re barely mentioned again, outside of a genealogy in 1 Chronicles 23:15–17.
That’s it.
They were sons of the man who saw God’s glory pass by, the man who parted the sea, the man who stood toe-to-toe with Pharaoh and didn’t flinch. But the children of that giant disappear from the narrative.
Why?
The honest answer is—we don’t know. The Bible doesn’t tell us. And we need to be careful not to speak where Scripture stays silent.
But we can reflect. And we can learn.
We do know that Moses’ wife, Zipporah, wasn’t present when Moses returned to Egypt. Exodus 4:20 says, “So Moses took his wife and his sons and had them ride on a donkey, and went back to the land of Egypt.”. But by Exodus 18, we find that Jethro brings Zipporah and the boys to Moses in the wilderness. Somewhere along the way, she had returned to her father’s house.
We don’t know when or why.
We also know that leadership didn’t pass to Gershom or Eliezer. That mantle went to Joshua, son of Nun. A man of a different tribe. A man who
“was full of the spirit of wisdom, for Moses had laid his hands on him.” (Deuteronomy 34:9 ESV).
Not his sons. A faithful servant.
That tells us something. Legacy, in God’s eyes, is not inherited—it’s lived.
The silence about Gershom and Eliezer doesn’t mean they were ungodly. It doesn’t mean they failed. But it does mean this: proximity to someone else’s walk with God does not guarantee your own.
That’s a humbling thought for us, especially if we’re parents, leaders, or mentors. We want those we love to carry the flame. We hope they’ll walk where we walked. But at the end of the day, faith cannot be passed on like an heirloom. It must be chosen.
We also don’t know how Moses’ calling affected his relationship with his sons. It’s possible they were distant, both geographically and emotionally. For all of Moses’ closeness with God, the text doesn’t speak much about his closeness with his family. The demands of leadership are real. And sometimes they come with a cost.
There’s no scandal around Moses’ sons. No rebellion. Just silence.
But the silence speaks.
It reminds us that even the great heroes of faith lived with the limits of humanity. It reminds us that God’s story isn’t about bloodlines—it’s about obedience. It reminds us that we cannot ride the coattails of another person’s faith.
And most of all, it reminds us to be intentional.
If we want our children, our friends, our church family to walk in faith, we can’t just assume it will happen. We can model it. We can encourage it. We can pray. But in the end, each person must walk with God on their own feet.
So what do we take from the sons of Moses?
We remember that calling doesn’t always follow family. That silence in Scripture can still echo with truth. And that what matters most is not where we’ve come from—but who we walk with today.
As Paul told Timothy:
“But as for you, continue in what you have learned and have firmly believed, knowing from whom you learned it.” (2 Timothy 3:14 ESV).
And as Jesus said plainly:
“My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.” (John 10:27 ESV).
Not their parents’ voice. Not their mentor’s voice. His voice.
Let’s walk in such a way that our names may never need to be written in a book—but our faith will be written on His heart.
I am in the book of Exodus in my daily Bible reading.
In chapter 9, we read about the death of the livestock. This is how Moses puts it:
“Behold, the hand of the LORD will fall with a very severe plague upon your livestock that are in the field, the horses, the donkeys, the camels, the herds, and the flocks. But the LORD will make a distinction between the livestock of Israel and the livestock of Egypt, so that nothing of all that belongs to the people of Israel shall die.” (Exodus 9:3–4 ESV)
God was very specific in what He said He would do. When this plague came, there would be no doubt that it came from the hand of the Hebrew God. Did you catch it? “The LORD will make a distinction…” This would not be an indiscriminate act of destruction with collateral damage.
The same God who sent the plague also controlled its damage.
This had to get Pharaoh’s attention. And as soon as the plague came, here’s what happened:
“And the next day the LORD did this thing. All the livestock of the Egyptians died, but not one of the livestock of the people of Israel died. And Pharaoh sent, and behold, not one of the livestock of Israel was dead. But the heart of Pharaoh was hardened, and he did not let the people go.” (Exodus 9:6–7 ESV)
Pharaoh had to confirm it for himself. And sure enough, the livestock of Israel was untouched.
But here’s something we might miss in the reading—something that really stood out to me.
Not only was God able to prevent the plague from touching His people’s animals, He was also able to keep their livestock safe from Pharaoh.
Think about that.
Why didn’t Pharaoh just take the Hebrew livestock to replace what Egypt lost? That would’ve fit his character. He enslaved the people. He ordered their sons to be killed. He worked them ruthlessly. Why stop short here?
And yet—he did. The Hebrew livestock remained untouched.
That’s another glimpse of God’s protective hand over His people. When they finally left Egypt, they took all their livestock with them. And Egypt? A mighty empire brought low—without even animals in the field.
This reminds us: God is sovereign over all things. Nothing is impossible for Him. Nothing is outside His control.
There is no such thing as collateral damage with God.
When He acts, there are no unintended consequences—only perfect justice, perfect timing, and perfect protection.
This plague didn’t just show God’s power to bring judgment—it showed His power to preserve.
What a mighty God we serve.
I am reading the book of Exodus in my daily Bible reading.
As the Israelites wandered in the wilderness, they did so while complaining, sinning, and doubting. Not every minute of every day—but often enough that they became known for unbelief. They saw the miracles. They walked through the parted sea. They ate bread from heaven. But still they grumbled. Still they turned their hearts back toward Egypt. Still they refused to trust the God who had already done so much.
“Therefore, as the Holy Spirit says,
‘Today, if you hear his voice,
do not harden your hearts as in the rebellion,
on the day of testing in the wilderness,
where your fathers put me to the test
and saw my works for forty years.
Therefore I was provoked with that generation,
and said, “They always go astray in their heart;
they have not known my ways.”
As I swore in my wrath,
“They shall not enter my rest.” (Hebrews 3:7–11 ESV).
This is a sober warning. These weren’t strangers to God’s goodness. They saw His works. They walked with Him in a visible cloud by day and a fire by night. And still, their hearts went astray.
“For who were those who heard and yet rebelled? Was it not all those who left Egypt led by Moses? And with whom was he provoked for forty years? Was it not with those who sinned, whose bodies fell in the wilderness?” (Hebrews 3:16–17 ESV).
They had every reason to trust—and yet they didn’t.
“So we see that they were unable to enter because of unbelief.” (Hebrews 3:19 ESV).
The Word came to them, just as it comes to us. But it didn’t benefit them—because it wasn’t united with faith. (Hebrews 4:2 ESV).
Most of them were overthrown. Most never saw the Promised Land. (1 Corinthians 10:5–6 ESV).
And yet… look again. Even in their rebellion, even in their grumbling, even in their unbelief—God still took care of them.
Their shoes never wore out. Their clothes never faded. Their feet never swelled. For forty years.
“I have led you forty years in the wilderness. Your clothes have not worn out on you, and your sandals have not worn off your feet.” (Deuteronomy 29:5 ESV).
He gave them bread from heaven. Every day. Enough for each day. A reminder of His patience, His provision, and His mercy.
He gave them water from a rock. He gave them light in the dark. He gave them victory in battle. He gave them Himself.
So what does this tell us?
It tells us that our God is good. Unshakably, relentlessly good—even when we are not.
He gives when we don’t deserve. He provides when we forget to say thank you. He blesses when we complain. He is patient when we are petty. He is faithful when we are flaky.
How many of us could stand before God today and say, “Give me what I deserve”?
Really—how many of us would want that?
If we received exactly what we’ve earned, how different would our lives look? How much would we lose? What would we have left?
But God is not like us. He is not vindictive. He is not quick to abandon. He is not waiting for us to get it right before He shows up with grace.
The same God who provided for rebels in the wilderness is still providing for us. Still guiding. Still blessing. Still feeding, leading, and sustaining. Not because we’ve earned it—but because that’s who He is.
Our God is a generous Father, not a cold accountant.
He gives grace not by calculation but by character. It flows from His heart.
And that truth should humble us. It should bring us low in the best way. It should move us from entitlement to awe, from expectation to gratitude.
I hope we see it clearly. I hope we feel it deeply. I hope we never stop being amazed that the holy God of heaven continues to do good to us—just like He did to the Israelites in the wilderness.
May we not harden our hearts.
May we not take His goodness for granted.
May we, like Job, respond with reverence—even when life doesn’t make sense.
“Then his wife said to him, ‘Do you still hold fast your integrity? Curse God and die.’
But he said to her, ‘You speak as one of the foolish women would speak. Shall we receive good from God, and shall we not receive evil?’ In all this Job did not sin with his lips.” (Job 2:9–10 ESV).
We have received so much good.
Let’s not miss the Giver in the wilderness.
True love isn’t a feeling. It’s what we choose to do for others—in spite of how we may feel.
I am in the book of Exodus in my daily Bible reading.
Moses had gone up Mount Sinai to receive God’s law. But it took longer than the people expected. Maybe they thought Moses had died in God’s presence.
“When the people saw that Moses delayed to come down from the mountain, the people gathered themselves together to Aaron and said to him, ‘Up, make us gods who shall go before us. As for this Moses, the man who brought us up out of the land of Egypt, we do not know what has become of him.’” (Exodus 32:1 ESV).
And then—something I still can’t fully wrap my mind around—the High Priest, Aaron, gave in. This is the same Aaron who stood beside Moses before Pharaoh, who saw God unleash the plagues, who watched the Red Sea part, who gathered manna from heaven.
And yet…
“So Aaron said to them, ‘Take off the rings of gold that are in the ears of your wives, your sons, and your daughters, and bring them to me.’
So all the people took off the rings of gold that were in their ears and brought them to Aaron.
And he received the gold from their hand and fashioned it with a graving tool and made a golden calf. And they said, ‘These are your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt!’” (Exodus 32:2–4 ESV).
Really, Aaron? So quickly? Where was the moral leadership?
When Moses came down the mountain, he asked a similar question:
“And Moses said to Aaron, ‘What did this people do to you that you have brought such a great sin upon them?’” (Exodus 32:21 ESV).
Before we get too hard on Aaron, maybe we need to ask: have we done the same? Have we forgotten God and created our own “golden calves” when His presence feels far away?
Do we find love “our way,” committing sexual immorality because it’s what we want?
Do we take advantage of others to get something we covet?
Do we cheat on our taxes to keep what belongs to Caesar?
Do we shape our own idols when God feels silent?
And when confronted, how often do we minimize and shift blame like Aaron did?
“And Aaron said, ‘Let not the anger of my lord burn hot. You know the people, that they are set on evil… So they gave it to me, and I threw it into the fire, and out came this calf.’” (Exodus 32:22–24 ESV).
Sin never “just happens.” It’s a choice. A drift of the heart. A moment where we forget who we are—and whose we are.
God saw Aaron’s sin from the mountain, and even his high religious position didn’t shield him from judgment. In fact, he should have been the first to stop it.
May we always remember who we are, and whose we are, before we make the decision to build our golden calves when our hearts start to drift from our Lord and King.