Behind the Scenes: On Iscariot

From the first moment that an editor friend suggested the story of Judas, I was running fast and hard in the other direction. I knew how much research that story would take and was completely cowed.

At some point after avoiding the idea for about a year (this is before work on Forbidden began), I found myself sitting in a restaurant scribbling a scene between Judas and his mother on the paper tablecloth. My head was in my other hand. I was a goner, and I knew it.

I called my agent a few days later, fully expecting him to talk me out of it. He didn’t. All my friends failed in this regard. I flailed around for a few more months. I couldn’t do it.

The thing that finally got me was the idea of slipping into the skin of the only disciple Jesus called friend, of sitting down at the side of this mysterious healer, teacher and uncontrollable maverick called Jesus. I wanted to see him for myself, to experience him in this way.

Over the next year I compiled a library and consulting team of academics, theologians and Bible experts. I went to Israel (and ate so much hummus I couldn’t touch the stuff for two months after returning), read incessantly and then sat down to write. The project took more than three years, (during which time I also wrote Forbidden with Ted Dekker).

Once again, I overwrote the book—this time by 140,000 words (more than 500 pages). Somewhere in that giant forest of history and geek theology I realized I had lost my way, had utterly obscured the trail of this journey and the mystery of Judas and Jesus’ relationship with it.

I thought back to my time in Israel. I had stood on the shores of Galilee’s lake, sat in Capernaum’s synagogue, had seen the theater of history. I had learned so much. But as I entered Jerusalem, I was bereft. Ascending toward the Dome of the Rock that day, steeples and mosques and temples crowding the horizon like so many hands reaching for God, I realized I had not experienced one moment of mystery. I fought back tears on my way toward the mosque, where I stopped to give an old beggar woman a few shekels. The moment I did she grabbed my hand in both of hers, and I nearly fell to my knees. Here was God. And I knew without a doubt I had traveled all the way to Israel just to hold her hand.

I returned to the manuscript and pulled it apart, throwing out three theses’ worth of detail. I returned to the heart of relationship. Iscariot was no longer Judas’ story... it was mine.

The Spring after Iscariot was released, as I was sharing a Styrofoam container of soggy nachos on the floor in front of my TV with my mom, who was visiting at the time, a text came in from my publisher: “Iscariot won the Gold Medallion!” I blinked at the blue bubble of text, a floppy chip hanging out of my mouth. Iscariot had won fiction book of the year. Celebration was short-lived; I was in the final stretch of edits on my novel of Sheba’s infamous queen. I showed the picture of the plaque to my mom, set her up with a TV show, and went back into my office.