Apostolate: Thaddeus, the Other Judas

C.S. Lewis is probably best known for the Narnia series. Though, perhaps in church circles, he may be best known for the book Mere Christianity. It’s known by many for getting to the heart of what it is to be a follower of Christ, better than any other book in the 20th century. But the book that stands out for me as the best example of Christian transformation, ironically, is Till We Have Faces. It is a retelling of the myth of Cupid and Psyche. In the story of Orual, a queen who spends her life wrestling with love, loss, and the silence of the gods in the face of her suffering, she tells her story complaining with intense bitterness, laying out her grievances against the gods for the pain she’s endured—for her ugliness, an ugliness she feels so greatly that she wears a mask throughout most of the book. But she also grieves, especially the loss of her sister, Psyche, who is taken away by what seems like a cruel and hidden god.

Her words are messy and honest. But because something is honest, does that make it true? Like, I can tell you how hurt I am, and be extremely honest and probably pretty vulnerable and worthy of validation… but does it make my indictments true? Over the course of the plot, Orual changes and grows, perhaps ‘converts’ to a new way of being and thinking. And in this conversion, we—the readers—are encouraged to change with her. She begins to understand that her initial accusations against the divine were tainted by her own feelings of failing and shortcoming. And though she has felt alone all these years, experiencing the silence of God that felt so loud in her loneliness, she was never alone. In the beginning, Orual’s story seemed like a lost cause, but by divine intervention, her heart was changed, and her life was opened to possibility.

Thaddeus—he knew lost causes. In this passage, he’s called Judas, but not that Judas—not the one you think of when you hear the name Judas. He finally finds his voice in the swirl of Jesus’s promises and parting words. He asks the question everyone is thinking (maybe you’re thinking it too): “Lord, why are you showing yourself to us and not to the world?” It’s the kind of honest wondering that so often sits on the tips of our tongues at the edge of faith. An obvious question without an obvious answer, and we’re forced to sit in discomfort. Thaddeus wants to know why this love, this presence, this Spirit, seems so tucked away, so hidden from the crowds who need it most. Jesus doesn’t scold or sidestep. He half answers, answering instead an unasked question: “If anyone loves me, they will keep my word, and [God] will love them, and we will come and make our home [in] them.” The answer isn’t about spectacle or grand gestures—it’s about the quiet, persistent arrival of God in the hearts of those willing to love, question, and wait. Thaddeus’s question is our question, too: Why not make it obvious? And Jesus’s answer is a gentle invitation to trust that God’s presence is found not in thunderclaps, but in the slow, quiet work of love—found right where we are, in the middle of our questions.

Like Orual in Till We Have Faces, Thaddeus voices the ache of those who feel left out or left behind, longing for a love and presence that feels hidden from us and reserved for others, not ourselves. Both stand at the edge of faith with honest questions—Orual demanding answers from silent gods, Thaddeus asking why Jesus reveals himself only to some—each wrestling with the pain of lost causes and the mystery of a God who so often chooses to remain unseen. Lost causes… I guess it’s a good thing that Thaddeus is the patron saint of desperate people and lost causes. Like James Alpheaus or Simon the Zealot, the Gospels do not tell us much about his words or deeds, but we know that Thaddeus was an eyewitness to the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. He saw a death (what looked like a lost cause) turn into life in the resurrection. And he couldn’t help but answer his own question differently than Jesus did. He asked, “Why don’t you tell everyone who you are?” Jesus answered, “God’s work is personal and quiet.”

Thaddeus, according to tradition, took a missionary journey far beyond the familiar landscapes of Israel. He traveled through Mesopotamia (modern-day Iraq), taking the gospel back to the origins of his faith—Baghdad was once called the City of Ur, where his ancestor Abraham came from. He traveled through Persia (modern-day Iran), Syria, Libya, and even into Armenia and parts of Turkey. Alongside Simon the Zealot, he preached the Gospel, helping to start churches and build communities based on life in God together, founded by water and the Spirit and bread and wine at the table.

Thaddeus reminds us that Jesus was quiet, and that faithfulness often means quiet courage—perhaps a willingness to ask hard questions, to follow without recognition, and to love deeply even when misunderstood. But he also teaches us that our actions might be loud—creating family and faithfulness with people we don’t even know yet. As the patron saint of lost causes, he symbolizes hope clung to in desperate times, trusting that God’s love quietly dwells within, that love-driven obedience leads to life. A constant reminder that we are never alone… even in silence. Maybe even especially in silence. In the end, Thaddeus invites us to embrace the mystery of God’s presence—not as spectacle, but as a sacred home in the hearts of those who love and obey, showing that God’s kingdom is built in the tension between humility and courage.

And so, whether we begin in questions like Thaddeus or in bitterness like Orual, may we know that even the toughest questions and the bitterest complaints can become part of the story of our transformation. May we be reminded that faithfulness often means quiet courage and hope in the face of a lost cause. Maybe our call is to live honestly in that same tension. Bring your questions—yes, your doubts—and your longing for God to be less hidden; don’t be afraid to voice them. But let’s not stop there: may we let the quiet, persistent love of God take root in our lives, step out in faithfulness, trusting that God’s presence is a home built in humble hearts and courageous acts, and that even in silence, you are never alone, in Christ. Amen.

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