He Got the Money… But He Hated Who He Had Become
There's a quiet moment in Judas Iscariot's story that a lot of us skip over.
It's not the betrayal. Not the kiss in the garden. It's what happened right after, when he stood before the chief priests, flung the thirty pieces of silver onto the temple floor, and walked away.
The deal was done. The money was his. And he wanted nothing to do with it.
We love talking about winning. Closing the deal. Hitting the target. Getting the bag.
And honestly, there's nothing wrong with ambition. I've spent years helping people and organisations chase financial success with focus and discipline.
But Judas reminds us of something no spreadsheet or KPI can ever capture:
The means shape the man.
He didn't lose the money. He rejected it. Because keeping it and spending it would have meant fully accepting the person he had become to get it. And that version of himself? It was unbearable.
The coins themselves hadn't changed. But what they now represented had been poisoned by how he earned them.
This is why ethics in business and professional life isn't some soft, idealistic luxury. It's not for people who can "afford" to have principles.
It's self-preservation.
Every little compromise you make leaves something behind. A client you misled. A figure you massaged. A relationship you used and tossed aside. The money hits your account, but the method hits your soul. And you're the one who has to live with that person every single day long after the transaction is forgotten.
I've watched this happen, not in dramatic biblical fashion, but in quiet boardrooms and late-night conversations. People who hit their goals, made the money, got the promotion… only to realise the victory felt completely hollow. Not because success itself is empty, but because of how they got there.
They reached the destination, but they no longer recognised the person standing there holding the prize.
Let me be clear. I'm not writing this from some high horse.
I've made compromises I'm not proud of. I've moved too fast in directions I later had to painfully correct. None of us has lived this life, or even this Holy Week, perfectly. And that, if you think about it, is exactly what Easter is all about.
This isn't judgment. It's a mirror. And maybe, for some of us, it's a much-needed one right now.
We're in Holy Week — the time when Christians deliberately sit with the full weight of what happened in Jerusalem. The betrayal. The denial. The cross. And then, on Sunday, the hope.
The beautiful thing about Easter is this: the story isn't that some people are beyond redemption while others aren't. The message is that no one is beyond it.
The same grace extended to Peter — who also failed badly that week — was available to Judas. The difference wasn't worthiness. It was whether they believed they could still receive it.
So if this post stirs something in you — not heavy guilt, but a quiet recognition — that's enough. Recognition is where real change begins.
Judas's real tragedy wasn't just the betrayal. It was that he felt deep remorse but couldn't find his way back to hope. He returned the money, but he couldn't return himself. Don't go and kill yourself o!
For the rest of us, still in the middle of the journey, still building, still striving — this Easter is a good time to ask ourselves two questions:
Not just What am I working toward?
But also Who am I becoming while I chase it?
The prize is important.
But so is the person who eventually receives it.
And if somewhere along the way you've drifted from the version of yourself you actually respect… Easter, of all times, is the perfect season to find your way back.
— David Apaflo
Practitioner. Thinker. African.
davidapaflo.com