THE GOSPEL IN LITERATURE: ET TU, BRUTE?

You know that moment in a story that stops you cold? Shakespeare gives us one in Julius Caesar. One minute, Caesar is the triumphant leader, surrounded by friends; the next, he’s dead, struck down by those he trusted most. And his words—“Et tu, Brute?”—hit like a punch to the heart. “You too, my friend?” Betrayal has a way of cutting deeper when it comes from someone you counted on.

This isn’t just a lesson in drama; it’s a lesson in reality. People hurt us—sometimes strangers, sometimes the closest companions—but the Gospel shows us the ultimate case of betrayal. Jesus, too, was betrayed. Judas, Peter, and the disciples themselves—those He loved and taught—turned away, denied, or abandoned Him in the hour He needed them most (Matthew 26:47-56; John 18:1-11).

Where Caesar’s story ends in despair, Christ’s betrayal leads to hope.

And here’s where it gets remarkable: Jesus meets treachery with forgiveness. The very hands that nailed Him to the cross were met not with anger, but with intercession: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do” (Luke 23:34). No human plan, no rational strategy could have achieved this. It’s both brilliant and divine: the ultimate response to human sin is not retaliation, but grace.

Literature teaches us about the human heart; the Gospel teaches us about the divine heart. Caesar’s fall warns of the fragility of trust and the danger of pride. Christ’s cross reveals that God’s love never fails and that even betrayal can be transformed into redemption. In every story of human weakness, there is a pointer to God’s steadfastness (Romans 8:38-39).

So when life cuts deep, when friends fail, when betrayal stings, remember the Cross. Human hearts are flawed, but God’s heart is perfect. Every wound can meet His mercy, every wrong can meet His forgiveness, every failure can meet His restoration.

And that is the kind of truth that even Shakespeare, for all his brilliance, could only hint at.

BDD