Judas is chosen, like the rest.
He loves his Master, like the rest.
“I do believe that Jesus is most likely the Messiah,” Judas tells Caiaphas. “I’ve seen too much.”
So why is Judas in the High Priest’s house now, ready to hand over this Messiah into the hands of His enemies for a handful of silver?
“I suppose I’ve not seen enough.”
It’s for Jesus’ own good, Judas tells himself. Judas must push this reluctant Messiah into a corner, so that He will be forced to unfurl His true power. Then, and only then, will Jesus become the Savior that Judas envisions: the Christ who will meet the might of Rome with an army of angels.
Just a little nudge. That’s all.
And if Jesus is not the Messiah? That handful of silver coins—the price of a slave, Judas well knows—might come in handy.
Caiaphas scowls at the turncoat in front of him. But inside, the crusty, wizened rabbi must feel like dancing.
Finally, Jesus—this troublesome pretender, this peddler of tricks—will be arrested, tried and revealed as the fraud that he is. Jerusalem’s Messiah-mad populace will settle down. Rome will be appeased. Order will return, and the Jewish people will once again be saved, thanks to Caiaphas’ machinations. Oh, and thanks to God. Of course.
All the pieces of the chessboard are moving now, Kafni, the grieving, angry father who blames Jesus’ for his daughter’s death, is stirring up resentment of the man from Galilee. Atticus, the Emperor’s Praetorian investigator, is pushing Caiaphas to make an example of this so-called prophet and establish Rome as Jerusalem’s savior—one that represents law and order.
But finding Jesus and his wily disciples has been trickier than Caiaphas had hoped. They flit from place to place, always one step ahead.
Judas is the last pawn Caiaphas needs to trap Jesus and checkmate this meddlesome movement.
And 30 pieces of silver? A small price to pay.
The Chosen: Last Supper—Part Three brings us into Jesus’ last real day of earthly freedom. But it also takes us through a series of flashbacks featuring His disciples.
In one of those flashbacks, Little James limps toward Jerusalem, determined to sing as part of the great Temple choir. But he has difficulty starting a fire along the side of the road one chilly evening. A couple of strangers stop by and help Little James with the fire—and then they join him for an evening of companionship and conversation.
In another flashback, Simon the Zealot displays sacrificial courage. As Roman soldiers hammer against a hideout door, Simon tells a couple of compatriots to run while he fights the Romans alone.
Often these flashbacks mark critical moments that, ultimately, set the disciples on a path to meeting Jesus. We see their old ambitions and dreams in those moments—dreams they willingly and joyously gave up to follow Jesus. And you get the sense that whatever hardships their discipleship led to and whatever troubles may yet await, they’d not change their choice for the world.
We also see some characters take risks to save Jesus from the ever-growing danger all around Him. Mary Magdalene has been desperately seeking out Nicodemus, her old Sanhedrin acquaintance from The Chosen’s first season. But Nicodemus finds her first, and he promises to study the Scriptures to better understand where Jesus (whom Nicodemus also now believes is the Messiah) may be headed. And when Nicodemus reaches his conclusion, the rabbi storms into the Sanhedrin to (presumably) make his case.
And naturally, Jesus is at the center of everything—treating His oft-confused disciples with kindness and grace, displaying flashes of humor. And, throughout it all, He carries the weight of the world’s sin upon His shoulders.
As has been the case throughout The Chosen, just about everything here is spiritual—either pulled directly from the Scriptures or created to point viewers to Jesus and His work. And certainly the series has always pointed viewers to other, relevant parts of the Bible.
But in Last Supper: Part Three, the painting of the Gospel turns into more of a bas relief, taking on new depth as the narrative leans on Old Testament prophecies, prophets and stories than ever before.
Often, these references take the shape of Jesus’ visions: He meets Ezekiel in a valley filled with bones, and the two enact Ezekiel 37:1-3. He watches as Abraham and Isaac prepare to make a sacrifice to God (Genesis 22:6-8). Jesus obviously catches the parallel: Abraham was preparing to sacrifice his son to God, just as God was to sacrifice His own son for our sins. And Jesus asks if He, like Isaac, might be spared. (Jesus also sees John the Baptist and His own earthly father, Joseph, in these visions as well. Joseph promises to greet Jesus in the hereafter.)
The prophecies of Isaiah are quoted extensively. Nicodemus studies the Scriptures exhaustively: One wall looks like something you’d see in a modern detective flick, with pages of prophecy covering the surface and connected by string—each bit of twine representing a connection between them.
People prepare their homes for the Passover, cleaning furiously to eliminate any hint of leavened food. During the actual Last Supper, Jesus reminds His disciples what the bread and wine have traditionally symbolized—and what He means for them to symbolize now.
A homeowner finds that his house has been struck by a graffiti artist, who scrawled Jesus is Messiah on a wall. Chronos (the Greek god of time) and Bacchus (the Roman god of wine and revelry) are namechecked. The gentile house in which Jesus and His disciples are staying is deemed unsuitable for Passover, given its bevy of pagan images. Statues both there and in Pilate’s palace are likely images of Roman deities. Pilate’s wife, Claudia, references her prophetic dreams.
Mark, a young man who lives in the house that ultimately becomes the site of the Last Supper, has his own visions—ones that coincide with Jesus’ instructions to His disciples about finding a good spot to celebrate Passover. A character references David’s feigned madness and partnership with the Philistines as a sign that it’s the Lord’s will to partner with the Romans. (We also hear a reference to Jeremiah.)
One final note: Those familiar with The Chosen are well aware that not everything on screen can be found in Scripture, and we have more extra-biblical elements in play here than ever. But one bit of dialogue might be especially disconcerting to some: When Jesus is agonizing in the Garden of Gethsemane, He expresses not just fear and anguish, but doubt in his own abilities to see this through. “I don’t think I can do this …” He says. “You ask too much of Me.”
It’s perhaps a very human response, and certainly the Bible reminds us that Jesus was filled with anguish and even fear in the Garden—asking God to take “this cup away from Me” (a refrain repeated more than once in Last Supper—Part Three). And certainly, Jesus’ doubt is a momentary thing. He’s committed to following his Father’s will, no matter what it is. But for some, it may stretch the show’s narrative extrapolation too far.
Someone mentions that Jesus doesn’t seem like “the romantic type.” A woman leaves her husband.
Simon the Zealot passes a butcher’s shop: Animal carcasses hang in front while, behind, a stream of blood seeps underneath a door and into some nearby straw. The sight takes Simon (whom everyone calls Z) back to his days as a true Zealot—a time when he and a couple of friends were preparing to fight (presumably) Roman soldiers. Two people are ultimately killed off camera, but we see their dead bodies in an alley, one of which has blood trickling out of his mouth and his body lying in a pool of accumulating blood.
As mentioned, Jesus finds himself in a gully strewn with the bones of seemingly hundreds of people. Z is, essentially, given a couple of swords from an unlikely source: The disciples take them to Passover and, later, to the Garden of Gethsemane. We hear references to battle and execution.
Forms of the word “damn” are used, but in the correct context of someone’s spiritual condemnation.
Someone utters The Chosen’s favorite exclamation, “Hades and Styx.” Someone is called a “rat.”
Atticus pours out some wine for he and a would-be ally. Pilate drinks in his palace, though Claudia takes away his cup.
Matthew sees someone spit at a tax collector, which reminds him of his own (spittle-filled) first day on the job.
So many movies end with a kiss: Through them, princesses awake and wedding bells ring. In our cinematic shorthand, they can stand for commitment, true love, happily ever after.
The Chosen: Last Supper—Part Three ends with a kiss. But instead of bonding people together, it’s a sign of the final break. Love? Yes, of a sort. Judas loved not the Messiah, but his own concept of the Messiah. Judas loved Judas and what he imagined would be his own, glorious part in the story. Thy kingdom come, MY will be done.
And while a happily ever after ending is indeed on its way, we must go through the pain of the cross to find it.
The three-movie saga of The Chosen: Last Supper feels very neatly bookended by Part Three. The arc began with Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem in the blaze of the day, the air echoing with shouts of Hosanna! It ends in the cool gray of night, with the whispered words, “Do what you came to do.” The narrative feels flipped on its head: The happy, triumphal part is supposed to be the finale, right? But no, here we’re left with a cold, breathless cliffhanger—one that, paradoxically, we all know its end.
Last Supper: Part Three is more than three hours long, and I might quibble over some of the movie’s narrative decisions. (Not that anyone’s begging for a movie made by me!) And in terms of its content concerns, Part Three may be, in some ways, the harshest yet. Dead bodies and red blood make this a more difficult chapter for kids.
But it’s also a powerful, creative and at times breathtakingly poignant film, its imagery sometimes slipping into the realm of cinematic poetry.
The Chosen: Last Supper – Part Three ends with sin and pride ascendant. Victory for the bad guys, it seems, is at hand. The chess game that Caiaphas believes he’s so deftly played reveals very few moves left.
But those of us watching know that Easter’s just around the corner. And God’s not playing chess.
Paul Asay has been part of the Plugged In staff since 2007, watching and reviewing roughly 15 quintillion movies and television shows. He’s written for a number of other publications, too, including Time, The Washington Post and Christianity Today. The author of several books, Paul loves to find spirituality in unexpected places, including popular entertainment, and he loves all things superhero. His vices include James Bond films, Mountain Dew and terrible B-grade movies. He’s married, has two children and a neurotic dog, runs marathons on occasion and hopes to someday own his own tuxedo. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @AsayPaul.
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