Sunday, March 31, 2013



It is the day after Jesus' crucifixion and you are one of the twelve. Left alone, leaderless, hiding anywhere you can, fearing the Pharisees have enlisted men to hunt you down. You look around at your friend's faces, the wight of their sadness is too much for you to bare. Why did this happen? How can this be? All the miracles. The way the people responded to him. He had to be who He said He was? But if so, why? Why would God allow Him to die? Why not have Him come off that cross and vanquish his enemies like Joshua or David? Why not prove his power that way? Who could deny Him then? You had never seen anyone die before, especially not in such a hellish and gruesome way. What good could come of His death? The night falls but sleep escapes you. There is no rest for this weary lot, huddled together. There is no peace that can be offered, no condolence that would suffice. You are existing strictly off of survival instinct. There are no more tears, you have cried them all. Hours upon hours of mourning with no consolation. Who could console this group? What reasoning could you use? It was all for nothing. It just doesn't make sense. But there were those things He said that just didn't make sense, like a camel moving through the eye of a needle, or tear down this temple and it will be rebuilt in three days. But so much that He said did. And then there was Lazarus. You saw Him raise Him from the dead. You saw that with your own eyes. He had power over death, but was that power for others and not Himself? Your head starts to ache from all the inflection. You try to close your eyes, tomorrow is another day. You ignore the nagging feeling that there will be no hope found there either. You try to sleep, but one question still nags at you, taunts you. What good could possibly come from His death? The night thickens, your eyes become heavy, finally. You drift off with one final thought, today is done at least, and Sunday's on the way.

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