The Gospels are silent about what happened the Wednesday before the crucifixion of Christ. They are also silent about what occurred the day after. What follows is purely a product of my imagination.
Three years. For three years we’d followed the Lo… Jesus. For three years we watched him teach and chide and comfort. For three years we watched him heal, cast out demons, and do many other wonders that can scarcely be believed.
We were so sure he was the one – that he was sent by God to restore Israel and heal our land.
And then he was taken. Then he was killed.
Peter has been sitting in a corner with his head bowed, his arms on his knees so we can’t see his face. He lets out a sob every now and then, but he won’t say a word to anyone.
Mary has hardly stopped crying. Even when she fell asleep tears continued to slip down her cheeks. The other Mary’s, all the other women, are pretty much the same.
I heard James and John quietly wondering if they can go back to fishing. Their father didn’t want them to follow Jesus. Just another pretender, he’d said. Will he let them live it down? He’ll let them go back to work, but it’ll be uncomfortable for a while.
No one’s seen Judas since the garden. That’s probably for the best. Simon would kill him. So would I. No, I wouldn’t. He wouldn’t like that. The least I can do is remember that.
Does it really matter, though? He said he would teach us what the Law really meant. Now the scribes will remind us what the Law says: “anyone who is hung on a tree is under God's curse.”
Everyone jumps when we hear a voice outside. Is it a soldier? Have they found us? They killed Jesus as a rebel. They think we’re rebels. Romans don’t tolerate rebels.
It’s just Thomas. He hasn’t said he told us so, but he did. Now he’s the only one willing to go out. Hopefully he wasn’t followed.
Some are going to start back to Galilee tomorrow. I don’t know how they can just go back to their lives, but I don’t know what else to do. We’d hoped he was the one.
We were wrong.