Jesus died on a Friday. He was buried that same day.
His execution felt unexpected to his followers, even though
he had warned them many times that it would happen.
Events had swirled around them ... A late night arrest on
Thursday. A midnight trial. A morning execution. Then nailed to a wooden
cross in the midst of thieves and murderers, Jesus bled and died. The situation seemed out of
control. The power and rage of Rome was in full flower. And it came crashing down
on Jesus.
Then came Saturday. Jesus was dead and gone, and his followers and his closest friends were hiding behind
locked doors. They undoubtedly feared they would be next.
We have no record in the Gospels of where they were hiding
that day, or who was in their group, or what they said to each other.
The Scriptures are silent about what happened on that
Saturday.
But we do know that a group of them were hiding together, with the
doors locked, out of fear.
We can imagine the atmosphere in that place. The anger and the confusion and the hurt; the
betrayal. Could they look at one other
without rage or resentment? They all had run and left Jesus to die. Well, the
guys had run and hid. But the women knelt and wept. But either way, it seems that they all had lost hope. Their messiah
was murdered. Their rabbi was killed, dead and buried. In reality, they all had
lost hope.
Can you imagine the cold silence; the glares of resentment?
How did they express their acrimony and accusations, spoken and unspoken?
