They really didn’t understand. The Master had told them time and time again that He must die. But somehow they thought He would live forever. Teach forever. Heal forever. Always be with them.
Last night, the Master had washed their feet. He had broken bread with them and told them it was as though they were eating His very body. And then He passed the wine. It was as His blood, He said. As they supped together, He told them one of them—one of His own—would betray Him. Judas Iscariot left abruptly, but they didn’t realize why.
Supper over, they accompanied Him to the garden where He often went to pray. It was quiet, peaceful. And then all hell broke out. Judas Iscariot led a detachment of soldiers, and they arrested Jesus! Jesus. The Master.
How could this be?
They all ran in fear, but they heard of the trumped up charges. The false witnesses. The beatings. The ridicule.
When they saw Him again, He was carrying His own method of execution. And they barely recognized Him.
Bloodied. Beaten. Eyes swollen almost shut. Skin flayed. Such suffering. Such agony.
How could this be?
From a distance, many followed the parade of jeering people. The fingers pointing. The cruel laughter.
And finally, Golgotha. Nails pounded through flesh. Cross lifted and then dropped. Moans. Cries of pain. Struggled breathing.
“My God! My God, why have You forsaken Me?”
A mother’s heartbreak. A beloved friend’s tears. Enemies’ mocking voices, “If You’re really the King of the Jews, get down from there!”
A quiet voice, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.” An answer, “You will be with Me this very day.”
“It is finished!”
Earthquakes. Darkness. Silence.
The Master, Jesus, was … dead.
How could this be?
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