I see groggy disciples waking, wondering if it was all a horrible dream. No, the master is not here. Wasn’t here all night. Oh yeah, they would remember, Nicodemus took the body to a grave.
A grave? For Jesus? The one who raised Lazarus? How could it be?
And how could the sun come up today, as if it were just another day? Why, yesterday the whole sky had gone dark. For six hours. As if to protest the murder of its creator.
He was the creator. Wasn’t he? But a creator killed by his creation? Can God die? Apparently, he can. Apparently, he did.
The men talk of plans for the day. Plans? For what? “Lord, to whom shall we go?” Peter had told him. “You have words of eternal life.”
But eternal life seemed an unlikely prospect this day. All hope was gone. And it would stay gone.