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A strange kind of good

April 7, 2012

Good Friday.   I bet none of those who were there on that Friday called it good.  What’s good about burying the one you were so sure was going to save the world?  What’s good about watching the one who healed your sick body and set you free from torment be beaten and tortured and publicly executed?

Why couldn’t the one who calmed the seas make the soldiers stop whipping him?  Why couldn’t he keep them from pounding nails in his hands and feet?

Where did all that power go?

Maybe the same place all their hope went.

I can only imagine what it was like, huddled in that upper room.  He was gone, and for all they knew, the soldiers would be coming for them next– and if the soldiers didn’t, the mob mentality of the crowd might be all it took to do to them what had been done to him. The air must have been thick with grief and fear.

The past three years of their lives had been filled with amazing adventures with him.  They saw it all with their own eyes.  They heard it with their own ears. They actually believed he was the one.  The One.

But everyone knows a dead man can’t save the world.

It would be two more days before they realized that though he was a man, he was also more than a man, and that he’d come to teach them a new way to die.  They were about to learn that those who experience that kind of death are the ones who are truly alive.  While they shivered in that dark room, all the rules were changing.  It was going to be a totally new game.

But Friday had to come first.


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