Jesus is dead. They crucified him. His mother and the other women and I waited to take his body, but by the time he was gone, it was too late. No time to even honor the dead. The tomb has been sealed and there are guards all around it.
Are we crazy? Was he crazy? Did he lie? Can I really be angry with him?
He made such a big difference and showed me what God is really like, but I was hoping all the references to God's Kingdom weren't just metaphors.
They killed him. I still can't believe it. He was mortal, just like the rest of us. I was hoping that, pushed to the limit, he'd do another miracle, jump down from that cross unscathed. The whole hillside would worship God in a beam of light from heaven. But instead the sky got dark as they mocked him. I waited for it, hoping for something dramatic, and watched through tears as his body gave in, knowing he had the power if he chose. Such pain he endured. Regardless of who he was, we loved him, and we watched it happen: his last breath, his death.
So now what? Were the last three years a waste? He started something and we all hoped he would finish it, but maybe this is what he knew would happen. Continuing on is up to us. Or maybe it was all in our heads. I don't know anymore. My head hurts from crying, and I can't think clearly.
WHY GOD, WHY? I miss him! He changed everything! And now he's gone. The grief is bottomless.
Sabbath rituals feel so familiar, but so forced today.
Thank you Alece, for a new perspective.