What an awful few days. First, Jesus was arrested and they took him away–all because of Judas, his friend who betrayed him—turned him in. Then Peter denies knowing Jesus—denies having ever met him, let alone being one of his followers. Then I watched in horror as they beat him. They took him out of the city and made him carry his own cross for as long as he could. And then they crucified him like a common criminal. All he had ever done was love everyone. How is that a crime? And now everything is even worse. I went with Mary and Salome to his tomb. We didn’t even have a chance to prepare his body for a proper burial because it was the Sabbath. Now we can’t because he is gone. The man in the tomb said that Jesus had risen and would meet us in Galilee. How can this be true? Where did they put his body? We saw him die.
While he was dying someone taunted him, “He saved others; he cannot save himself. Let the Messiah, the King of Israel, come down from the cross now, so that we may see and believe.”
Perhaps the most difficult thing in life is to believe something that seems almost impossible. I want so badly for what I heard in the tomb to be true but I don’t know if I can believe it after everything that’s happened. I don’t know if I can trust the significance of this miraculous event. I want it to be true. I want to believe that death doesn’t have the last word in a world of violence and hatred and poverty. I want to trust that there is something beyond this horrible death and that the death means something.
Even if I believe what I saw and what I heard, why should anyone else believe my story, my experience on this first Easter morning? Would you believe my story? Would you believe that it’s real?