The week started out so well...Friday

Part One

After they took him from the garden, panic and confusion broke out. Those of us left standing there didn't know what to do. I decided to follow (from a safe distance of course).

Eventually we wound up at the palace of Pilate. I was able to make my way to the courtyard. I did my best to blend in, hoping to hear some snippet of news, some idea of what they were doing to him. Some idea of what we should do next.

It was cold that night as the sun began to set, and I soon found myself sitting around one of the many fires that was lit. Those gathered around me said nothing. The silence was unbearable. I began to make small talk, but all that I could think of was Jesus and what they had done to him. I tried to act nonchalant as I asked for any news of the prisoners that had been brought to the temple that night. I guess I wasn't too subtle.

Another man at the fire accused me of being a follower of that "Jesus character." I denied that I was. I tried to insist that I was simply in town for the Festival. Seeing that they weren't believing my story, I got up slowly and moved away.

"How could I do that?" I thought to myself. Moments ago I was willing to risk everything for him and now I was denying that I was his follower.

Moving to a new fire, I sat down. This time I was sure that I wouldn't have anything say. The time pasted and I was able to hold my tongue. then one of those gathered looked me dead in the eye and asked, "Didn't I see you come into the city with Jesus of Nazereth? Yeah I am sure of it. Are you one of his disciples?" I assured him that I wasn't. A little servant girl was standing behind us. She was sure that I was one of the disciples of Jesus, the one the crowds were calling the Christ. She too had seen me enter in the gates on Sunday. Besides she could tell by y accent that I was from Galilee.

I swore (in every sense of the word, I am ashamed to say) to her that I didn't know this Jesus that everyone seemed so interested in talking about. I didn't care about this teacher or his followers, I just came into the courtyard to get warm. As I rose to leave, I saw them bring him out and walk him across the yard.

Our eyes met. This was not a look that said, "you are missing the point" or "you have gone too far." This was something new. It wasn't sadness, and it wasn't quite disappointment, but it wasn't a look I care to ever see in his eyes again.

After that, I don't remember much of the rest of the night, or of the weekend really. I guess I was just numb. I heard that he had been crucified and was buried in a tomb near the hill where he died.

Died.

Dead.

Jesus was dead.

Gone.

Buried.

It was all over. No more denials, no more swords, no more dinners with cryptic talk about bread and blood. No more teachings. Or healings. Or travels. Or talks along the road. No more storms calmed, or fish with coins for the Temple Tax. No more walking on water. No more looks. It was all over.

The week had started out so well.