Thinking back to that day after the crucifixion, my first thought is that the followers of Jesus were waiting. But were they?
For them it was all over. This great dream of freedom, victory and greatness had amounted to nothing. James and John who wanted the places of honour, had had their pride deflated. Peter, loud mouthed and brash, had wept when challenged by a young servant girl. And their leader, who was followed by thousands, was deserted and died, forsaken even by God.
After three years of high expectations, their state of being was worse than before they knew Him. What was going through their minds, I wonder? They had left everything to follow Him.
Where did they stay? What did they do? What did they talk about? Could they even pray or celebrate the Sabbath? What was there to celebrate, when He who had raised Lazarus was dead Himself?
He had said He would be killed, and something about rising from the dead. When was that? Oh, yes, it was on the way up to Jerusalem, just when James and John asked about getting the places of honour.
Talk about doubting! No one could have had worse doubts than these eleven men. Their leader gone, betrayed by one of their own. Who else in the group might be a traitor? How soon before they too were dragged off to face execution? If He, an innocent man, could be slaughtered, what hope did they have to escape?
Did they blame Him, I wonder? Did they think He had led them astray? Did they remember how Peter had declared him to be the Messiah? What could do they do with that now?
He had performed wonderful miracles, healing, casting out demons, raising the dead. But no more. He was dead. It was final.
So yes, all they could do was wait, wait till Sabbath was over, then escape at first light to Galilee.
Photo by Ryan Snell on Unsplash