Paschal Meditation (II)

It felt cold this morning. Oh, the hot sun came up as usual, but I shivered nonetheless.
Yesterday’s unnatural darkness seems to have left a pall over my soul. Or maybe—
        maybe it’s the fact he died. He hung there, and died.

I thought he wouldn’t. I expected another miracle. Call me a fool, but after all this time—
        after a hundred times of watching him do the impossible—
        I really thought somehow he’d do what he was here to do.
        What is Rome compared to the Messiah, to God’s anointed one?

But now I don’t even know what to think. Sure, he claimed to be the one we’d all expected.
Or did he? I mean, that’s certainly what I understood, with all the times he dropped hints—
        no, more than hints!—
        all the times he admitted it when we asked,
        all the times he nodded, smiling,
        all the times he let us believe he was going to deliver us.

But he just took the beatings the soldiers threw at him. And then he just hung there.
Let the Roman soldiers hurl insults and mockery and derision.
I could hardly bear to stand there, watching him die.
        Die.
Not just a trick, not some hopeful sham that would let us know he was still with us. He died.
Blood pouring out of his side,
        and water, in a foul mix I thought would make me wretch.
Instead, I just
        watched, cold, broken, all my faith shattered.

Who was he? An impostor? Demon-possessed, like the priests said, months ago?
He was my friend. But—
        he was not the Son of God.
And how can he have truly been
         my friend? How could he have led us all astray?

Was it power-hunger? The lust for fame and attention?
Was his teaching—the mighty sermons on the hillsides, the indictments of the religious fools—
        was it all just a sham in his quest for others to worship him?
But then, where did the miracles come from?

None of this even matters anymore. It’s pointless nattering in the dark.
I threw my life away for him, and he died. He gave it all away, and for what?
None of it makes sense.

My soul is cold, and empty. Tomorrow, I suppose I will try to make my way back
        to Galilee. Maybe some of the others will come with me.
What a horrible Sabbath. What a horrid end to Passover. What a
        waste.