The Darkness of Easter Morning

As I write this, it is almost the morning of the first day of the week.  In just a little while, the women will be going out to the tomb—his tomb.  We men told them not to do it . . . that it is too dangerous; but they aren’t going to listen. 

We tried to tell them that it is over.  We all thought he was the Messiah . . . the Hope of Israel; but he died like any other man put through the torture he had to endure.  It’s over, and there is no reason for them to risk their lives or ours by going back to the tomb to add more spices to his dead body.  What difference can it make?

They will go.  Mary Magdalene can be a persuasive woman.  Yes, they will go; and then they will come running back to us with more tears and tales about how unfair it all is . . .  about how good a man he was.   Life is unfair . . . it always has been for people like us, and always will be.

 
They will go . . . they will see the tomb sealed up and guarded.  What good will it do?

They will go . . . and what good will come of it?

The sun will dawn soon . . . a new day will begin . . . and what difference will it make?

 

What difference, indeed?