saturday in the upper room

We hadn't designated this room as a meeting place in case of an emergency; we weren't expecting any. But this was where we last gathered before... Calvary. One by one we appeared, ghosts of our former selves. All except two.

The one who hung himself was just like us. We were together nearly everyday for three years. Three years! Some of us are livid and curse his name. How could he? How dare he? Others of us stew in silent disbelief and shock. When did he turn? Why? Were we ever really friends?

The one who was hung gave us warning. We just didn't pay attention. The cryptic things he said now seem plain, things too horrible to accept even now that they're realized. For three years we trailed him; we left the lives we've known. We thought we were lost before we met him, but we're worse off now. The things we've seen and experienced with him - wonders and marvels beyond our imaginations as ordinary men, at times by our own hands - have ruined us forever. We can hardly imagine going back to our old lives, though most of us will try.

But the small moments haunt us also. The meals and conversations. The long, hot treks through Galilee. Even the bickering and mischief. We were a family and he our big brother, who could both correct and laugh with us, lead and serve us. Slowly but surely, he'd stirred into us a certainty that we are loved with a love beyond our comprehension as ordinary men.

Our guilt taunts us. Though we huddle in common fear, our common shame erects walls between us. We cannot lift our heads or meet our eyes. Oh, the promises we made! How eagerly we jostled for position, how easily we pledged fidelity, how quickly we fled. We didn't even try; we just stood and watched from distant shadows.

Yet here we are, a collection of cowards hiding... and waiting. Because he said other cryptic things, too glorious to consider but too wonderful to ignore. What if? What if! Our exhaustion pants for the sun to set, but something burns inside us for the sun to rise. Perhaps the rooster's crow may yet be redeemed.