The events of Thursday night and Friday must have been a surreal nightmare, a madman's collage. With "the triumphal entry" still in their minds, the apostles had suddenly seen everything turned on its head, beyond their darkest imaginations. They must have fallen asleep — assuming they fell asleep, since that was about all they were good at — with numbed hearts and bedazzled minds.
But then Saturday dawned. Reality hit. It had really happened. They were now waking up, for the first time in three years, with no Jesus. That meant no Messiah, no Lord. No hope, no guide; no one who really knew what He was doing. No point to doing what they had all left their jobs and their lives to do.
And nothing had changed overnight. He died Friday. He was still dead, Saturday.
Horrible, throbbing reality settling down on their chests like a massive elephant. What now? Dear God in Heaven, what now? What do we do? What do we say? What do we tell the crowds? What do we tell our families? Do we go back with our tail between our legs, and beg for our jobs back? And what, what do we make of the world now, now that we had repented because the Kingdom of Heaven was at hand... and yet it seems more distant than ever?
- Dan Phillips via Pyromaniacs
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