They walked the streets of the ancient city, at once familiar and strange. Crowds that had cheered watched and waited. Soldiers listened cautiously while priests conspired in corners. Sudden strangers rushed out to challenge “What if…?” “Why?” “Would you dare…?” In dark evenings their leader spoke of dying. Death and disaster waited in every conversation; denial in their answers. Then bright daylight would promise a new age dawning, revolution even, at his command.
“He ought to declare himself,” said Judas.
But Jesus gathered them together and said he was going where they couldn’t follow.
“Where?” they asked. “Why?”
John 14:6 “…I am the way, the truth, and the life…”
There was always an air of excitement once Holy Week began; something much more visceral than a child’s anticipation of Christmas gifts. We would go to church for the ‘Stations of the Cross,’ following Christ’s final journey in pictures and prayers. And I would wonder why the images ended with the grave instead of resurrection.
One day I was waiting for Dad to be ready and saw my answer in the altar. Seven stations arranged down each side of the church (seven for God’s plan), and the fifteenth at the front—Christ’s sacrifice accepted and returned. He will come again.