I’m not a morning person at the best of times, but the next morning I woke up feeling desolate, empty, parched.
The day before I sat for hours waiting for the darkness to lift, clinging to a rock, I lay on the ground as the earth shook violently.
And then it was over.
The man died, the man they call Jesus.
I still tremble when I think of it. I decided to shake it off, embrace a new day hoping I could put the man’s gruesome death behind me. I made myself a cup of tea to calm my nerves.
I tried to keep busy but my day felt empty, in fact, the more I tried to fill it up, the emptier it felt. It’s as though my soul was groaning, I felt incomplete, like a part of me that I couldn’t identify had been torn from me, I was thirsty, desperately thirsty.
I went out into the street hoping to escape my solitude. As I walked I saw men kneeling on the ground, beating their chests in anguish. The mood was sombre and I started to feel afraid.
What had we done?
What was this unquenchable thirst that had come over me?
I sought solace with a group of women who were gathered nearby. They were saying that this Jesus was the son of God and that he was being buried in a tomb owned by Joseph of Arimathea.
I couldn’t believe my ears, how could this man be the son of God, and if he was why didn’t he save himself?
I couldn’t sleep at all that night, I lay awake, hungry for answers and afraid that I might have to endure this ravenous void in my soul for the rest of my days.
Who was this man?