Rock Part Three: Easter

ROCK PART THREE

(word count: 743)

I cannot believe it. I don't know whether to be hopeful or terrified or both. Right now I'm just shocked. Jesus used to call me Peter, which means Rock, but I feel more like jell-o.

He died. The women saw the whole thing, the crucifixion. The centurions took the body down from the cross, all bloody and battered. John saw. Others saw. He was dead. Not sleeping. Dead.

I went to the viewing at the funeral home. I saw his body in the casket. I dropped to my knees and sobbed right. My wife put her arm around me. I looked up and saw Jesus lying there, in the casket. It was him. His rugged face, swarthy skin, square jawline. I've looked into that face a million times. There was no mistake. It was Jesus. He looked like he was sleeping, but he was dead.

We thought Jesus might have a closed casket because he had been beaten so badly, but he didn't look too bad. The funeral director, John Lopatich, had done an excellent job with the makeup and clothes to hide the wounds. I stood up, reached out, touched his face.

I spoke with John Lopatich. “Is he really dead?” I asked him. John nodded. “Yes, Peter. He's really dead.” “Are you sure?” I asked. John said, “Yes, I drained all the blood out of him myself. I worked on his body. He didn't move, didn't breathe. I've been doing this job a long time. I know a dead body when I see one, and Peter, I am afraid to say that Jesus is really dead.”

I nodded and walked away, still nodding. My wife guided me to a chair.

Then they had the funeral. I don't remember what the pastor said in the homily; I'm sure it was fine. We all drove to the cemetery. Jesus' casket was placed in the upper cemetery here at St. James. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. There stood the casket containing Jesus' poor, dead body. After the service, I leaned in and gave the casket a kiss. I walked away, crying, my wife holding me close. Then we went to the church basement and ate fried chicken, halushki, and gob cake.

Last night I came back to the grave site by myself. The casket had been lowered. Back fill had been shoveled in. Now there was a mound of dirt, and, at the end of the mound, a temporary grave marker that read: JESUS OF NAZARETH, REST IN PEACE.

That all happened yesterday, Saturday. At the end of the day, I went to bed, cried, did not sleep well. This morning, when the sun came up, I was wide awake, thinking about all that I had experienced with Jesus. I recalled how I had denied him three times. As I lay there, I prayed, “God, if I could do it all over, I would not deny him. I wish I had another chance. Please give me another chance.”

The phone rang. Who was calling at 7 on a Sunday morning? My wife didn't wake up; she was just snoring away. The phone kept ringing. I looked at the caller ID. It was Mary Magdalene's cell.

“Peter, something happened,” she said. “We went to the grave this morning to place some flowers there, and it was all dug up. We looked down into the hole. The casket was there, but it was open, and sitting in the casket was a young man, probably about eighteen, wearing a white robe. He told us that Jesus has been raised from the dead and that we were to go and tell you and the other disciples that he will meet you in Galilee.”

I said, “Mary, what are you talking about?” She told me everything again, and I thought this could not be right. I said I'd have to call her back and hung up. I needed a moment to think.

My wife rolled over. “What's going on, honey?” she asked. I told her, and she said, “Well, that makes sense. Didn't he used to tell you that he would die and come back to life?”

My wife was right, of course. I got dressed and drove to the cemetery. I looked into the hole in the ground. The open casket was there, but there was no young man.

I'm so confused. This is all frightening, strange. Could he truly be alive? Look! There he is! Do you see him?