The musings of Peter

Isaiah speaks with astonishing boldness: “Shall a nation be born in one day?” (Isaiah 66:8). And yet, this is exactly what we commemorate in the week that culminates in Easter. A nation is born—not of borders or armies, but of faith. Christendom emerges from the empty tomb. It is a nation of those who follow an eternal King, revealed in glory on Easter morning, yet tested in the agony of Good Friday. The suffering of this King was not a surprise. It was foretold centuries before, most vividly in Isaiah: “He was despised and rejected by men… pierced for our transgressions… by his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:3–5). What unfolded in Jerusalem was not chaos—it was fulfillment.

We look back now with clarity. Christ dies publicly on a Cross and rises in fulfillment of the Scriptures (Luke 24:44–46). But we must pause and consider the magnitude of what occurred. This was not a moment fabricated overnight. This was a divine orchestration spanning centuries—prophecies written, preserved, and handed down by people who often did not fully understand them (1 Peter 1:10–11). We know, from our own experience, how difficult it is to execute even a short-term plan without deviation. Yet here is a plan unfolding across generations, culminating in a single week that changed the world forever.

Jesus begins outside Jerusalem, in Bethany (John 12:1). He is on pilgrimage, like countless other Jews, because Passover required it (Deuteronomy 16:5–6). Families would come to the Temple, bring a lamb, and have it sacrificed by the priests. The blood would be poured on the altar, and the lamb eaten that night (Exodus 12:6–8). What we now call the Passover Seder took its fuller shape after the destruction of the Temple in 70 A.D., but in Jesus’ time the central act was sacrifice.

As He approaches Jerusalem, Jesus fulfills prophecy deliberately. He instructs His disciples to bring a colt, and He rides into the city. This is not incidental—it is a declaration. As written: “Behold, your king is coming to you; righteous and having salvation is he, humble and mounted on a donkey” (Zechariah 9:9; see also Matthew 21:4–5). The crowds respond: “Hosanna to the Son of David!” (Matthew 21:9). They recognize something. Perhaps not fully, but enough to proclaim Him as king. These are not just crowd. These are people who have seen Jesus perform miracles, or have heard about them. People who have heard Him preach. If He can draw a crown of 5000 outside of Jerusalem how many more would flock to see the “Great Prophet” in Jerusalem. Jesus is welcomed as a conqueror. By crowds of fans. Word spreads that Jesus is there.

This creates immediate tension. The Pharisees—learned scholars of the Law—had influence over the people. The chief priests controlled the Temple, though many were political appointees rather than true Levitical heirs. Into this fragile structure walks Jesus: a man from the line of David (Luke 3:31), openly praised as king, performing miracles, and teaching with authority. He calls out the Pharisees: “Woe to you… whitewashed tombs” (Matthew 23:27). He exposes corruption. He challenges power.

And then He goes further.

He enters the Temple and finds commerce where there should be worship. Merchants selling animals, money changers profiting from devotion. With flocks of Passover pilgrims, all looking for a lamb to give to the priests as prescribed by law. It is estimated that over 10,000 lambs were killed for Passover.  The temple is bustling, crowded. And He erupts: “My house shall be called a house of prayer, but you make it a den of robbers” (Isaiah 56:7; Jeremiah 7:11; Matthew 21:13). He overturns tables. He drives them out. This is not subtle. This is confrontation. Thousands of pilgrims are arriving, and Jesus stands at the center of it, disrupting the entire system. It is a direct challenge to both religious and political authority. When He does it, He does it as a recognized prophet. He cannot be just dismissed. This is a man who has just raised a dead man. Who dares challenge Him? Jesus stays and preaches in the Temple. Can you imagine the Pharisees and Priests trying to figure out how to manage a situation? Thousands of lambs to slaughter, and now we are doing it for free? Jesus preaching in the hills and valleys poses no threat, this Jesus is a threat. 

Now we return to the deeper question: how does an innocent man end up condemned to death? Isaiah already told us: “Though he had done no violence… yet it was the will of the Lord to crush him” (Isaiah 53:9–10). The path unfolds. Jesus forces the issue. He reveals Himself. He does not hide. Truth stands in the open—and it must be answered.

The Passover approaches. The Gospels describe the timing slightly differently (compare John 19:14 with Matthew 26:17), but they converge in meaning. In 33 AD the Passover meal was on Friday night, so Jesus shares a final meal with His disciples while preparing for the PAssover feast the next day. . During this meal, He does something eternal. He washes their feet: “If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet” (John 13:14). At the moment before His death, He demonstrates love through humility. He also clearly tells them they have to work together. THat there will be conflict, but you must work them out in humility and serve each other. 

Then He gives us something even greater. He takes bread and wine and says: “This is my body… this is my blood… do this in remembrance of me” (Luke 22:19–20; 1 Corinthians 11:23–25). These are not casual words. They are deliberate, preserved, and central. Just as Isaiah’s prophecies were written and safeguarded, so too were these words recorded for all generations. They are meant to be remembered, studied, and lived. There is confusion over these words. They do not come from the Scripture. They come from the hard heart of man. Only the Spirit will bring unity surrounding these words, but to ignore them is to invite destruction. Jesus would not have done this and said those words at His last meal unless they were important. 

Meanwhile, Judas has already made his decision. The Pharisees could not approach Jesus and arrest Him. His followers would rise up and protect Him. They needed to get Him when He was alone and vulnerable. But how to do that?  They couldn’t do it  during the Feast, so the window of time was small. When Judas appeared on their doorstep they must have danced with joy. Here was a means to an end. He agrees to betray Jesus for thirty pieces of silver (Matthew 26:14–16), fulfilling another prophecy: “They weighed out as my wages thirty pieces of silver” (Zechariah 11:12). What motivates betrayal? Greed? Disillusionment? We may not fully know Judas, but we know ourselves. We betray Jesus in our own lives. We condemn Judas but we know how easily we, too, can turn away in smaller ways.

Jesus goes to pray in Gethsemane. This is the moment of raw humanity. He knows what is coming. “My soul is very sorrowful, even to death” (Matthew 26:38). He prays: “Father… remove this cup from me. Nevertheless, not my will, but yours, be done” (Luke 22:42). The anticipation of suffering is itself agony. Yet He chooses obedience. He chooses us. Here is the moment when He is away from the crowd, unprotected, vulnerable. Judas makes his move. 

The arrest comes. A kiss of betrayal (Luke 22:47–48). A trial in darkness. False witnesses (Matthew 26:59–61). And the tragic irony: those who studied God fail to recognize Him. “He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him” (John 1:11). They condemn Him for blasphemy (Matthew 26:65), yet they lack authority to execute. So they bring Him to Rome, reframing the charge: “We found this man… saying that he himself is Christ, a king” (Luke 23:2). Deviousness and deception, traits that we men have honed over the years. Our guilt assuaged by our internal justification. We assume the role of judge, condemnation is something we hand out not something we are a victim of. 

Pilate finds no guilt (John 18:38), yet political pressure prevails. The crowd chooses Barabbas (Mark 15:11–15). And so the innocent are condemned. GOd has put the right man on the throne. Pilate could have thrown Jesus into jail. Could have refused to execute Him. But God knew Pilate’s heart. He knew that in this situation he would choose a political decision over justice. What is the death of one when it brings peace to many? He may have wavered, but once his wife chimed in his mind was set. He dismissed her and the path to glory unfolds. 

Calvary follows. The cross, the nails, the divided garments (Psalm 22:16–18). Above Him: “Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews” (John 19:19). Mary stands there (John 19:25). She has seen her Son works miracles, raise teh dead, turn water into wine, she knows His power. She knows who He is. What Mother would not cry out… Save yourself. Reveal yourself in power. … She does not intervene. She does not demand. She endures. She resigns herself to sorrow, a sorrow of confusion or frustration, seeing a lifetime of good die in an ignoble way, cut short by lies.  In her, we see a contrast to Eve—obedience instead of grasping.

Beside Him, a thief speaks: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” (Luke 23:42). In that moment, a dying man recognizes a king. And Jesus responds: “Today you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43). How does a thief on a cross, see a broken beaten man on a Cross, and see God? And what does that say about the availability of forgiveness. One see as God sees the other as man sees. One is invited to Glory. MAy our own eyes be open and our hearts respond. 

Jesus dies. “It is finished” (John 19:30). The earth trembles. The veil of the Temple is torn in two (Matthew 27:51)—not hidden, but witnessed. There are thousands in the Temple. They are slaughtering thousands of Lambs for that night Passover meal.  Access to God is no longer mediated by walls. The sacrifice is complete. Did God plan for Jesus to die on the first day of Passover, for the Lamb of God to be slaughtered while lambs were being slaughtered in the Temple. For the discussion after remembering Moses and the escape from Egypt to turn to a prophets death that could be seen from Jerusalem.  A prophet who just was in the Temple preaching, healing, doing signs and wonders. 

Then comes silence.

The Sabbath. Grief. Fear. Confusion. The disciples scatter (Mark 14:50). Mary mourns. The promises feel distant. Yet even here, prophecy stands: “After two days he will revive us; on the third day he will raise us up” (Hosea 6:2). How many tears were spilled that day. How many memories are shared. We all know the pain of death and the mourning of loved ones. 

And then—morning.

The tomb is empty (Luke 24:3). Christ is risen. A nation is born in a day.

The resurrection is not merely an event—it is an awakening. Thomas doubts, and we understand why (John 20:25). But when he sees, he declares: “My Lord and my God!” (John 20:28). That moment echoes through time.

Why do we believe? Because humanity is made with a longing for God (Ecclesiastes 3:11). That longing is often misdirected, but in Christ it finds its true north. Jesus becomes the anchor: “I am the way, and the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). When the Gospel is proclaimed, something within us recognizes Him. The veil is torn again—this time in the heart.

And so the mission begins: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19). The apostles go. The Church grows. And the nation born in a day endures across centuries.

We were not there, yet in hearing the story, we are drawn into it. We stand at the Cross. We look into the empty tomb. And something within us responds—not as spectators, but as participants.

Christ is risen.

Happy Easter.