Was going on in the early hours on the third day after Jesus had been crucified. Back and forth. Pounding hearts. Breathless lungs. Sweating bodies. Surprise. Shock. Panic. Just trying to put the story together. Just trying to get the facts straight. Just trying to tell as many others the breaking news as quickly as possible.
The initial explanation (the only one that made sense at the time, really) was that his body had been stolen. What? Who? Why? Where? There were so many questions. And the disciple’s feet couldn’t carry them fast enough to uncover the answers.
The disciples only slowed down once the truth came out. It was not theft, but resurrection. They only slowed down once he was standing face to face with them. Eating with them. Talking with them.
They eventually slowed down, of course, because no one can run around in a tizzy forever. Yet they never quite stopped. The good news never became old news.
