It’s Holy Saturday,
the first Holy Saturday. Dawn breaks, and as it does the city of Jerusalem
awakes, worn and broken.
Some of the
disciples must have slept last night, exhausted from the preceding days of
turmoil and despair. It is a quiet
morning, and as each disciple rises, perhaps he looks forward to spending
another day in the presence of the Messiah. And then, it all comes rushing
back, all the wrongness of yesterday. The Messiah is dead, dead and buried.
Perhaps it is Thomas who wakes to this depressing, disillusioned world. He
realizes that he left everything to follow Jesus. And now Jesus has left him. Jesus
is dead and buried. Thomas is utterly alone in this world. The other disciples
have fled and dispersed, a few in pairs or small groups, but Jesus’ “elite”
band of twelve has dissolved. Thomas has no job, no way to make money. He left
his family. He left his possessions. He had nothing. But, far, far beyond the
physical bankruptcy he was experiencing, his heartbreak far outshone that. He
had been close to Jesus. He had lived at His side for three years. Thomas had
slept where Jesus slept, walked right behind Him, soaked in His teachings,
witnessed His miracles. The disciples were far closer than simply friends. They
were brothers. But the family was broken up, the shepherd dead. Was it all
over? What hopelessness . . .
And of
course, Mary must have only escaped her pain in sleep. But, the next morning,
the wounds reopened, and she felt the rawness of the tragedy wash over her once
more. Her son, who she had anticipated becoming the Messiah for thirty-three
years, was dead. Dead and buried. He lay in the ground, in the cold, in the
hardness, darkness, aloneness of the tomb. His crushed, torn, destroyed body
lay there, only hastily buried. He didn’t even get the burial He deserved! Dead
and buried, her son.
The other
followers must have all felt it as well, the resurgence, the overwhelming
pressure upon emotional trauma from yesterday. And today was the Sabbath. They
could do very little. It was a day of nothingness, a day without distractions
to provide even temporary refuge. They must have known by now about Judas, if
not his betrayal at least his suicide. One of the twelve! Surely not! The very
world of these followers was crumbling. The
Teacher was dead, dead and buried. What else could possibly be so wrong
in this cold, gray world?! Throughout the whole day, their hearts were burdened
and weary. Confusion and disillusionment! The temple’s curtain was torn? Dead
raised to life? What craziness was this that was wracking Jerusalem?!
There was
no HOPE! Hope had
died with Jesus. Something must have gone wrong. Jesus was the Messiah, and
Jesus was dead. The Messiah was dead, dead and buried. Dead and buried the
Rescuer, the Savior. Hopelessness! Despair! There was nothing, nothing looking
forward. There was nothing looking back either. Three years wasted . . . all
for naught. There was no meaning to their life, was there?
It was a
bleak Saturday, cold, unfeeling, gray. Dead. Dead and buried was He, the Savior
of the world, the King of the Jews, Yahweh, Emmanuel. Hope itself was dead. Dead and buried. Utter hopelessness . . . .
It was a
bleak Saturday. . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . . but Sunday was coming . . .
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