Saturday, March 30, 2013

Holy Saturday


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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