Holy Saturday gets me.
It’s sandwiched between the more obvious Good Friday and Easter.
But there was a day in between. When everyone thought it was over. Everyone had to sit in their grief and their astonishment. Everyone had to sit with their doubts. Jesus said he was the Messiah…. So how was it that he was so easily defeated? Where was his victory? He’d died a humiliating, excruciating, awful death, and for one agonizing day…. It all seemed absolutely meaningless.
And they had to keep the sabbath. They had to sit through a day of enforced rest.
When I’m grieving the last thing I want to do is rest, at least in the early stages. In the beginning I want to charge full-on at whatever I can to get things done. To fix something that can be fixed because this other something went irrevocably wrong. I–even me who gets quiet and hunkers down in a crisis–hunger to be busy. To NOT THINK.
Instead they had to rest. They had to sit in the quiet. They had to abstain from anything that could be defined as ‘work.’ They had to sit and let it sink in that it all had really happened. It wasn’t just a nightmare.
All they could do was sit in it, and cry, and grieve, and wonder.
I’m intrigued by the traditions of ‘The Harrowing of Hell.’ (I know my friend, Andrea, will fill me in on what she’s experiencing with the Orthodox church there). I’m intrigued with the idea that while the world sat in silence and rested and it seemed like it was all over, that Jesus was, at that point, declaring his victory over sin and death
My heart is still with those who are waiting… In limbo. Stuck in the grief and darkness before the victory and light. The waiting and wondering place. That place is hard. That place is barren.