Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday.
Sabbath.
The day of ceasing, resting, trusting God differently than the rest of the week. Six days you shall work but the seventh is to be holy. But this Saturday didn’t feel like a regular Sabbath for Jesus’ followers, family, and friends. It didn’t feel restful. It felt confining and impossibly unkind. This Sabbath day wasn’t a gift of God’s grace for them. It was a burden too heavy to bear. Oh there were plenty of religious elite in the city who rested content in the aftermath of the thorn in their side being crucified, but for Jesus’ people there was restlessness.

Sabbath had never been harder.
The waiting.
The lack of distraction.
The deafening silence.

When silence oozes over a body and soul, the mind plays tricks. Not hallucinations but every disappointment, fear, anxious worry, sorrow, discomfort, and regret increasingly thunders louder and louder until all you can hear is what isn’t. The silence buzzes, ringing in ears.

Holy Saturday, you silently roared into the places and rooms where disciples sat in disbelief, disappointment, and the deepest sadness. You didn’t bring comfort but grief. You didn’t bring hope but despair. You didn’t bring faith but doubt. 

In the silence of God’s death, we pray.

Lord, have mercy
Christ, have mercy
Lord, have mercy.