I woke up this morning thinking about the women. I suppose it’s because they were mentioned in passing at the close of last night’s Good Friday experience. They were listed as witnesses to the horrific events of the crucifixion. We had spent an hour or more making our way through account in the gospel of Mark. The sanctuary darkened with each scripture reading and we left in silence, spilling out into the evening with tears still streaming.
So this morning they were still on my mind as I considered Holy Saturday; the stretched out awful between Friday’s anguish and Sunday’s salvation. We have the distinct advantage of living on this side of Easter, but the women of Jesus did not share our hindsight. For them, Saturday seemed it would last forever, a new and terrible reality of a life without a Messiah.
Holy Saturday is also called Silent Saturday, and I suspect this has to do with the lack of scriptural references. Flip through the gospels and you’ll find a single sentence describing the day between death and resurrection.
“But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.” (Luke 23:56 NIV)
I read it this morning and I rolled my eyes. I know the sort of ‘rest’ one has in the wake of new grief. There’s no real sleep, or slumber, or quietness of the soul. Fresh loss is a constant turning, an aching, bone-deep, blinding sorrow. It’s an over and over again revelation of a loved one torn too soon from this world. It’s round-the-clock tears, waking up from a fitful few winks with a wet pillow. It’s a total loss of appetite and ambition. There is no ‘rest’ in the first days after death.
Now take all that sorrow times the loss of the Messiah.
I’m well acquainted with loss. I’ve buried my mother, my father, and my brother. I’ve sat in the sackcloth and ashes, numb to my own name, more than a few times, but I can’t fathom the agony of a world without a Savior.
On this side of Easter, you and I have only, ever, always, had the hope of salvation. We have not lived one hour in a reality where Jesus wasn’t resurrected. But these precious women, and the disciples they spent their days with, they were trying to wrap their minds around an existence apart from Jesus.
Silent Saturday held the darkest hours of human history – a Sabbath subtracted from the hope of a Savior.
I wonder, did the sun visibly rise that morning or was the sky mournful, dark and dense with grief? Did the birds even bother to sing? Did the mountains drop their shoulders? Did the tides forget their twice-a-day tugging? How could the earth keep spinning, with the axis of everything having slipped its footing?
When we come round to Silent Saturday, it’s good to consider this. It’s appropriate for us to sit with the weeping women and appreciate their grief. The world they were left to live in, is simply unimaginable to us.
If the women rested on Sabbath in obedience, perhaps it’s wise for us to follow suit. The light of the world was extinguished. It’s incomprehensible, but we can make an effort. We can choose to not rush our way past the cross and the cavernous tomb on our way to a brighter, better Easter. Maybe, instead, we take a moment to ruminate on a world without a Messiah.
I suspect this deliberation will only deepen our joy come Sunday morning. The empty tomb will surprise and delight us anew, when we’ve rightly contemplated a world without a Savior.
“Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices,. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy.” (John 16:20 NIV)
Lord, help us to resist the urge to shortcut to the end, to the neat and tidy resolution where You are alive and we’re forgiven. Give us the courage to sit in the gut-wrenching grief of a world without a Savior. Help us understand exactly what the crucifixion cost. May we trust that a Silent Saturday will not tarnish the shine of tomorrow, but amplify our awe and gratitude for the resurrection reality. We know You’ll be faithful to meet us Sunday morning with an empty tomb and overwhelming joy. Amen.