Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday.

It’s impossible really. There is no way to imagine what it was like. A day to sit in the anguish. To wake… hoping it wasn’t real… but it was. Still.

It was worse than that though. Because it was a sabbath day. A day of rest and worship. A day when the very ability to distract themselves from the pain was forbidden. How can we possibly imagine such a thing?

I have thought before that the closest I could ever come would be to not have Easter Sunday services. But it would be a gimmick and not the existential angst. But imagine… people come in their Sunday best… they expect brass and organ and cheerful flowers. They expect throngs of people that don’t normally come and imagine if it could only be like this every week. The expect it… But no. The door is locked. The lights are off. No music. No worship. No savior. He is dead, you say. Dead…. dead. How could this be? Go back home. Lock the door. Don’t admit you knew him. Rock each other to sleep… it’s over now. What purpose would worship even have? He is dead. Where is our mercy now… where does hope lie? What reasons are there to go on?

Don’t you get it? He was the one who had the words of eternal life… and he can speak no more. We are are all lost. Go home! There is nothing for you here…. not today. Not ever. Never. He is dead, dead, dead.

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