A Holy Saturday World

 

If we live long enough we will find ourselves here. The morning after death. Quiet. Somber. Everything moves in slow motion. Some of the saddest words were those that said: “We had hoped he would be the one to redeem Israel.” 

The rainy season was winding down. The streams were swollen and everything seemed damp. Better days were surely ahead—or at least we thought. But on dark Saturday we have little hope. We have known it—or will. Jesus had said “It is finished” just before he breathed his last. But this Saturday what is finished? The crucifixions? The grief? The utter unfairness of it all. Then and now. We had hoped.

So with enormous sadness they took his broken body down. They pulled out the nails, wiped the blood away, put a linen cloth over his naked body. They hd no place to bury him until Joseph of Arimathea came and offered his tomb. Close to the Garden where he had prayed where the soldiers dragged him away. And they rolled a huge stone to seal his tomb.

All this took place on that Holy Saturday . Everything ran together. Mary holding her son close. Rain—the awful rain. And Judas dead. And the other disciples whispering hoarsely: “We had hoped.” 

It’s still that way. Take any country or village or town then and now. It seems like the end of all the goodness and grace and mercy. Just death. And like those then we know it too. The TV blares, the newspapers cannot write enough of all the out there, social media gone crazy. We had hoped.

But this is where we are—even though this is not the end. The long night will finally be over and the morning light will come. And the birds will sing and the trees will once again be green and somehow, like Noah we will find a dove that will come with an olive branch in her beak and the land will be dry again.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com