For twenty-five years, I've glossed over this day. On Good Friday, I grieved for Jesus on the cross. On Easter Sunday, I rejoiced in His resurrection. Sandwiched between these days rested a Saturday stuffed with last-minute grocery shopping before Sunday's feast and furtive nibbles from the bunny's candy stash.
This year, I cried on Good Friday, but not for Christ. I was angry at him, and God, too. Driving home with a knot in my throat, the words, "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken [us]?" crept to mind. I did not pray. I did not know what to say.
This week is not an Easter week for me. There has been no glorious triumph, no fulfillment of prophecies of redemption and peace. Not now.
This Easter season, the world is in limbo, like His earliest followers left to grieve at the foot of a cross. The day after Jesus died, his disciples wept. After all of His grand promises to rule a kingdom where the meek rule and the oppressed are free, Jesus was killed by a Roman prefect and a handful of soldiers. His distraught followers wrapped His body in linens and spices, and walled Him away in a borrowed tomb. Their hope had been shattered. Perhaps they had misunderstood His promises. Perhaps there was no victory to be had.
For them, it must have been dark. It must have been lonely. Confusing. Frustrating. Cold.
For us, the past months have been dark. Justifiable fear about COVID-19 has replaced ill-founded optimism, cocky hope, and bull-headed ignorance. Hospitals fill, businesses shutter, and streets empty. People are sick, and people are scared.
Recently, my school district closed for the rest of the year. Upon receiving the district's decision, our community felt a little darker, lonelier, colder.
But then I remembered Jesus' disciples and Mary Magdalene before her sweet Sunday relief. Before the angelic messengers, the empty tomb, the fish and honeycomb, they were left in the dark to puzzle over an apostle's gutting betrayal and their friend's unjust death. They did not know the now-familiar story of His exultant victory over death that we look forward to each time we read the Gospels. They grieved, even as we do now.
Although it appeared so, they were not alone. For a little while, it appeared they were forsaken. But following that silence from the heavens was a resolution so glorious it is still honored thousands of years later.
Pastor Jonathan Martin explains, "There is grace this Holy Saturday for all kinds of in-between spaces. There is grace this Holy Saturday for not being who you were, but not yet who [you] are to become. There is grace this Holy Saturday for those in the liminal, shadowy place between crucifixion and resurrection. Because resurrection doesn't depend on you, or need your permission. If you find yourself in limbo—nowhere in particular—Christ is with you where you are. This day means there's nowhere God is not. If you find yourself in hell—even a hell of your own making—He descends there again today, bringing you good news."
Today I celebrate in the liminal space between certainty and uncertainty, confidence and hopelessness because I know that Jesus has walked where we have walked, felt what we have felt, and risen above it all to rescue us. He extends His hand even now, not to yank us from this state of misery into security and bliss, but to steady us as we forge onward, heading back home to our Heavenly Parents.
Today I honor Christ's commandment to be still, and even though I don't know when my heart will move from shadow to light, I know that He is with me and you.
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