Wooden Madonna with dead Jesusphoto © 2008 Antonis Lamnatos | more info (via: Wylio)

 

It was the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.

The unthinkable had happened

 

They had to be numb.

 

Maybe thinking, “We thought we knew what Messiah would do:
establish a new kingdom on earth,
free Israel from oppression,
fulfill all the prophesies.”

 

But Jesus had been executed. Dead. Buried behind rock.

 

What must they have felt, that long Sabbath Saturday?

Crushing sorrow? (Their leader, friend, brother, son died)

Hopeless? (The dream was gone)

Denial? (This wasn’t supposed to happen)

Doubt? (Had they gotten something wrong? Or was it all a fraud?)

Questions? (How could God be in this?)

Directionless? (What now?)

 

I’ve been there.

 

These have been my own laments on my long dark Saturday of soul.

 

Sorrow. The Elli-shaped hole in our family is cavernous.

Dreams twice-gone — first her typical life and then her physical life.

Denial. Children aren’t supposed to die. Parents aren’t supposed to bury their babies.

Questions. So many questions. How could God allow all of this? What is he doing? How can he possibly redeem this evil? Don’t you dare tell me it can become good.

Doubt. Where is she now? Did she know enough to believe? Will I see her again? Where do the souls of children who die go, anyway? Do I trust God with her?

 

Do I trust God?

 

Jesus’s followers didn’t know Easter morning was coming.

They didn’t know that Jesus was that very Saturday defeating sin and death and hell so that we could face our own death without fear.

They didn’t know that this greatest evil ever committed would be our salvation.

 

But I know.

 

Here, on this Saturday in between, I can confront my questions with the answer of Easter.

 

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.
(Galatians 2:20)

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