When we think of the Easter celebration, we tend to focus on Good Friday and Easter, but what about the in between? The Saturday between Christ’s death and resurrection? It’s not a day we typically celebrate. Can you imagine being in Jerusalem back then as a follower of Jesus?
Friday, your heart is ripped from your chest, leaving a hole where your friend would’ve been. You watched him die a horrible death, knowing he had the power to save himself. You watched the blood drip from his bruised and battered body. You saw the tears and heard the anguish. You could see the despair. You could feel it with every breath you took as you watched him die. And in one final breath — one moment in time — it was finished. He was gone.
Now think about Saturday. Can you imagine the hopelessness? I think about when my grandmother died. I knew it was coming. I prepared myself, and I stood with a fierce exterior, prepared for the phone call. When it came, I fell in a heap on the floor and cried. I wept with crocodile tears — partly because I wasn’t there to say goodbye, but mostly because it was final. She was really gone. You’ve probably been in a similar position when you lost someone you loved. Do you remember the next day?
You wake up feeling the most helpless you’ve felt in a while. You wonder if you dreamed what just happened? Maybe you even reach for your phone to make sure that phone call wasn’t a nightmare you dreamt. Maybe you even roll over to make sure the person isn’t still sleeping next to you. Slowly, usually through a fog, you realize it wasn’t a dream. The person is gone and you feel completely hopeless. You’ll never be the same again. You won’t smile or laugh the same. Everything in your being hurts. You’re lost and there’s no hope for a future now that they’re gone. You manage to function through the day, but mostly, it’s just motions.
Even knowing how I’ve felt in my own life, I cannot imagine what it must’ve been like to be in Jerusalem that day. To watch Jesus die on the cross, knowing it was for me. To wake up the next morning and realize he was truly gone. To feel the despair on that Saturday — the hopelessness for myself, for the world around me. But with his death came a promise, and Saturday was about trusting that promise. Having the faith to know the prophecy was true, knowing his life wasn’t sacrificed in vain, knowing his words were true.
And then Sunday. The promise was fulfilled. The perfection of the resurrection. The beauty of the Holy Spirit offering salvation to all. As beautiful as the moment he arose must’ve been, it wasn’t the life-changing moment. That moment came on Saturday, when we prayed for truth, when we clung to his words and his promises. That’s when we drew closer to him — that’s when the journey happened.
I’m in the middle of a Saturday. Truthfully, I’ve been in a Saturday holding pattern. As much as I want to make it to the Sunday — to the promises — this is where the divine beauty resides. In the moments of stretching, of faithfulness of hopelessness, that’s where He is. That’s where we find him. Don’t you get it? Saturdays are the journey, not Sundays.