It is partly cloudy and bit cold outside, with sporadic sunshine dancing across the street on which I live.
This morning my son woke me up around 7am. His sister awoke about an hour later. I made my family pancakes, fixed a flat tire, cleaned up fallen branches and pushed my children on their swings in the backyard. My wife is currently at a book study that would have happened on any other Saturday.
This could be any other Saturday in April, and for many outside Christianity, and regrettably many Christians, this is.
Yet on this Saturday we wait and we watch. After all, Holy Saturday is unique in the list of Holy days. The gospel narratives barely include it. Mark, the lectionary gospel for this year, gives us no narrative account of the Saturday between the crucifixion and the resurrection. It simply skips over it with the words in 16:1, “When the Sabbath was over.”
We have no idea where the disciples were on Saturday or what they did. We know that the women waited, but there is no reason to believe it was a passive waiting. They probably went about the business of a regular Sabbath, while trying to reconcile their memories of Jesus with his bitter end. If they were around today, they would probably be playing with my children in my backyard, or at the book study with my wife. They might be smiling and laughing but their smiles would quickly turn to grief as the sunshine outside my window quickly turns back to clouds.
So today we are left alongside these women. We do not fully understand the cross, even after 2,000 years and we do not fully grasp why God had to die. We are struggling to stay happy after the terrible revelation that God lived among us and we killed God.
Yet as we wait, we hope for Sunday morning. We may not know exactly what we are hoping for. For many of us, it will just be the paltry end to our Lenten fast. Others of us look forward to signing all five verses of “In Christ Alone” again. . .and again. Others of us look forward to the Easter ham.
But whatever we hope for this morning, while we wait with the women, we gather our burial spices together and prepare to go honor our fallen Messiah, wondering who might pull back the stone for us. . .