The day between the Cross and the Resurrection. I wonder what the Apostles did on Saturday.
Did they pray, lamenting and interceding on His behalf? That’s an interesting thought, praying for God. Did they go to the Cross? Standing and staring. Interestingly, the scriptures give us no indication that any of Jesus’ followers ever went there again. (I, however, have been three times. Hmmm.) Did they go back to their old lives. Fishing, collecting taxes, and the like.
Saturday was like the proverbial pregnant pause. It must have been like the waiting on the High Priest to exit the Holy of Holies. Holding your breath to see if your sins were covered for any year. Watching. Waiting. Only for a full 36 hours.
That’s a difficult labor. That’s one long breath.
So today I will try to enter the story. As if I don’t know what happened on the glorious Sunday morning. I will endeavor to be desperately desirous of a better ending then the one that seems to have been written on Friday. I will attempt to place myself at the foot of an empty cross, in the company of the women crying out and in the midst of those despairing of what appears to be a failed effort at starting a new and revolutionary way of living with God.
It’s Saturday. Only Saturday. Here’s to hoping tomorrow brings better news.