Day Forty | April 8 FORTY

… but who do you say I am? (Holy Saturday)

“The waiting itself is beneficial to us: it tries faith, exercises patience, trains submission, and endears the blessing when it comes.”

The day that divides the horror of Good Friday from the joy of Easter Sunday is known as Holy Saturday. It is a day of sadness and loss and grief as the emptiness on our calendars between these two holy days mirrors the emptiness of Jesus’ disciples’ souls. In some Christian traditions, this day is called: “No-Name Saturday,” that deep, dark, gritty day between the completed crucifixion and the miracle of the resurrection. The Anglican “Book of Common

Prayer” prohibits the celebration of the Eucharist on Holy Saturday. It is the day of mystery on which all metaphors break down, the day of pause and silence in the narrative of Christ. But without pause and silence, no story can be told. In the original, ancient Apostles’ Creed, it comes to us in these four words that are seldom commented on: “He descended into hell.”

It was into this dark, dismal, scary space – a space defined by the ugliest kind of separation from God’s presence – that Jesus voluntarily ventured. George Mackay Brown, in his poem “The Harrowing of Hell,” put it like this:

“He went down the first step. His lantern shone like the morning star. Down and round he went Clothed in his five wounds.

Six steps follow: on second he meets Solomon; third David; fourth Joseph; fifth Jacob; sixth Abel

On

The Seventh Step Down

The tall primal dust [Adam] Turned with a cry from digging and delving.”

“Tomorrow,” ends the poem, “the Son of Man will walk in a garden Through drifts of apple-blossom.”

But before tomorrow, we wait. Just like the disciples that day, we ponder a world without Jesus. We ponder the question: Who do we say He is? Who have we known Him to be?

Remember their story: hurriedly, they had buried His body before the Sabbath began. Then they went home to get some rest. And cry. And grieve. Sure, they remembered Jesus had said something about rising on the third day; but after those agonizing hours, His presence seemed a lifetime ago. His words, His promises felt so distant. In their hearts, the story was over.

But still they waited. And as they waited, Jesus’ body rested on a cold, stone ledge in the dark.

His followers waited. And they worried. And they wondered.

We know what it is like to be tested. We work. We study. We pray. We serve. We try our best to follow our Savior. And yet, our circumstances don’t change. The attacks still come. The grief holds on. The answers to our prayers are still out in the future.

They call it the lull between the storms. It is literally a quiet period just before a time of great activity or excitement. That is Holy Saturday. Between the great dramas of life, there is almost always a time of empty waiting. A time of silence with nothing to do. A time where we are left with our thoughts … and silence. With no other sounds to cover up our fear, our worry, our dread. And in the silence, the question still rings in our heart: