Holy Saturday
Normally, I write these types of posts well in advance of sharing them, but I do not have the luxury of uninterrupted writing time these days, let alone the time to rewrite or edit. Therefore, this piece is a bit more unpolished than I prefer, yet no less personal than I typically aim for.
Today is Holy Saturday.
It has been called that for centuries by those in the Christian tradition, as it is the day between Jesus’s death (Good Friday) and resurrection (Easter Sunday). In modern times, however, its meaning and significance have gotten lost amidst the activity of the Easter weekend. Churches have finished Good Friday service and are now busy preparing for an influx of guests for Easter services. People who perhaps worshipped on Good Friday are now busy shopping and cleaning for their own Sunday celebrations. I am not exempt. This week, I have found myself overwhelmed and occupied by my various responsibilities, struggling to silence the noise — internal and external — and simultaneously navigate others’ expectations of the use of my time.
But today is Holy Saturday.
It is early morning, in fact, and my house is quiet. In this space, I am hoping to quiet my soul, too, hopefully long enough to reflect on Holy Saturday with you. This morning I turned to the familiarity of the synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), and read the account of Easter weekend in each one. Much could be said and is often said of the events leading up to and of Good Friday — the last Supper, the prayer in the garden, the betrayal, the trial, the flogging, the humiliation, and the cross itself. Similarly, much could be said, and is often said, of the events of Easter Sunday morning — the soldiers, the women visitors, the tender words of Jesus, the response of the disciples. But today is not Good Friday or Easter Sunday.
Today is Holy Saturday.
While not to the extent of the other days of Holy Week or Easter weekend, the Bible takes great care to include details about Holy Saturday in each of these three gospels. Jesus actually predicted it would occur: “Just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the great fish, so will be the Son of Man in the heart of the earth” (Matthew 12:40). Different traditions in Christianity interpret this verse differently, and different theological persuasions within Protestantism vary greatly in their understanding of this verse and others on the topic.
While I am somewhat studied, I am not a theologian and do not intend to consider the various interpretations here. But, there are some personal observations and applications we can safely consider regardless of theological persuasion. This can be done by a simple reading of the account of the day itself in the synoptic gospels. Take a look at Matthew 27:57–66, Mark 15:42–46, and Luke 23:50–57. The accounts are all very similar, but two details exist in each account or in the passages immediately surrounding them. The first is that Holy Saturday is known for the burial of Jesus.
There is something awful about burial — its finality. To put a body in the ground (or, in this case, in a closed, sealed tomb) is to acknowledge the power of death over the one who has died. Lifelessness overtakes what once was living, leaving the body to remain and decay. Burial also stings those who are left behind. The one who was with us is now absent from us, and we mourn and grieve their absence as our loss. This is where the story of Scripture takes us in these passages.
Today is Holy Saturday.
Jesus is gone. He is buried. The corpse of the Son of God lies on a cold slab in a suffocating, lightless tomb. He is truly lifeless and in the grip of the finality of death (see Hebrews 2:9, Acts 2:24a). Meanwhile, the disciples and those who love Him are at a loss and afraid (see Luke 24:15–17, John 20:19–20).
The second detail present in each account of Holy Saturday in the gospels is that it was the Sabbath. In Jewish tradition, the Sabbath was the final day of the week, a day set apart to rest from work in observance of God resting from the work of original creation (see Genesis 2:2, Exodus 20:8). It came with a series of laws and rules governing what was and was not permissible activity, some of which was Scriptural and some of which was added by the religious leaders of the day (see Exodus 35, Numbers 15, Matthew 12).
To keep with this law, the final tending to Jesus’ body had to wait until after the Sabbath (see Luke 23:53–54). Those tending to the burial rituals feel the tension of waiting. Jesus was, after all, their rabbi and friend. They want to honor Him well (see Luke 23:54–55). Yet, they rest in obedience to the commandment (see Luke 23:56) despite their desires and grief.
Today is Holy Saturday.
On Easter weekend, we tend to skip over these details of the story in favor of others. We are quick to quip: “Friday is Good because Sunday is coming!” But this morning, I consider that those who were there either didn’t really understand or simply didn’t remember the promised resurrection (despite being told often enough for Jesus’ resurrection predictions to be recorded and even common knowledge to others, see Matthew 16:21, Matthew 27:62–64, John 2:18–22). All they knew in real time was the pain of loss and the tension of waiting.
Identifying these simple but important details of Holy Saturday has helped me pause and consider the meaning and impact of Holy Saturday this morning. It is more personal this year. I have witnessed the finality of death in the last year in losing two children to miscarriage. I have felt its sting, for I will never hold or kiss or even know those children. I have felt the tension of waiting. I desire to honor my Lord the way that I want to, yet I struggle to obey the simple commands He has given within waiting and grieving. Despite my familiarity with His words, I often misunderstand or simply forget what Christ has said and done and what it means.
But, thankfully, today is Holy Saturday.
Just like Good Friday and Easter Sunday, Holy Saturday is filled with grace. I can stop to acknowledge the power of death and mourn its sting. I can experience the tension of waiting. I can reflect to remember what Jesus has said, even when I continually forget it. I can pray honestly as the psalmist does in Psalm 88, “I am a man who has no strength…like the slain that lie in the grave, like those whom you remember no more, for they are cut off from your hand.” It is OK for me to experience these things — it is OK for them to be part of my story, for they are part of the story of Christ.
And, of course, that story continues, which means so does mine…
