Sundered Saturday
The second Easter Guest Post by Alysia Nicole Harris
What’s good everyone,
I pray for those who find themselves in the lurch of Holy Saturday, the day in between Jesus’ death and resurrection. I pray my friend Alysia’s meditation on rest helps you process the fullness of this day. We who are Easter people know the end of the story, but the scandal of Holy Saturday is that those in Scripture did not. At best they just had hope - at worst, mere despair. Therefore, to sit in this day is to contend with our persistent laments and flickers of hope. May God comfort you amidst the losses from which you reel.
abundantly,
Julian
It’s cute to call the Sabbath the day of rest. I mean, of course, that’s what its spiritual significance is, but what about what Sabbath signals to my flesh? Day of Death, Day of Mess. Day of Inconvenient Inbetweens. Even though I need a nap, my flesh doesn’t want to give up, not yet.
The Spirit within me, though, longs for Sabbath. That’s when She vibrates, hovers, gets to moving Her wings over fetid waters. She’s hardly still. The Sabbath is a day for God’s Good Trouble. Spirit is asking one question though, “You finished, yet?”
Interestingly, the Jewish Sabbath did not begin until after the events of Good Friday. Ever Messiah in all things, he completed his work and was buried before the official start of the Sabbath at roughly 6 p.m.
Sabbath occurs after the agony but before the resurrection. Space between expiration and inspiration. Sabbath is where I tell my flesh to wait.
Heroism, I can get behind. That’s action! I can understand how the Lord, strengthened by angels, could have mustered up enough courage to endure the cross. But the spiritual inertia of Sorrowing, Sundered Saturday—that’s a different level of turmoil.
That’s because of the great distance between the received word and the finished work, between revelation and incarnation, between intellectual assent and experiential knowledge. Holy Saturday is just that distance. Jesus said He was the resurrection. But is He? Will He? When? And how can I keep living while Messiah is still in the grave, when the promise is still unfulfilled, when children are still slaughtered, when the romance is still gone, when the money’s still short, while my questions remain unanswered?
Love is patient. Or
Love is pregnant. That’s the only way I know how to answer.
Between the pain of Friday and the new birth of Sunday, Saturday leaves plenty of room for love to grow.
Holy Saturday is the womb of faith, the tohu wa bohu of Genesis 1:2, creation before the first spark of light. Never empty because the Spirit is there vibrating, making music in that place. You don’t need to light to play a tune. All you need is a vessel to carry it.
Jesus is that vessel, and He was living in the Sabbath Rest all His life. It was the only way for him to know the ending and not rush towards it. Even when we look at his trial and crucifixion, Jesus says surprisingly little. He neither defends nor denies. He doesn’t work to get himself crucified or to stop it. He doesn’t give a pleading sermon or a righteous rebuke.
He thirsts.
He forgives.
He mumbles a few psalms.
He screams.
These are not the final actions of a hero but the groans of a man in labor.
To neither fight, flee, freeze, nor fawn, even while on the cross, Jesus was already living in the Sabbath. He introduces the possibility that the Holy Saturdays of our lives are when we face our struggles. We offer them our face, our regard. We let them kiss us. And there in the dark, in the uncertainty of outcomes, we dance to the uneditable echo of what God has spoken.
We start dancing without knowing the music because we trust the rhythm. Resurrection is promised just as sure as Sunday follows Saturday. Today is pregnant with Sunday already, just as Friday’s labor was pregnant with just enough rest for today. It’s the music of the age. Take a moment and listen.
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