Silent Saturday

On Saturday, God was silent.

Sandwiched between Friday’s horror and Sunday’s hallelujah is Saturday’s silence.  It was the Sabbath—a day of rest and rejoicing.  A time for contemplation of what God had done and anticipation of what He would do.  On Saturday, Jesus’ followers could do neither.  Rest would not come, for the reality was too raw.  And in what could they rejoice?

The dream was dead.  The final act finished, with the curtain closed forever.  This was a true tragedy—ending with the funeral of the main character. 

They were shocked and stunned.  Jesus had called and they had come, certain He was the Savior.  He spoke and the lame leaped.  He touched and the blind could see.  His word had healed desperate lepers and hailed a dead Lazarus.  Couldn’t He have done something?  Anything?

On Saturday, the disciples weren’t together.  Safety may be in numbers, but crowds bring little comfort.  Jesus had promised peace, but they were full of pain.  He had assured them of abundance, but each felt empty. And all wondered, “Why?”

The ones who loved Him weren’t waiting in hope.  They were weeping.  They didn’t dream of a vacant grave.  They were grieving.  There was no expectation.  No suspense.  No “wait and see.”  Only silence.  And the sound of heavy hearts breaking in sorrow.

We will never know the depth of their despair, for we will never spend a moment alive when Jesus is dead.

Saturday was silent, but the hush was holy.  No one heard the rustling backstage as Jesus readied for His curtain call.  They really should have known.  Many times He had told them.

All’s well that ends well.