And now when the even was come, because it was the preparation, that is, the day before the sabbath, Joseph of Arimathaea, an honourable counsellor, which also waited for the kingdom of God, came, and went in boldly unto Pilate, and craved the body of Jesus. And Pilate marvelled if he were already dead: and calling unto him the centurion, he asked him whether he had been any while dead. And when he knew it of the centurion, he gave the body to Joseph. And he bought fine linen, and took him down, and wrapped him in the linen, and laid him in a sepulchre which was hewn out of a rock, and rolled a stone unto the door of the sepulchre. And Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses beheld where he was laid. (Mark 15:42-47) Saturday. Could it be that He is really dead? There are no words for this. There is no right way to feel. There is no way to frame this that makes sense. There is no happy ending. It’s just painful. That’s all. What happens when the one you put your hope in dies and you are left alone? There is no darker hopelessness than when hope itself dies. There is no consolation. There is no encouragement. It’s just so dark… so very dark. That’s just the way it is. The world is still and silent. He died and was buried, and the devastation is unspeakable. Hope died, and the silence is deafening. The hands that gave life now lie lifeless in the tomb, the lifeless hands of a lifeless corpse. The people begin to sing their funeral dirge. There’s nothing else left to do. Creation groans in suspended animation, caught somewhere between death and life. The earth waits. The universe holds its breath. Saturday is a day of waiting and wondering. It’s a day of holding one’s breath. It’s a day of grieving over unfulfilled hopes and frustrated goals and broken dreams and unanswered prayers. It’s a day of straining our eyes, looking for a point of light in the darkness. It’s a day of straining our ears, listening for the faint sound of a new drumbeat. It’s a day of passing through the valley of the shadow of death, and learning that the shadow of death is not the same as death itself. It’s a day of realizing that the journey is not over, though now it must take a different turn. It’s a day for learning that our value lies in being created by God and in being loved by God and in being who we are, not in what we think we ought to accomplish for God or for humanity. It’s a day for honest doubt and a day of reassessment. It’s a day when we come to learn that even if we lose our grip on God, God still holds onto us, and we realize that that is enough. It’s a day of walking by faith when we cannot see, and of trying to catch a glimpse of the God we can neither see nor hear, and maybe we begin to question the very things that we were afraid to question earlier. It’s a day of giving ourselves permission to face our deepest doubts and our deepest fears. It’s a day for recognizing that we are not always right and we are not always strong, and that deep inside we are weak and broken and vulnerable, and that’s OK. In fact, it’s beautiful. That’s when we discover our own humanity. Here we are in the midst of a pandemic that reminds us of our own fragility, if we are open to learning the lessons that life is trying to teach us. Dealing with this pandemic and all the change that it brings into our lives helps us to realize that our human nature, though amazingly resourceful, is also very fragile. We realize that we ourselves are fragile, that those around us are fragile, and that our fragility is something that we have in common as human beings. We learn to stop thinking in terms of weak people and strong people, and we realize that we are all weak, that we all need God, and that we all need each other. That’s a good lesson to learn during a pandemic. That’s a Saturday kind of lesson. It’s on Saturday, when we are suspended somewhere between yesterday’s devastation and tomorrow’s hope, that we have this unique window into our own souls, and into each other’s souls. This pandemic puts us all into Saturday mode. The pandemic may be peaking, at least here in NJ, but it’s not over. We have seen much death, and we have seen much grief and fear in the hearts of many. As a chaplain in North Jersey I have seen more than many others have seen, and I work with amazingly heroic nurses and aides who have seen much more than I have seen. Sadly, there is more to come. The world waits for this pandemic to end and for better days to come. It’s Saturday. Saturday is when we discover how much we have in common with the rest of the human race, and that’s when we catch a glimpse of what God had in mind when He created humanity in His own image. That’s when we realize that only what is broken can be brought to God for healing, and that is the beginning of healing and wholeness and hope and genuine community. Hope and beauty and new birth find their roots in the valley of the shadow of death. After all, it’s the valley of the shadow of death but it’s not death. It’s Saturday.
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