Silent Saturday

It's Saturday. The loss of Good Friday settles like dust and we're left in the pulsing silence. Tear soaked, grief-stricken. Like his disciples, his family, we feel the weight of nothing. This is the day we wait. This is that unnerving moment of not knowing what is coming next. We want to have faith that God is still moving, still listening, still sitting on his throne, but we just can't sense a thing. Our understanding of who God is, wavers. We doubt. We question. We twist under the gravity of a silent world.

Don't you know what this feels like? Haven't you lived out months of Silent Saturday in your lifetime? I know you have, because you're just as human as I am. And I have lived out years of Silent Saturday. I have known the bleakness of a silent God. I have felt the creeping darkness of doubt and fear and abandonment. I have carried the sorrow of Jesus' death cry, resonating in my soul.

"God, where are you?"

There are times in our lives when we partake in the rhythm of Holy Week. We may not see it until later, but we are living out the cross, the tomb and the resurrection. We are breathing in stagnant air, stumbling in the dark. The sky thunders and the earth violently heaves. We feel the weight of our sin, if only we could see that it is not us on the cross.

Silent Saturday comes for us, not because we must suffer, but because we must live. There is no other way to Sunday, friends. There is no other road. I know this because Jesus said that HE is the WAY, the TRUTH and the LIFE. He is the way. And we are invited to walk his way. His way is hard, it is narrow. It runs along cliffs and tight mountain passes. It costs us something. If it didn't, it wouldn't be worth living.

Life is never truly found in what is easy. Some of our most profound moments come from sorrow. It wasn't meant to be that way, he didn't design us for the weight of Saturday. But he made us strong enough for it. He chose to put himself between us and the cross. Mercy. He bore up under the humiliation, the deep rivers of crushing pain. Do you see it? Do see that his silence was not his weakness? Do you see that Silent Saturday was not his forfeit? Do you see that Sunday could only come through the road of Saturday?

We wait. And waiting does not make us weak. It does not make us unfaithful. It does not makes us lost. Waiting makes us ready.

Because the Way of Jesus also leads along wide open spaces, deep and clear oceans, safe places to rest and countless places of refuge.

The invitation stands. Come stand in liminal space, neither here nor there. Come stand on the threshold. Friday is gone. Sunday hasn't come just yet. So, stand in Silent Saturday. Grip the hand of those who wait with you. Hold fast, friends. Wait.

My friend, Nina, sings a song called Beauty In The Waiting. She says that it's neither night nor day, it's the in between space. We know that space well, you and I.

Tomorrow, everything changes. Everything. Dig in your heels, hold fast, come crawling into Saturday if need be. Whatever it takes to hold on. Hold. On.

Sunday is coming.

*March 2013