I woke up this Saturday to a bright, sunny spring world—horribly incongruous to the reality of what happened on Friday. If this were a movie—which it is not—Saturday would be overcast with a weepy downpour, not the crashing thunder of Friday evening, but the low rumble of distant disruption. The creation would be mourning the death of its Creator.
The disciples were huddled together behind closed doors on Saturday. A few were so weary with fear from Friday that they had slept. They had slept while Jesus prayed in Gethsemane—the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Some perhaps wandered in early Saturday morning after a sleepless night of hiding, lest they too be crucified.
Only John had actually been at the cross. Had he and Mary the Mother cried together all night? He was now responsible for her and he didn’t know what that meant. Over and over he had had to tell the others what he had witnessed: the nails, the jeering, the darkness, the Words, the End. He told of the surprise that Nicodemus and Joseph had shown up to bury the Body.
The women disciples were with the men—all the Marys, Joanna, the others—they had wanted to finish annointing the Body, but they had not been prepared on Friday evening to finish before the sun set, so they would get it all together on Saturday, then go early Sunday morning and finish.
Peter—Jesus had called him a Rock, but it turns out he was just dust! He had been so brave when Judas and the others had shown up among the olive trees, but Jesus had healed the very one he had slashed. How was he supposed to feel about that? It really took the wind out of his sails. He did follow as they led Jesus away, but he couldn’t—didn’t—follow as far as John had gone—and that had been when it happened. He hadn’t meant to curse—it just came out of his fear! When the rooster crowed, his heart broke. He was no Rock. He was as bad as Judas.
For three years this small group had been with Jesus. For three years they had seen him do the unexplainable! He turned water to wine, walked on water, healed the lame and the blind—even raised the dead. They believed in him. He was the Messiah they had hoped for—though different from what they expected. He had promised to be with them—but he had lived very dangerously, even talked about going away—about dying—as if he expected this! They had tried to protect him, but when he headed toward Jerusalem—they knew it was trouble!
Now here they sat. He was dead, his lifeless body lying shrouded in a tomb, sealed with a stone and guarded by the Romans so that no one could steal him away and fabricate hope. They were alone—and afraid. The Jews and the Romans could have saved the expense of guarding the tomb. These disciples were not leaving the room! Saturday was a bad, bad day!
And what about Jesus?
On Friday afternoon, His Spirit had left His Body and gone into the Hands of God the Father. Peter would later write about Jesus preaching to the spirits in prison and there are several references to his descension, so perhaps He spent Saturday harrowing hell and bringing Good News to those who had longed for His coming, but died before the fullness of time. Much we don’t really know, but this we know:
His body was in the tomb, but His Spirit lived. He knew He would be reclothed—the temple would be rebuilt—in three days, so He was obediently waiting for the plan of God to unfold and Resurrection power to be released. Where He was on Saturday was not dark and hopeless, rather the Light was brighter than ever, just waiting to explode and blow away the stone and the darkness!
Now the brilliant sunshine of this Saturday morning is starting to make sense to me.
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