Holy Saturday

(Robert Doisneau, Pluie d’été )

A friend of mine told me that she was “living in Holy Saturday”. It took me about 5 minutes to understand what she meant.

I realised then that I, too, was in the midst of Holy Saturday.

Good Friday: When all falls apart, the things foretold are accomplished.

Easter Sunday: When hope bursts out, like the blinding sun. The dead is alive and hope with him.

But Holy Saturday is the desert in between. The longest 24 hours in history. The saviour has died and there is no sign of hope being on its way. It’s dark, it’s a fountain of despair. People hold on to Jesus’ words and Jesus’ character. Everything collapsed and they are so close to giving up all together.

Holy Saturday it is. I am pretty sure there will be an Easter Sunday, at some point, but I don’t have a set number of hours to countdown or a calendar to cross days off. I stand in a limbo. I rejoice but I cry. I celebrate Easter Sunday. I cry in the waiting, having nothing else to do but to hope and trust in a God who is good but seems so terribly absent of my very heart.

His promises of a future and prosperity are still there. But are they all earthly promises? Is it for now or later? Is it a now and not yet?

Holy Saturday is about living in tension. Holding the past dear, grieving things that once were, moving on from the crucifixion. Keeping our eyes on the future, knowing that it will come with good news, refreshment and fulfilment.

But as for today, as for painful Holy saturday, you have to walk through it. Why pretend that it isn’t a sad day? Why being afraid of tears?

Us christians love tears when it’s during “ministry time”, we celebrate them as a solid sign of the Holy Spirit’s presence. But as soon as we step into a darker time of life, we shy away from tears, we label them “weak” and “unholy”. If we cry it must mean God’s doing something wrong and we can’t possibly comprehend accusing God of anything.

But Jesus wept (John 11:35). Jesus cried out “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt 27:46). So if He did, why can’t we?

Walking through the valley of the shadow of death (Psalm 23:4) surely didn’t take David a day. Surely it was a long, weird, tortuous path, unpleasant which brought tears to his eyes.

I am learning to walk through the valley without pretending I am on a mountain top feeling victorious.

I don’t feel victorious, I don’t feel glorious or even blessed for that matter. I have days I even feel forsaken.

But I have this thing in my heart that tells me that it is a real shot at intimacy with God that I have right there.

Intimacy isn’t always warm and cosy. It honestly sucks to spill out negative feelings. I could cut God out of my confusion and struggle.

But something in me repeats that it is in the wilderness that He speaks to our hearts.

As I work things through, I realise that more than a job or a promising relationship/marriage, or even the prospect of children, I need God to speak to my heart.

I can stand in the rain with my broken umbrella, pretending I’m not soaked yet. Or I can let God cover me with his cloak and comfort me, even in my questioning of his purpose.

Holy Saturday is me, waiting, but chosing not to be waiting alone.