Easter Saturday

During a conversation tonight about Easter, we were talking about the day before and how little we talk about it. Jack said, "The disciples had it bad, because they didn't know what was going to happen. They just thought it was over."

Yep.

The disciples had just seen their leader murdered. They had been defeated. The uprising that had been gaining so much momentum had come to an aburpt halt. They were hiding, fearful that they might be next.

During this conversation, Jack said, "If that were me, I'd probably be wondering if I'd just been following some crazy guy this whole time."

Maybe.

I wonder if the disciples spent that sabbath questioning whether or not anything they thought they knew for sure was true.

I wonder if they contemplated whether or not they should continue to pursue this movement they'd felt so passionate about just last week. Jesus told them his death was coming, and said it wouldn't be the end. But he was laying in a tomb, so . . . what now?

I wonder if there was any bitterness about the fact that things didn't turn out the way they thought they were going to. They knew this leader was different, but they had no frame of reference for THIS being a part of the plan.

I love Holy Saturday, because it feels familiar. Real. Raw. The questioning and bitterness. The defeat.

I have an advantage, though. I know what happened the next day and I can cling to that, because nothing will change the fact that Jesus has risen. There was meaning made from catastrophe, the world forever changed.