The one day a year we imagine not having Jesus.
He is gone.
Dead - as far as his original followers knew.
We haven't yet heard the hopeful version of "he isn't here." Right now, on this dark Saturday, we only know he isn't here.

How alone they must have felt.
How alone we feel when we've lost someone dear to the inevitability of death. The finality of it; the void left by a living, breathing entity no longer occupying its place in space and time. Our space and time. 

Holy Saturday is the most precarious day of the year on the Christian calendar.
We are alone: unsure, afraid, and immeasurably sad. Where do we turn; whom can we trust? 

We've contended with the violence and cruelty of Good Friday.

We've grappled with the wrongness of the human ego and the damage it does to the righteous and unrighteous alike.

Aren't we relieved to get that behind us and begin preparing for the happiness of Easter Sunday?

Celebration is easy. We fill Saturday with preparation for Sunday's triumph.

But -

Holy Saturday may also be the most precious day on the Christian calendar. Why?

Because grief is sacred.

Saturday we mourn.

Saturday we hold our breath.

Saturday we feel the deepest, scariest feelings.

We are alone: unsure, afraid, and immeasurably sad. Where do we turn; whom can we trust? 

Grief is individual as well as collective. Jesus' followers had the grief of their personal loss of an intimate friend; and the collective loss of a life-altering teacher and mentor. They were a family, for sure: a family who loved each other while also contending with disagreements and personality clashes. On their best days, they had a global aim; an all-inclusive view of what the Kingdom could look like - and a teacher to show them the way.

Saturday all that is gone. The very ground beneath their feet has fallen away. Grief is complete. 

For a moment, the ground beneath our feet has fallen away, too. As we imagine their loss, we relive our own losses.

The death of loved ones,

the death of intimate family-level relationships,

the loss of security that was once enjoyed with confidence.

The loss of our own innocence, health, youth.

The falling away of things we felt certain would live on and be realized:

a dream, a goal, a vision of what we want our lives to look like.

Grief and death have to occur in order to make way

for rebirth, resurrection, renewal.

The work of grief is sacred.

On Holy Saturday, we modern Christians have the luxury of knowing the end of the story. 
So maybe let's don't page forward just yet.

Let's engage in the sacred work to better prepare ourselves for

rebirth,

renewal,

and a life of faith that doesn't always let us see through to the end.

On Holy Saturday, let's remember the pain others may be going through - especially those hurting in ways we can't understand.
Please, as always, remember Haiti and the pain inflicted on those whose lives we can't fathom living ourselves.

Wishing you a blessed, sacred Holy Saturday - tomorrow we celebrate!