Holy Saturday? Doesn't feel that way to me.


They call it Holy Saturday, but it doesn’t feel very holy.

For me, the day contains a certain numbness.

It reminds me of the day after I learned that my only sister, still in her early 20s with a longing and eagerness to be a beautiful wife and someday mother, lost her life at the hands of a drunk driver.

I’m old enough to remember what it felt like the day after John F. Kennedy was shot and killed. Then came Martin Luther King. It didn’t stop there. Bobby Kennedy was next. The day after: feelings of dull resignation. History could not be changed. Death may not have had the final victory, but it certainly had sting.

I know, I know, this day is different.

But on Holy Saturday I’m still living with the trauma of watching the Christ candle depart from the presence of the congregation on Maundy Thursday. And I’m still living with the reality that yesterday, on “Good” Friday, they did, indeed, execute a wrongly-convicted itinerant preacher. In contrast to all the vicious criminals who suffered crucifixion by the Romans of that day, this guy preached love, healed the sick, raised the dead, paid special attention to prisoners and widows and kids! What the…?

I long to hear those three words tomorrow!

But on Holy Saturday, I’m still living with this confession from Johann Heerman’s classic hymn, Ah, Holy Jesus:

'Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied thee;
I crucified thee. 




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