Today the shadow of Good Friday is long and dark. Yesterday’s nightmare did not end with this morning’s sunrise. If anything, today, Holy Saturday, only confirms what has been lost. It really did happen.

The messenger of God’s love, peace, and nonviolence; the one who was anointed to bring good news to the poor, release to the captive, sight to the blind, and freedom to the oppressed; the one who stood with and for the powerless; that one has been disappeared. 

Today it looks like Pilate has won. It often looks like that, and not just on this day. Holy Saturday is more than a particular day on the church’s calendar. 

Holy Saturday is a day when everything we thought we knew, believed in, and counted on to be true is called into question. Holy Saturday is day when who or what we love most, gave joy and meaning, or guided our lives has been lost. Everything has changed. What was is no longer and we can’t yet see what is next or even be sure there will be a next. 

Take a look around. The chapel looks a lot like how many of us feel in the Holy Saturday of life. It is bleak and empty. There are no candles, no decorations, no colors. It’s stripped and barren. Lifeless. It’s a quiet day. There is no music or singing. And there is no food, no bread and wine. The liturgy is short and sparse lasting only fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. As today’s gospel (John 19:38-42) tells us, the body has been laid in the tomb, and there’s just not much left to say or do.

If, as I said yesterday, Jesus on the cross is the face of the powerless, then today at the tomb you and I are that face. You know what that’s like, right? I do too.

We’ve all come to a Holy Saturday in our life. We’ve all come to times when we felt powerless, whether it was personally, politically, socially, or religiously. We’ve all come to times when we weren’t sure about what to do or if there was even anything that could be done. That’s just another version of Pilate’s voice and it’s easy to believe that’s where the Holy Saturday story ends. 

But what if there is a different story to be told today? What if it’s a story of transformation and courage? Isn’t that what we hear about Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus in today’s gospel? They’re not who they used to be. Maybe that’s the hope for you and me today. Maybe that’s our hope for Pilate, America, and the world. 

Joseph was a disciple of Jesus but he kept it a secret because he was afraid of the authorities. Nicodemus was also a disciple and he was just as afraid. He kept his discipleship hidden and went to Jesus at night when no one would see him. Not today. Today we see two men very different from how they used to be. 

Joseph is no longer listening to Pilate. He’s speaking to him. He asks for and is given the body of Jesus. Nicodemus is no longer hiding. He’s walking in the light of day with one hundred pounds of burial spices. 

Picture that. Two men carrying a dead Jesus and one hundred pounds of spices. You don’t think that attracted some attention? You don’t think others knew where they stood and who they stood with? You could probably smell them before they arrived. 

I don’t know what happened. I can’t explain what changed for them. Maybe they experienced the powerless power of Jesus on the cross. Maybe his witness to the truth about violence, abusive power, injustice, and powerlessness helped them see themselves and the world in a new way. Maybe he showed them that truth was already within them. 

Maybe this disappeared man, this crucifixion, this injustice touched them in a way others hadn’t. Maybe this one was one too many, a tipping point. Or maybe they asked themselves, “If not us, then who?”

Whatever it was, they were willing to express in a visible and tangible way something they already deeply felt. And they were willing to live with the unending vulnerabilities and consequences of that expression. (Whyte, Consolations, 39) We might call that courage. Their discipleship moved from something private and hidden to something public and fragrant. 

What if Holy Saturday, in whatever way it comes to us or we to it, is our call to be courageous? Courageous in the face of our personal losses, pain, and tragedies, and courageous in the face of the world’s violence, pain, and injustice. What does that mean for you today? What might courage look like and what is it asking of you?

Courage doesn’t guarantee an outcome and it doesn’t necessarily replace our fear. It aligns the outside of our lives with the deep truths that live inside us. Sometimes that means doing the truth afraid. 

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Image Credit: Photo by Duncan Sanchez on Unsplash.