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 My
mom used to quote this little nursery rhyme to me. Maybe she was
trying to prepare me. See, I was born on a Saturday, and I don’t
like that word ‘work’ too much. So I became a pastor. Now I only
work one day a week.
As the days of Holy Week march on toward the execution of Jesus, the
gospel accounts give us a pretty good idea of what the disciples
were doing each day – except for Saturday. I’ve often wondered why
there’s no record of where they were and what they were doing.
Personal experience has, however, given me enough insight to make an
educated guess as to how they were doing after the terrible events
of Good Friday.
While it was still dark on the morning of October 19, 1986, my
family was jolted from sleep by my mother screaming at my father to
wake up. Another family member and I rushed in and, failing to find
a pulse, decided to do CPR. While trying to wrestle him out of bed
and onto the floor, I cracked my elbow against the nightstand,
though I didn’t feel it at the time. The ambulance finally arrived
and we chased it, praying all the way to the hospital that we would
hear that they were able to resuscitate him, but instead heard, “I’m
sorry. He’s gone.” My family’s world was shattered. The one who had
been our provider, protector, and guide was suddenly gone. It all
seemed so unreal. As I walked out to face the sunrise, I noticed
that my elbow was bruised and bleeding. I don’t remember too much
about the rest of that day, just that every time I looked at my
elbow, it reminded me that the world as I knew it had come to an
end.
I wonder if that’s how Peter felt when he heard a chicken clucking.
I wonder if that’s how John felt when he saw the stains of Mary’s
tears on his tunic. I wonder if that’s how the other nine felt as
the dust that Jesus had washed off only a couple of days before
collected once again on their feet. Were these simple things painful
reminders that the One who was their teacher, leader, and friend was
gone?
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Saturday, the Sabbath day that was designed for
setting aside all work and worry, was probably filled with absolute
shock, horror, questions, and grief. And when your heart is that
overwhelmed, everything is work. Eating is work. Thinking is work.
Just breathing is work.
I’m so glad we know how the story ends! Sunday morning and the
appearance of Jesus, alive, would cheer, amaze, and relieve them
all. But He did caution them that though He could not stay with
them, He would come back eventually to take the throne over God’s
creation. And that’s great news, but centuries later it kind of
leaves us like they had been on Saturday – stuck somewhere between
Friday’s trauma and Sunday’s promise. We know how the story ends,
but we’re not there yet.
Saturday’s child, you are doing the hardest work you will ever do –
trusting God in a godless age. But the Lord gave you what you need
to survive on Saturday. Look back to Friday’s amazing love. Love so
deep and passionate that it would demand the highest and best
devotion God was capable of giving. Then, look ahead to Sunday’s
hope. Look ahead to the empty tomb that tells us that death doesn’t
get the last word. Look ahead to a world that sighs with relief as
every grave is evacuated and all wars cease. Look back to Jesus’
departure. Look ahead to Jesus’ return and remember that even though
it’s Saturday, we can trust the Heavenly Father. He has everything
under control. We don’t have to work or worry. We can rest.
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