Resolution is so attractive.
As we come to the end of a piece of music we long to hear a cadence that will
bring it to a comfortable close – without that we are left in limbo, no que for
applause, no sense of satisfaction that we can turn off the radio and get on
with the next task.
Yet ‘Resolution’ is not what Holy Saturday is about.
Jesus’ body has been lovingly taken down and he is buried with quiet dignity in
the tomb of Joseph of Aramathea.
And then – nothing. The tomb is closed,
sealed and guarded.
Is this how it all ends? It looks like
The narrative is in suspension. We know
of another ending, yet on Holy Saturday this seemed, to those who lived it, to
be the ending.
Part of the gift to us every Easter weekend is that realisation of Saturday, in
between Friday and Sunday.
Before the message of the angels dressed in dazzling attire, before the joy of
running disciples or those who saw a different future as a stranger warmed
their hearts and broke bread with them at sunset – before all that spoke and
hinted of resolution – there is waiting, and wondering, and questioning, and
silence, and waiting.
As there often is on a journey of faith.
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