Linger

The day before Easter is called Holy Saturday. I don’t get it.

In fact, in all my seminary education and years of churchgoing, I’ve never really understood that distinction, and don’t think I’m the only one. Saturday’s very designation is not so much descriptive as it is inclusive, a way of making it feel not so left out. Maundy Thursday has its poignant symbolism, Good Friday its injustice and horror, Easter its triumphant celebration.

But Saturday just sits there. The Bible doesn’t mention the stunned silence that hangs in the air among friends after tragedy. We don’t hear anything about neighbors dropping off casseroles or mourners nibbling at vegetable trays. Saturday exists only as a place holder, as unremarkable as the space between English words. When we call it “Holy,” I think it’s because we feel sorry for it.

I’m used to spending Holy Saturday much like any other weekend day—writing, doing odd projects, hanging out with whoever shows up at the house. Despite the new location, this year was supposed to be much the same. I painted the kitchen and cleaned house in the morning, then welcomed my friend Andrea for a visit in the afternoon. We walked around camp and caught up on each other’s lives, made grilled cheeses and stayed at the table talking for another four hours.

Andrea and I are of different generations, but similar backgrounds. We were both more than just church kids. We lived for it—camps, youth events, adult circles that invited us in as young representatives. We both had formational experiences as students in a campus ministry, and we both carried those experiences forward into the next phase of adulthood. But, as is the case for most people I know, church has turned out to be a mixed bag for both me and Andrea.

If you’ve been a part of a religions institution for more than 10 minutes, my guess is that you' can relate. You don’t have to look long nor hard to find unnecessary drama and misbehavior. You’ve probably watched churches reject core pieces of the gospel for the sake of numerical gain. You’ve had promises broken and maybe even endured the trauma of disillusionment or out and out rejection.

And, if you're honest, you’ve had to wrestle with the uncomfortable questions those experiences bring up. Is there more to church than attracting market share? Can anxious denominational systems ever turn around? Are we doomed to sacrifice real Christian community—if we even know what that is—for the sake of institutional objectives?

I won’t share the specifics of our conversation. Those are sacred stories, and they don’t belong in a public blog. I will say that many of our peers have answered the questions we asked by rejecting church altogether. As of yet, we have not.

It wasn’t until after she left that I thought about the context of our conversation. Holy Saturday. A day of waiting in a long season of waiting. Violence lies behind us and hope somewhere in the tomorrow, but that day holds nothing special. All of the action happens in another time, and all of it without any help from us. We are offstage, waiting on our entrance cue and unsure of the script.

Holy Saturday always arrives on schedule, but it seems to be oblivious when it’s time to leave. It lingers. It delays the resurrection. We have no choice but to linger with it.

What little mention Saturday gets in the Bible backs up that assertion. Normally, friends would go to the tomb after a death with spices to prepare the body. But Jesus died late on Friday, and Saturday—shabbat, the sabbath—began at sundown. Not only were Jesus’ friends stuck with waiting. Their tradition commanded it.

As I reflect on the weekend, however, it occurs to me that lingering can be a good thing—like friends who stay up talking past their bedtimes because they don’t want to leave the conversation. Like a middle-aged married couple that sits in a coffee shop and works on their separate projects, happy just to be with one another and in no hurry to leave.

I’m getting settled into my new life in Kentucky, and it is a very good one. I’m surrounded by supportive people cooperating in interesting work, and all this in a beautiful corner of Creation. Still, so much of my life has been up in the air for such a long time. It’s hard to trust the ground beneath me. I’ve spent so long asking what’s next that I sometimes struggle to say, “This, though. Now. This is now.”

I still have a lot of unanswered questions, and Easter hasn’t quite arrived for me, despite the fact that it’s been observed for this year. But Holy Saturday 2024 reminded me that I’m not alone, neither in the struggle nor the hope. If we must linger—and it seems we must—at least we do so together.