Friday was a noisy and frantic day, crowds screaming for blood, the cold sound of nails into flesh and wood. It was a visual day with darkness in the middle of the day and the renting of the temple curtain. Saturday was different but no less frightening. The silence was chilling. The disciples had to wonder if the Jews and the Romans would be making sweeps to clean up the “cult” of Jesus followers. They had to spend frightening time in silent thought wondering if they had erred in following, if they had misunderstood Him and His purpose.
Silence is like that. We wonder what the devil is up to and where God is. We wonder how we got to where we are and if we will be left there to fend for ourselves. It may be scarier than the flashing and loud days when the spiritual battle is visible even in the natural world. Silence challenges our faith, our hope and our love. We are reluctant to break the silence, fearful that we will call attention to ourselves and be, like Peter, tempted to deny. We consider that our faith may have been in vain. We see no reason to hope in a world quiet without hopeful sounds to pull us forward. Our love can grow as cold as the silence. Love needs warmth and sound and companionship to flourish.
Silent Saturday was awful. If they had only remembered and correctly interpreted His words about rebuilding in three days. Sunday was just hours away. The world was never going to be the same again.
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