Waiting

The disciples didn’t know they were supposed to wait.

Roman soldiers were stationed outside the tomb, waiting for a grave robbery. The women were waiting for the Sabbath to end so they could anoint Jesus’ body with spices and give him a proper burial. But the disciples weren’t waiting for anything. They didn’t know they were supposed to.

Indeed, they had already waited. They waited in Gethsemane where they failed Jesus, falling asleep when he needed them. They waited during the trial, hoping for his release. They waited as he hung on a cross, knowing that the man who had scolded a storm into silence and opened blind eyes needed only a word to save himself.

Now it seemed they had waited for nothing. Now he was dead and their hopes were dead too. What was there left to wait for? 

They felt like the world had ended. They were half-right: It was about to. The tomb was sealed, but a heart was about to beat. A breath would be drawn in, and death would itself begin to die. But they did not know about any of that; all they knew was their hope for a restored Israel was over.

For two thousand years, Christians have observed Holy Saturday as a day of waiting, of anticipation. In the early Church, it became common for Christians to fast on Saturday and keep vigil throughout the night. This might seem rather strange because waiting is something we do before a person dies.

We wait with those who are dying so that they will not be alone, so that we can share their final moments. Sometimes the waiting is long. The final breath comes, though, and then the waiting is over. We do not wait after death, indeed it is a release from the waiting.

But on Holy Saturday Christians wait. Why? Because we know what is coming on Sunday. 

So, of course, we cannot really blame the disciples. They do not know and could not understand what Sunday would bring. If they had known what we know today, their hearts would have been full of joy and anticipation, of roaring celebration waiting to burst forth. Tomorrow is coming.