The In-Between

Thunder roars, lightning crackles across an angry purple sky. A man named Jesus takes one final breath and His disciples descend into grief. The long hours stretch before them without their Saviour. They don’t know what is yet to come.

Simon Peter, having cut the ear off the servant Malchus in an act of rage and defiance; and denying he knew Jesus again and again, weeps bitterly. Hadn’t it only been hours earlier that he had declared that he would die for and with his Master?

Thomas questions. Doubts creep into his mind, unbidden. Doesn’t tradition say that the Messiah would come as a warrior, riding in to free the Jews? Perhaps he’s wondering whether it was a sham all along.

John kneels in front of the cross, his arms around the grieving women, hands clasped tight with Mary. He is beloved by Jesus, but even he cannot remember the words he heard so often. “They will kill Him, but after three days He will rise.” (Mark 9:31).

And there, outside Jerusalem, a body hangs from a tree. Judas. He has realised that he has sinned by betraying Him who is innocent.

It’s Friday evening. Then Sabbath morning. Time stretches and warps. What did the disciples do that day? Did they go to synagogue? Did they celebrate the Passover as they always had, knowing then in the fullness of their hearts that the true Lamb was lying cold and still, sealed inside a tomb intended for another man?

That surely must have been the longest, strangest Sabbath. The word on everyone’s lips was about the man known as Jesus. Crowds came to the priests and rulers, questioning the prophecies of the Old Testament. Could it be real? Were we so busy waiting for a warrior that we didn’t see Jesus for who He really was? How could we have been so mistaken? And what do we do now? What comes next?

We are there now without doubt. The whole world lingers somewhere in the long day between Friday and Sunday, the Resurrection Day. The resurrection that the disciples did not remember was coming. In this time of social isolation, the world waits, locked inside our bubbles, breath held for news of loved ones. Uncertainty reigns. Panic heightens. Grocery store lines lengthen. Hands crack from endless washings. Loneliness finds it’s way into our homes, and slowly, inside of each of us.

It’s Saturday night now. Darkness deepens. Hope fades. But the story isn’t over yet.

I remember the words of one of my favourite songs:

“His body bound and drenched in tears

They laid Him down in Joseph’s tomb.

The entrance sealed with heavy stone

Messiah still and all alone.

Then on the third at break of dawn

The Son of heaven rose again.

Oh trampled death, where is your sting?

The angels roar for Christ the King.”

So rest now in the in-between. On this long uncertain Sabbath. During this time of waiting.

And then rejoice.

Resurrection morning is coming.