And after a day of such tragedy and
sadness, there is silence.
After the horror, the painful
screams of Good Friday, Scripture falls silent; because, everyone has gone to
their homes, taking their Sabbath rest and fearing what might come next.
Silence punctuates these days in
which we find ourselves. The traffic on the highway and interstate, normally a
low hum in the background is barely a whisper. After dark, there are few cars
out driving. It is, almost, peaceful.
But it's an illusion. Not far away
are hospitals that are anything but silent. The sound of labored breathing and
coughing, the beep and hum of machines fills the rooms. Behind the locked doors
of the grocery stores, pallets drop, boxes are opened, shelves are refilled as
rags brush every surface in an attempt to scrub away this virus.
And behind the locked doors of
every house we pass on our evening walks, there is noise. For some, it is the
noise of movies or games that pass the hours before bedtime. But in many there
is that internal noise, the noise of fear and anxiety, which is louder than a
jet engine and cannot be turned down with a knob or a remote. What will happen
now? What might happen to us?
Those are the disciples' questions
this day. Scattered, separated from one another, they wait and wonder if
the Romans would come for them next. Would that woman from the courtyard, Peter
thinks, mention me to someone? If caught up in a harassing crowd of soldiers,
will she offer me up as trade? I know where you can find one of that man's,
that messiah's followers.
Any moment the door could open and
the threat that had killed their friend would find its way into their homes.
Throughout the day, even Jesus is
silent. He, too, is locked away. In darkness, alone, behind a great stone,
Jesus says nothing. The reverberations of his cries yesterday have faded. His
voice, God's voice has been muted. The same throat that could bring galaxies
into being has been suffocated and stolen.
But that, too, is an illusion.
Christians are an Easter people.
Our faith is grounded in the reality that love is more powerful than any force
on earth, even death. We proclaim that all things are already being made new,
and the dawn is coming. But, we live in Holy Saturday. We live in the silent,
anxious moments where death appears to be so powerful, and we have no idea what
might happen.
It can seem that God has fallen
silent. It can seem that we are all alone, locked behind our doors hoping that
this plague does not discover us, that we are not betrayed into its hands. It
can feel that Christ is locked away as well, silenced behind stone.
But even in darkness, that voice, the Voice is not silent. And if we
listen, into the apparent silence, we find love is there, speaking.
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