The Gospels give us detailed records of Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. But little about that Saturday. Silence.

On Good Friday, I think of the death. 

I’ve never seen a body beaten and broken and bloody: muscles and ligaments exposed – thorn-pierced – sword-stabbed –  sagging from torn hands – the breath of life snuffed out. My mind can only ponder it so far – until my heart turns away in horror. Knowing I cannot truly imagine it.

On Silent Saturday, I think of the torn temple curtain.

I have seen fabric torn: ragged edges – shredded threads – irreparably damaged – destroyed.

That curtain was a magnificent work of art. It was 60 feet tall and 30 feet wide. Some historical records put it at four inches thick. It was so heavy that it took 300 priests to move it.

It had been made to keep people out of the Holy of Holies. Except on the Day of Atonement. Once a year, one high priest would go behind the curtain to sacrifice and burn incense. Not even Jesus could go through the veil into the Holy of Holies of the temple. He would’ve been killed.

He died – to make a way for all to go through.

That’s what happened as Jesus choked out His victory cry: “It is finished.” The need for the curtain was finished. It was torn from top to bottom. God did what man could never do. God – in an act that punctuated the finality of His Son’s work and declared the accomplishment of an ancient promise – tore the massive veil. 

It is one of my very favorite verses in the Bible is Matthew 27:51 (also recorded in Luke and Mark): “And behold, the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom.” Stunning. 

Where does my imagination take me about that Saturday?

The people of Jerusalem: many had witnessed Jesus’ trial and execution. Many had demanded it. They had heard His teaching. They had seen His miracles. They had eaten His bread and fish until they were full. But they had become an angry mob, demanding His death. I know I would likely have been one of them. An earthquake had shaken their town. The day had become dark. It was the Feast of Unleavened Bread: the reminder that God had freed them from brutal slavery and sustained them with daily manna. It was the Passover. Jesus died at the same time as the passover lamb was sacrificed. I’m sure some were regretful. Some were relieved. Some were confused.

Pilot, in frustration, had washed hands – his wife probably still worried about her dark dream. Herod, in arrogance, had encouraged the mocking. What did they do that Saturday? Perhaps, breath a sigh of relief. 

Barabbas – what did he do on that first day of his spared life?

The soldiers – one had had his ear severed and healed in the Garden. Some had crowned Him. Several had gambled for His robe. Many had blood on their hands. Some had recognized the King.

The high priests and temple leaders had gone about their Sabbath routines and Passover duties. What did they think about their torn curtain? 

The disciples were hiding – devastated and traumatized. And hopeless. We dare not look back from our post-Easter reality at their first-hand fear. It’s understandable. If we hadn’t been the demanding mob, we probably would’ve been the hiding disciples. 

The women were waiting. Some of them had followed Jesus’ body to the tomb – zealously watching over Joseph of Arimathea’s merciful ministrations over their beloved’s body. After seeing this – they prepared their own burial spices. Then – according to the Sabbath command, they rested. What a restless rest it must have been. Did they doze a bit in the night – revisiting all they had seen in the years they had followed Him? And the last few days? Oh how I admire those brave, tenacious, steadfast women. Waiting for the first rays of sun – obeying the Sabbath laws. They had a plan. When the Sabbath was over – they would gather their spices, wrap in their cloaks, and go to the place. The spices were the aromatic expression of their hopelessness. But they were compelled. Because they heeded that tugging of their hearts, they got to be the first to see Him. 

– And the battered Body wrapped in spices in a clean linen shroud. Buried in the dark. Silent. Behind a huge stone – sealed with a Roman seal. Guarded by a Roman guard. Dead. One more day.

On this Silent Saturday, I think of the curtain – hanging as a tattered testimony that nothing would ever be the same. The old has passed away. The new has come. We are now His dwelling place. And He is our refuge.

 

“Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man.

He will dwell with them, 

and they will be his people, 

and God Himself will be with them as their God.”

~ Revelation 21:3 – ESV

 

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