We cannot know this side of Paradise (and we may not be permitted to know on the other side) how deeply grievous and utterly dejected the disciples felt during the day that passed between their Master’s crucifixion and resurrection. As Sabbath fell and they ceased their work to honor the day God Himself had rested, they laid God Himself to rest in the grave.
This week, for me, has born the same dynamic arc as that of the disciples, though my highs and lows have been immeasurably milder than theirs must certainly have been. They saw their King ride triumphantly into the capital, albeit gently on a donkey, to proclaim his eternal reign. Then they saw Him stripped, beaten, lashed, mocked and hung up to die while they ran away in fear.
I spent two glorious days in the springtime sunshine hiking through the hills, jumping fences, tumbling into gullies, catching snakes, laughing, talking about the past and the future, and driving across the border to have lunch in Arkansas with the greatest of good company.
I also spent two miserable days in my apartment with the lights off, dressing in black, crying on the phone, and plumbing the depths of my sinful soul.
But “He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness,” and by his wounds I have been healed. I don’t yet feel it, but I believe it.
And Easter, of course, is what comes next…