Holy Saturday

Yesterday, during the Adoration of the Cross, I was taken to the point just after Jesus had died. We have been journeying through Lent with Julian of Norwich so perhaps it is hardly surprising that my thoughts turned to the person of Jesus rather than to the vast landscape of barrenness and cutting winds which I often imagine at these moments.

This was not a very Julian image, no changing colours and dramatic dessication - just a Jesus who looked like he could still be alive, who looked like he may at any moment turn and look and let me know that it was OK but then just didn't. Jesus was dead.

Death is often like this, it creeps. breathing gets shallower hour by hour. Colour seems to seep away. For many there are no monitors and beeps - those who are being allowed to die because it seems to be time. Life simply ebbs and the knowledge of final death is subtle not dramatic.

Yesterday I missed Jesus final words, I met a silent Christ with his head down. I know for Julian there was that moment where he became aware of her, turned and expressed His joy.

"Lord, call my name. Look at me," I pondered. But then a creeping and chilling realization that this was a new moment without Him.

Of course, we are resurrection people, we know life follows death and I only spent a moment looking into that chasm of grief which Jesus friends must have found themselves hurled into that day.

This is Holy Saturday, the tomb is sealed, all is quiet and we priests (barring emergency) have a few hours of sacerdotelessness. Perhaps it is too hard to dwell for too long on life without resurrection, after all that is not who we are, we are an Easter people. But perhaps a few moments wondering that God gives this gift of new life, hoping that it will be true again this year, will put into perspective just what God does give and just how vast the contrast between the darkness of this day and the light of the morrow.