Got some new tattoos yesterday and idk smth about the gentle process of cleaning and tending to them (as they are, yknow, open skin wounds at this stage until they scab over and heal) and the fact that the ointment I use after washing smells of olive oil and other herbs really has me thinking about how when they took Jesus down from the cross, they washed him, cleaned his wounds, and tenderly wrapped him in burial linens alongside the customary funeral spices and oils. Imagine handling the body of your messiah, cold and empty. The process of taking down the cross with him still attached. Having to wrench out the nails before they could collect him. The caked blood (and possibly non caked blood, still oozing out of where the nails were removed for just a moment longer), the smell of death and sweat and bodily fluids. Did Jesus close his eyes when he died, or did the tender souls who took him down have to do that for him? Imagine the grief, the pain, the ache that dominated everyone involved as they set about preparing him and placing him in the tomb. Imagine Our Lady, seeing her son’s body, horrifically damaged and limp. The few who might have had hope left that he would step off the cross or come back seeing that hope diminish and struggle like a candle in the wind as nothing happened. As the days passed, and the tomb remained shut.
Today, Holy Saturday, is about the stillness of that moment. Of ongoing funeral rites, which continue tomorrow through the myrrh-bearing St Mary Magdalene and other women who would then go on to be the first to preach Christ resurrected. Of grief. Of silence. Of loss. There is no risen savior—not yet. There is no immediate balm for sorrow. Do you think they went home after, their hands still smelling of funerary spices and oils, the remains of his blood still on their hands from cleaning out his wounds, and broke down? Do you think that Mary sat, holding something of his, he who was her baby boy before he was a king, and just let herself grieve? Do you think Peter laid in bed the next morning, catatonic, haunted by his denial and the loss of someone so dear to him? Do you think John sobbed, believing the Last Supper to have been the last time he reclined against Jesus’ bosom, and regretted not lingering for longer? Do you think that the apostles wept even more when, shocked and betrayed by Judas’ actions, they learned that their dear friend, traitor or not, had hanged himself? Do you think Lazarus sat there, alone at the table, before Martha and Mary rose for the day, pondering his own time in the grave?
Today teaches us that grief requires a pause. It demands to linger and sit with us. It requires us to stare it in the eyes. And that grief lingered for three days, growing and growing as they all processed the loss and devastation. Scattered, adrift, afraid. Yes, we know the end to the story. We know that tomorrow we will sing praises and celebrate Jesus’ resurrection. But they did not know that. All they knew was the tomb. And the tenderness of preparing a body for death. The love which goes into cleaning someone’s wounds and ensuring a dignified burial for he who loved the world so much.
Easter comes soon. But today, let us wait. Let us sit in our grief. In our loss. Let us not rush things. He is dead, and everything is awful. And it’s okay for things to be awful, even when we know that they won’t always be that way.
Do you think that he took his time, instead of rising up immediately, because people needed time? Needed to let it sink, needed to process the violence and horror of what had just happened, needed to feel the void left by his presence? Needed to take time tending to him, in the small ways they could, and mourn?
Let yourself grieve today. And tend to your wounds.
But more importantly, remember that they did not grieve alone. There was more than one set of hands preparing Jesus for the tomb. One of his final acts was to give Mary and John to each other, saying here, be together, do not go into this darkness alone. So when you are able, make sure to also tend to the wounds and grief of others. To allow others into your own life, and let them tenderly handle your injuries as well.
Tomorrow, he rises. But today, we have nothing but Death, staring us in the face, demanding that we look. That we process. That we linger.
Blessed Holy Saturday to you all.
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