Some words are a little too big for me.
Half a month ago I spent an evening mentally trudging through a series of frustrations until I finally threw them to God (why it takes me so long to come to the end of myself, I don’t know). Instantly, a song about His holiness rang through my head. That was odd not only because I hadn’t heard it in a good five years; I just didn’t see how the holiness of God was an answer to my problems.
Nonetheless, it was a relief just to receive something outside of my circular deliberations, so I began singing the song. It grew on me. For days I hummed it, YouTubed it, snuck away for five minutes here and there to listen to it. I couldn’t wait to close out the night with it. The theme of holiness clung to me, relentless and alluring. And I didn’t even fully know what it meant.
And does anyone fully know?
We can know more even if we can’t know all, and that’s better than knowing nothing. Some definitions are better than others. At the root level, both biblical Hebrew and biblical Greek define “holy” as something set apart and completely other. As the very nature of God, it is perfect, without origin, and infinitely superior to the created order (a.k.a. us). It’s something humans cannot duplicate, much less break down and understand.
And something, frankly, I forget far too often.
In my relationship with Jesus, I can run the risk of humanizing Him a little too much. He is a friend who sticks closer than a brother, but sometimes I treat Him like a brother, expecting that He get on my level like another human, communicate in terms I understand, and complete things on my timetable. And when He doesn’t, I’m shattered. I thought He and I were on the same page.
I think that’s what the disciples could have felt on Holy Saturday.
Also called Great Saturday or Black Saturday, it’s one of Christian history’s darkest days.
One could argue that Good Friday is darker, but Saturday is day two and Jesus is still dead and the Scriptures have little to say about it. Matthew and Mark tell us the fled the scene of his betrayal two days earlier, and the aftermath of crucifixion likely found them going through all sorts of tearful, fearful remorse.
But I wonder, for the ones who believed Jesus truly was who He said He was, whether they began considering that Jesus was up to something far bigger than the religious and political domination they hoped He’d achieve. Maybe the first Holy Saturday gave the disciples space to process how unlike them Jesus really was.
Holy Saturday — a day that proclaims like no other how “other” Jesus really is.
While His followers mourned the loss of His presence, Jesus descended beyond this earthly realm to preach to the souls awaiting Him.
While His followers mourned the lack of a kingdom for their people, Jesus ripped off the door to Death and Hades and took its keys.
While His followers feared for the future, Jesus folded His grave clothes and positioned angels to roll away His tombstone.
Our lack of understanding does not equate to a lack of His activity.
His seeming silence is our salvation.
And in these days of death, as the coronavirus claims more lives and we shelter to stop the spread, we have this Holy Saturday to process how unlike us Jesus really is. How He doesn’t work on our timetable, but how that doesn’t mean He isn’t working. Have we reduced our relationship with the living God to something transactional? Have we insisted that He respond on command?
He will not, for He is holy.
That song about God’s holiness has become the anthem of my Lenten season, the playlist for my Holy Week, and the focus of my Holy Saturday. As I processed how my present problems intersect with God’s holiness, I’ve been able to see more clearly my tendency to humanize Jesus at the expense of His divinity. But in ways I will never understand, He’s fully both — and there’s something beautiful about truth in tension.