And after a day of such tragedy and sadness, there is silence.
After the horror, the painful screams of Good Friday, Scripture falls silent; because, everyone has gone to their homes, taking their Sabbath rest and fearing what might come next.
Silence punctuates these days in which we find ourselves. The traffic on the highway and interstate, normally a low hum in the background is barely a whisper. After dark, there are few cars out driving. It is, almost, peaceful.
But it’s an illusion. Not far away are hospitals that are anything but silent. The sound of labored breathing and coughing, the beep and hum of machines fills the rooms. Behind the locked doors of the grocery stores, pallets drop, boxes are opened, shelves are refilled as rags brush every surface in an attempt to scrub away this virus.
And behind the locked doors of every house we pass on our evening walks, there is noise. For some, it is the noise of movies or games that pass the hours before bedtime. But in many there is that internal noise, the noise of fear and anxiety, which is louder than a jet engine and cannot be turned down with a knob or a remote. What will happen now? What might happen to us?
Those are the disciples’ questions this day. Scattered, separated from one another, they wait and wonder if the Romans would come for them next. Would that woman from the courtyard, Peter thinks, mention me to someone? If caught up in a harassing crowd of soldiers, will she offer me up as trade? I know where you can find one of that man’s, that messiah’s followers.
Any moment the door could open and the threat that had killed their friend would find its way into their homes.
Throughout the day, even Jesus is silent. He, too, is locked away. In darkness, alone, behind a great stone, Jesus says nothing. The reverberations of his cries yesterday have faded. His voice, God’s voice has been muted. The same throat that could bring galaxies into being has been suffocated and stolen.
But that, too, is an illusion.
Christians are an Easter people. Our faith is grounded in the reality that love is more powerful than any force on earth, even death. We proclaim that all things are already being made new, and the dawn is coming. But, we live in Holy Saturday. We live in the silent, anxious moments where death appears to be so powerful, and we have no idea what might happen.
It can seem that God has fallen silent. It can seem that we are all alone, locked behind our doors hoping that this plague does not discover us, that we are not betrayed into its hands. It can feel that Christ is locked away as well, silenced behind stone.
But even in darkness, that voice, the Voice is not silent. And if we listen, into the apparent silence, we find love is there, speaking.