It’s Saturday, the day before. And I just came in from the Easter egg hunt.
For some reason it happens every year on this day, the day before Easter. Every church I’ve ever served has done it exactly this way.
Right now the park across the street from the church is teeming with happy children, watchful parents, and even a few smiling (“isn’t this wonderful!”) grandparents. I talked with just about everyone, and everyone I talked to seemed to be having a good time, even a few of the older children who have aged out of the actual hunt and are being asked this year for the first time to hide the eggs, instead of hunting for them.
But there’s something odd about this day too – and something odd about having an Easter egg hunt on this day. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but hearing people say “Happy Easter!” on Saturday feels strange.
I keep thinking, “No, no, no, not yet.”
We Protestants don’t have a well-developed theology of Holy Saturday. Our Catholic friends could probably tell us a thing or two about this day and what it means. And yet, maybe there’s something we could say about today, the day before.
I’m sitting at my desk now about to put the finishing touches on my sermon for tomorrow. I’m hoping it’s a good one too, because there are few things worse than having to preach a sermon three times that you know (after the first time around) is a turkey.
So, I’m feeling a sense of anticipation and a twinge of nervousness and a pinch of fear. And that, I suspect, is what this day is really for – getting ready for what’s going to happen tomorrow, living with the nervous excitement, knowing (but not knowing) that Easter will be better than anything we can imagine right now.
In just a few hours the stone will be rolled away.