Now there was a man named Joseph, a member of the Council, a good and upright man, who had not consented to their decision and action. He came from the Judean town of Arimathea, and he himself was waiting for the kingdom of God. Going to Pilate, he asked for Jesus’ body. Then he took it down, wrapped it in linen cloth and placed it in a tomb cut in the rock, one in which no one had yet been laid. It was Preparation Day, and the Sabbath was about to begin.
The women who had come with Jesus from Galilee followed Joseph and saw the tomb and how his body was laid in it. Then they went home and prepared spices and perfumes. But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.
What’s called Holy Saturday in church tradition has no narrative in the gospels except the mention here that the women who saw Jesus’s burial after which they prepared spices for the burial, rested on the Sabbath.
It was a time of shock, of sudden change. The disciples, well hidden, afraid of the Jewish leaders must have been wondering what to do next. That Sabbath was surely a time of reflection, maybe just catching up on needed physical rest after all the peril and trauma of the previous days.
One thing for sure, whatever was going to happen for any good in keeping with what Jesus had told them all depended on God. Everything hung in the balance at that point in time. There was nothing they could do. Their hopes or anticipations were gone. At least they had to wonder.
Remarkably, especially looking back on it, the gospel was being portrayed right before their very eyes, and they were being taken through that experience. They had seen their Lord and Master suffer, be crucified, and die. Now all was at a hushed standstill.
We do well to reflect on that moment and pause there. Unlike them, we know the final outcome. But the more we can put ourselves in their place, the better. Jesus is dead. We need to leave at that for now.