Holy Saturday: Matthew 27:57-66

Engulfment and Liminal Time

NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope scientists discovered a surprising end to the story of the first-observed planet being eaten by a star. Spoiler alert: the planet was fully engulfed. The interesting thing here (to me) is the discovery that the star “did not swell to envelop a planet as previously hypothesized. Instead, Webb’s observations show the planet’s orbit shrank over time, slowly bringing the planet closer to its demise until it was engulfed in full.”

They had assumed it would swell, grow large, personified, as if a hawngry monster was actually eating it. We assume lots of things, don’t we? The evidence is in our criticisms, insecurities, and fears. Perhaps it is the fear of becoming irrelevant or unable as we age. In reference to today, Holy Saturday, maybe we fear engulfment in general and being swallowed up by death without the promise of life on the other end.

Fear of Resurrection

In short, this is a major root I see in this excerpt from Matthew’s Gospel and here on the complex tree of life. Fearing someone would steal Jesus’ body and claim he had risen, or perchance that it would actually happen, they provided a guard to keep watch. The people in power were awfully tense about keeping that power and the prospect of losing it was not something they wanted to worry about. We, when faced with decisions and certain situations that pertain to our ways of life, are certainly also highly concerned with keeping control over what we can. There isn’t a sliding scale up to Resurrection – it either is or isn’t – and that can be delightfully problematic. It’s too hard because there is too much at state. With resurrection comes responsibility. What’s at stake? Our comfort zones, our control, our priorities, those pesky things we call obligations, our time, and our very souls.

Time and Fear of Our Orbit Shrinking

Carlo Rovelli in his new book The Order of Time (an excellent book which I’ve just devoured as the aforementioned planet), mentions the exact principle of mystical oneness and infinity in single moment that beloved seminary professor Julia Gatta used to say with these words “We meet God in the eschatological horizon of the sacraments” which changed my life. Rovelli succinctly explains the nonexistence of “now” and holds that the illusion of time is shaped according to our personal reality and yet, we find infinity in the sacred moment. His book is equally poetically philosophical and scientific. With all that said, I personally find the question of what is happening to Jesus right now more intriguing than what is going on in this scene.

The story itself takes place over Friday evening, night, and into Saturday. Joseph of Arimathea comes forth at a very specific time – one when all seemed lost, when it was dangerous for Jesus’ friends to be about, and one in which he had a tomb available.

The time in which this passage takes place includes Jesus’ descent into Hell (“the Harrowing of Hell”) our mourning, waiting, and hope, and a heavy dose of the unknown. We hold a sort of darkened and silent liminal space, neither here nor there, across the ages, yet neither past nor future, but in the unsettling and illusory time of “now.” By honoring these feelings and holding holy tension in vigil and prayer, we combat the Pharisees and Chief Priests even today and rejoice that we will soon rejoice for later, “This is the Night” (Exsultet.)

We have the ability to take a step back (way back!) and turn to the first part of Anaximander's (616-546 BCE) exhortation, and look at life through the lens of expanding change and process, rather than fixate on static things such as finality and endings. We also see from a 2,000+ year view.

If we let it, fear coats our spirit like an encroaching decay, backing us into the corners of life where we can safely wallow in our darknesses, shrinking our orbits until we no longer feel filled with the spirit. Granted, we cannot be Easter people until we’ve touched the darkling depths of despair, but the thing of it is, whether in or out of time, we rise.

Meditation by the Reverend Canon Caroline Carson
Canon for Congregational Vitality and Engagement
Diocese of New Jersey