He’s gone.

Those words represent utter desolation…shock….grief….absence.

All of the promises that went before,

All of the hope,

All of the wild joy of those whom he healed,

All of the excitement of those who had believed he was The One,

All of the controversy and challenge of what being in relationship meant,

The entirety of the future that had been imagined and planned,

He’s gone.

The Last Words have been spoken,

The Last Breath has been taken,

His body has been laid down into the cold darkness of the tomb.

He’s gone.

For me, Holy Saturday represents the cold darkness and utter desolation of shocking grief and bereavement. It is the day when life has literally ended, but for those left behind, it feels as though it has metaphorically ended as well.

The one whom they loved is dead.

There is no coming back from that.

It is the end, in its most final sense.

Anyone who has ever experienced the horror of grief, loss, death, bereavement will immediately understand this feeling.  It is the moment when all that has gone before and all that might have been in the future has come to a sudden, shuddering stop.  Even when the death may have been expected or prepared for, there is still that moment after the final breath has been taken when you simply sit in the stillness, in the room that holds the absence of breath and you are frozen.

I remember that moment all too well, even though it was three years ago now. Of course I had known my husband was dying, I had prepared for it, I had even given him The Last Rites in an effort to help him prepare for it.  It was not unexpected.  No more than was the death of Jesus unexpected because from the moment he was nailed to that cross, this outcome was inevitable.  He would die.

But somewhere, somehow, the very nature of being human is to continue to hope.  To hope for the miracle, the sudden healing, the wall of death being pushed away, Christ to exercise the power that he was supposed to have had and take himself down off that cross, for the “final enemy” to be defeated before it could take hold.

Until the very last breath and even for a few moments beyond, we continue to hope.

But then, reality sets in.  We realise that the body of the one who we have loved is utterly silent and still.  There is no more breath.  That ultimate symbol of life is absent.  They are not coming back.  And life as we knew it has also gone.

Christians of course believe that, by some miracle we can’t ever understand or even truly explain, that Jesus did come back…of course we do.  But far, far too often, we shy away from the darkness of death because it hurts too much.  So we skip from Good Friday straight to Easter Sunday – or even from Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday and carefully ignore all the messiness and darkness in between.  It’s easier that way, and death is soooo depressing.

But those who have experienced bereavement in their own lives will know that however much we may wish to, we cannot skip over death.  Ironically enough, life doesn’t work that way.  The way we now celebrate Easter Sunday is only through the power of hindsight, and the mystery of unknowing.

In this moment, on this day, the ones who had loved Jesus to the very end, watched as his silent, broken body was laid into the tomb, just as those who have experienced the death of a loved one have watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground or consigned to the flames.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

It is the moment of acknowledging the person who has been loved is completely and totally gone, together with the life that had been lived with them.

It is a full stop.

In that moment, it is clear there is nothing that comes afterwards.

He is gone.

For me, this day, above all others in the Christian calendar, is for those who grieve.  For those whose hearts have been shattered by loss, by broken hearts, by future hopes destroyed.  This day is for those who have peered into the future and seen only blackness.

For those who have a choice, it is hard to stay in this liturgical moment.  It is tempting to skip straight past it.

But today, stay with this frozen moment.  This darkness.  This grief.  This loss.  If you cannot stay for yourself, then stay for all those who have been forced to stay, without any power to choose differently.  Have the courage to look into the darkness and stay.

Because he is gone.