Holy Saturday.

“Then he rolled a stone against the entrance of the tomb.” Mark 15: 46


I’ve been stuck in bed with the flu all day. My lungs feel as though they are about to give out from all the coughing I’ve been doing. My fever won’t go away, and I’m miserable.

In the midst of my sickness, I could only seem to groan and complain that my Easter plans were ruined by my untimely sickness. All the while my heart was bitter only because I wanted to celebrate Easter my way.

Tonight I finally sat down to read the accounts of Jesus’ death one by one. Starting in Matthew and going to John, I read from the garden to the cross. Each time I read these, I see myself in Peter as he denies Jesus. I see myself in Pilate, “wanting to satisfy the crowd.” (Mark 15:15) I see myself in the angry mob mocking him and spitting on him, reveling in my sin.

And yet I continually missed one key point: the Easter story isn’t about me. It never has been. It’s not about any of us. It’s about Jesus and his sacrifice. The whole point of Easter is Jesus Christ.


The cross is not beautiful. The cross is not romantic. It was an attempt to destroy the Savior of the world. But alas, even death couldn’t defeat our sweet Jesus. As Holy Saturday comes to a close, my heart is overwhelmed with gratitude knowing that Sunday is coming, knowing that He is risen, and knowing that he reigns eternally at the right hand of God.

Happy Easter. (Maybe you’ll be hearing from me again tomorrow, considering I’m still bed-ridden.)


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