Easter Saturday is tough.

Jammed between two holidays, what are we meant to be doing on Easter Saturday again?

I've had a look, there isn't much to it, no great traditions to follow. So I'm casting my mind back to the disciples, huddled in a room, afraid and alone.

Man, that would suck. Knowing Yeshua is dead. Living in the dregs of hope. Your friend, Y'hudah, just suicided in a field and his guts are all over the ground. It didn't matter how fast you ran from the garden last night, your guilt has managed to find you here.

"And what's with the earthquake, the darkened sky, why are people seeing the dead out of their graves?"

The graves are open and death is running around. Nothing is right anymore, the world has been irrevocably changed for the worse, it seems. You can't do any work to take your mind off things, it's Shabbat, and you sit with your thoughts.

What sort of day is Easter Saturday? A day of confusion, of rending shame, of examining, of re-ordering your life.

"What happens to us, to the world, to hope, now that he has died?"

A day of tension, of loss, of listless community, of nervous foreboding.