Adjectives are the unsung heros of nouns.

They make cake chocolate, a wall blue, and a page tattered.

They also make the the day between Good Friday and Easter ‘Holy.’

It if weren’t for the ‘Holy,’ it could be any ordinary sort of Saturday, or it could be Football Saturday, Prom Saturday, or the dreaded Chore Saturday.

But the word for this¬†Saturday is ‘holy,’ which means¬†‘sacred,’ ‘hallowed,’ ‘consecrated.’

This particular Saturday, then, is holy in a way that distinguishes it from all others.

Why?

Because it’s the Saturday after Jesus’ murder, and before he is risen–though the women don’t know that last part yet.

No one at that time did.

We do, however.

We know how the story goes, and the whole of it.

We know of the lament, the rage, the helplessness, the grief, the hopelessness, the fear consuming the followers of Jesus.

We know it by reading the story, and if we are honest, we know it in our very own lives.

We also know, however, that the sun began to crest over that bleak horizon as Saturday turned to Sunday.

We know that the tomb didn’t stay sealed.

Doesn’t stay sealed.

We know that life will go on after death, and in renewed and unexpected ways.

We know that to be true by reading the story, and we know it to be true in our very own lives.

Both extremes of the day are holy, you see: the despair and the joy.

This is why I say that Holy Saturday is the most honest of days, the truest of days, for the entire day real, and the entire expanse of it is holy.

We lament, and we hope.

We Holy Saturday.

And with that, somehow an adjective and a noun become a verb, as do we, whenever we lament, and hope, raising both fist and praise to God every single day of every single week.