By the time Joseph Mawle's Jesus had breathed his last, there was nowhere else to go. It was a desolate death, in the wilderness, perfunctory, bloody, horrible. The screen went black. The credits rolled in respectful silence.
Then the continuity announcer cut in.
Why? Why? WHY?
Within a minute there had been a trailer for another programme, then Ben Bradshaw was giving us the news headlines. We switched off, and for 10 minutes just sat there in silence. Nothing else seemed right.
Why do we have to fill our lives with noise? The bookies opening on Good Friday is a straw in the wind - we just don't know how to stop, to quiet ourselves, to face pain and suffering. Easter Saturday is the day we live in, every day. Between death and resurrection. The bloody now and the hoped-for not-yet. The disciples, tellingly, are portrayed as itching to get back to Galilee, to give up, run away, and not face things. But they stay. They get their heads down and stick it out.
The way the BBC is telling the story makes us wait 48 hours for the resurrection. The question is, what do we do in the waiting?