Last night, we went to a small Good Friday service at our pastor’s house. Good Friday, for those who might not know, marks the day that Jesus surrendered his own life and died on the cross. Toward the end of the gathering, our pastor pointed out that too often Good Friday is barely acknowledged before people move on to the hope of Resurrection Sunday. But last night, he wanted to talk to us about Holy Saturday. For the disciples, Holy Saturday was chaotic and desperate. They were bewildered and devastated after seeing Jesus die but had yet to experience his resurrection. Holy Saturday is an uncomfortable space to dwell in and yet, as our pastor reminded us, so much of our life happens during Holy Saturday, not Resurrection Sunday. On that somber note, he sent us on our way in silence.
“So much of our life happens during Holy Saturday, not Resurrection Sunday.”
Chaotic, bewildered, devastated, and desperate. Each one of those adjectives describes the families affected by the school shooting that happened almost two weeks ago. And for those experiencing other types of loss and suffering right now, the desperation and bewilderment of this year’s Holy Saturday will continue long past the chocolate bunnies and the new church dresses of an Easter celebration. So many of my friends could use the word “devastated” to describe entire seasons of their lives, not just one Saturday.
Holy Saturday sounds to me like another way of expressing the popular Christian phrase, “the now and the not yet”. As someone who is personally growing tired of that phrase, I’m latching onto “Holy Saturday living” instead to describe the hard in between.
Of course, unlike the disciples, we know about the resurrection, but we still wait for the final end to death. In the meantime, the earth waits, “groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time” and we “groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies” (Romans 8: 22-23).
I’ve been in labor four times and I remember for the last delivery I spoke to the baby as the contractions mounted toward their peak. “Come on, baby girl, come on. We’re ready to meet you!” Keeping a focus on what would eventually happen, the arrival of new life, absolutely helped me through labor. But it didn’t make the birth pains hurt any less. There is no way to Resurrection Sunday except through Holy Saturday.
And so we groan with creation. We remember what’s ahead. And we wait. Together.
The following poem is by priest and poet, Malcolm Guite.
Here at the centre everything is still
Before the stir and movement of our grief
Which bears it's pain with rhythm, ritual,
Beautiful useless gestures of relief.
So they anoint the skin that cannot feel
Soothing his ruined flesh with tender care,
Kissing the wounds they know they cannot heal,
With incense scenting only empty air.
He blesses every love that weeps and grieves
And makes our grief the pangs of a new birth.
The love that's poured in silence at old graves
Renewing flowers, tending the bare earth,
Is never lost. In him all love is found
And sown with him, a seed in the rich ground.
(From Sounding the Seasons; seventy Sonnets for the Christian Year, Canterbury Press 2012)
Words to Ponder
Here is a simple breath prayer that a friend shared with me a few weeks ago. So often I don’t know what I need in a tough situation or what a friend or one of my children needs. Or maybe I think I do know, but I’m completely wrong. This prayer lifts that weight off of me and onto our very capable God.
Inhale: God
Exhale: You know what I(we) need.
From the Sketchbook
This week I started reading David’s Crown by Malcolm Guite. Each poem is a response to a corresponding Psalm. First, I read the Psalm in the version that Guite read when he was working on the book, and then I read Guite’s response. The piece below is based off of Psalm 1 (both the Biblical version and Guite’s response).
Favorite Finds
My friend talks about the end of a book and other types of endings.
Shawn Smucker writes about Good Friday and Gandalf.
This current issue of my newsletter carries some similar themes to the first issue I wrote and published, last December.
Blessings from the Guest Nest,
-Aimee