March 2024 – Preaching Life

Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday is a difficult day for me. I think back to the disciples, sequestered away from the roar of Jerusalem at the Passover. They are terrified that they will be linked to Jesus and face persecution, maybe even crucifixion. They are wracked with guilt that they abandoned, betrayed, and fled from His dying figure. The horror and hubbub of Friday is past but the memories haunt them. No doubt they slept poorly, if at all. They surface from a night when the demons danced through their locked room. They hope the events of the day before were a nightmare—and confirm to one another that Jesus’ death is real. It is Saturday and they are gutted with grief. Their shocked disbelief silences the room. They feel empty.

Generations later, we mark the events of Holy Week with an understanding of how they culminate. Many focus solely on Easter, avoiding the discomfort of those last days in Jesus’ life. But if we’ve observed Lent in the way our Christian forebears hoped, we will have had moments of understanding at a soul level that Jesus turned toward Jerusalem and knowingly walked toward it. The disciples traveled alongside of Him, excited to spend the Passover together in the City of David. Their thoughts drifted to practical matters, worrying about where to find a proper place for the Passover meal in the overcrowded city. With each step of that final journey, Jesus carried the loneliness of knowing He was living His last days. When I grasp that sadness for even a brief moment, I weep.

We mark Good Friday together. We gather in places of worship to sing beloved hymns in minor tones. The words we sing and hear through the scriptures speak of the suffering and death of Jesus. Folks in pews are startled when the sound of hammering comes from the sidelines of the sanctuary. We jump when the organ hits a loud, off-key chord to mark the final breath. We need these sensorial reminders that we experience together. Even if we exit the sanctuary in silence, we know we are not alone.

Holy Saturday dawns and I feel empty. There are preparations to be made for Easter. Years ago, I readied the outfits my children selected for Easter Sunday. I filled baskets with candies and eggs we had decorated. The preparation of special foods began the day before and I set a lovely table. These tasks are similar to what we do for any number of special occasions. But the backdrop to Holy Saturday is one of aching sadness. It’s a day of almost but not yet. My thoughts shift to the disciples rather than Jesus. I imagine their disorientation. Do they leave the city? Do they abandon their Master’s crucified body? They worry about their own safety. A movement that seemed very clear with Jesus at the helm is crushed and their hopes are gone.

Holy Saturday is an important marking point to our faith. We experience periods of despair when we wonder how we will survive our losses. The accomplishments we celebrated fall apart and what we thought was a sure thing fails us. The questions we dare not speak aloud go unanswered. We wonder if God has abandoned us. The belief system that supported us through earlier trials is inadequate. We feel guilty for having doubts. We are empty.

In the fall of 2017, I hosted a trip to the Holy Land. We spent time in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, considered one of the greatest Christian pilgrimage destinations. The earliest sections were constructed in the year 400 under the leadership of Constantine. Four stations of the Via Dolorosa are within the structure which has been controlled by several Christian denominations for centuries. Traditions dating back to the fourth century hold that this space houses Golgotha and Jesus’ empty tomb. At the entrance to the compound, a stone slab proclaims to be the place where Jesus’ body was laid. In an outer garden, another stone is regarded as the place where Jesus prayed before being arrested. People kneel and silently pray, placing their foreheads on the cold surface.

Whether named spaces are what they are purported to have been historically or not, I felt the presence of the Spirit in this holy site. We walked silently through the maze of sanctuaries, altars and racks of lit candles. As I entered a smaller space, a woman crouched in the corner. I was surprised but not afraid. I wondered if she found shelter there each day. Did she come for the palpable sanctity of the site or did she hope for a few coins? Was she waiting for God to show up and take care of her problems? Maybe this was the only place she could sit with her back against a supportive wall and find peace.

When we are trudging through an uncomfortable season in our life, we have the greatest opportunity to grow. If it feels as if a chasm of disappointment separates us from God, we are invited to keep the conversation going. When we are treated unfairly and maybe even ridiculed by our peers, we are urged to remember the mockery of Jesus’ last hours. When our hope is decimated by tragedy, we are asked to entrust our troubles to those who love us. We are not alone. We dare to believe in the dark what we know to be true in the light.

This is why Holy Saturday emptiness is crucial to our trek as disciples. Even (especially?) when Jesus seems absent, we cling to the promises God made through Him. Resurrection power is real, it is near, it will prevail. Thank you, Jesus.

A Leap Day Moon

Driving to work at 7:30 last Thursday morning, I noticed a fading half-moon suspended in the sky. As daylight reappears, it would be easy to forget that this celestial body hangs in space, interacting continually with our planet. Just five nights earlier a full moon reflected light onto the landscape seen through our bedroom window. Since then, this nocturnal companion is on a journey of waning, diminishing itself, until it is a mere sliver that is still visible to those of us who look on from nearly 240,000 miles away.

There is so much that we take for granted in our daily life. When we are in the fullness of our lives, we forget that we have these bodies that support our movement, trigger our feelings, and direct our thinking patterns each moment of every day. We could easily forget the fact that our heart is pumping and our nerves are continuously messaging our muscles. In response to these neurological impulses, our legs follow the prompting of our thoughts and move us from one space to another. We seldom pause to reflect on the miracle of our well-functioning body. It is only when those daily capabilities begin to wane that we remember that they are indeed gifts from One who knit us together in our mothers’ wombs. One medical diagnosis, one car accident, one shattered relationship shakes our confidence and we panic over our “diminishing”.

John Yungblut published an essay in 1990 entitled On Hallowing our Diminishments. That title has always challenged me. I find it very difficult to regard as holy the very afflictions that make my daily life a struggle. Aging is one process that slowly robs us of the many capabilities we take for granted until they wane in strength. My five siblings and I have joked about how our conversations are beginning to shift toward surgeries and physical frustrations with changing bodies. While we do not welcome these physical challenges, we do find ourselves laughing when we discuss what crazy things our bodies are doing to us now. The tenor of our conversation is certainly not one of reverence toward those losses!

I was visiting with a darling older couple in my congregation years ago. Both in their 90s, they had been married more than 60 years. They were so comfortably suited to each other, their two lives truly becoming one over the course of the decades. The man was talking slowly during one of my pastoral visits. At one point, his speech seemed to get stuck and his jaw quavered as he tried to make sound come out of his mouth. Nothing did. His wife, who was happily confused in her dementia, reacted to his struggle and asked, “Bill, what are you doing?” She had a smile on her face and was genuinely intrigued about his inability to get his words out. Without looking up, his face also broke into a bemused smile and he slowly shook his head. Finally, with halting words, he stammered, “I….don’t…..know!”

And with that they both melted into 90-year-old laughter.

They laughed in the face of their losses. Rather than viewing this stammering as an assault to his dignity, they viewed it as a joke his tired body was playing on him. I went home that day and told my husband this couple was my role model for traveling the years together as an aging couple.

Hallowing our diminishments. It’s not easy, especially in a culture that glorifies youth and idolizes fitness. On Leap Day, 24 hours of grace, the moon hung suspended in the morning sky, waning toward a sliver of its reflective potential. As the sun’s rays dispelled the darkness, it would be easy to forget that our moon still hangs, invisible, over the busyness of our daily activities.

I wonder what diminishments you are experiencing. Are you accompanying loved ones who are coping with a waning of their capabilities. Perhaps you are a caregiver to someone whose life is slipping away, one wound, one confused moment, one TIA at a time. In a rare moment of clarity, they break through the confusion and they say your name. They remember their past. They speak of their mother as if she were there. Tears well up in your eyes in this gifted moment. In their decline, they invite us to trust that there is a world beyond this one that beckons. Beyond the gravitational pull of our earthly home, our bodies are liberated and renewed. This is a promise so great we are encouraged to truly hallow our diminishments and utter a heartfelt song of praise. Rather than view each loss as an assault on our dignity, we can embrace the full spectrum of our experiences and laugh with another at these unsolicited changes.

My husband and I have often quoted that short exchange between a wonderful couple who have long since been reunited beyond this world of diminishment. Their ability to laugh at physical changes they could not understand is still a teaching moment for us nearly 40 years into our own marriage:

Bill, what are you doing?

I…..don’t…..know!

I can hear their blessed laughter still.