I have hurriedly dressed and gotten ready for this moment. Almost as if I have lovingly prepared to go to a wedding or party. I made sure to dress appropriately, style my hair in a complementary fashion. I checked my appearance as I made my way out the door, Husband and little loves already out awaiting me. I have seen to their attire as well. Making sure all was in order...
The drive is quiet and I am thinking about the absurdity of it all. The world outside is too busy to notice. Traffic is like any other Friday afternoon. Could they really be unaware of what is happening, even now?
We arrive and make our way inside. Quiet. Quiet. This is how we approach the sanctuary. No triumph, no victory, no joy...
What is it we are trying to do? Is this how we try to grasp the awesomeness that is soon to be Sunday morning and it's Glorious Revelation? To make it bigger, more meaningful, grander than what it will already be?
My mind is conflicted. I don't know how to reconcile it all. I take out a notepad and begin writing notes. Is that ok? Can I do that here?
Here at a crucifixion...
"I can't be sad! I can't be sad! I know what Sunday brings!!"
~One of my first scribblings...
I'm struggling to truly relate to what is happening here but my perspective is not one that is there, on that hill, watching my Savior die, without hope, without any true understanding of what is transpiring. I have the blessed perspective of after. Of knowing. Of patiently awaiting Sunday morning.
I have been reading the Gospels, bouncing back and forth, rereading, making notes, reading yet again...attempting to find some grain, some tidbit, some small, tiny, microscopic, over-looked morsel that will satisfy this questioning. This all leads to more questions.
At first, I'm caught up in the Gospel of Luke. Here I found a very interesting sentence that I had not noticed before: ...and then He said to them, "I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer." The meal to commemorate the bloodshed of the lamb that saved Israel's first born from death, eagerly desired to be shared by the Lamb whose blood would be shed so that I, a deserving sinner, would be saved from death. About to suffer indescribably, yet eager to share His last meal with those He will die to save.
As we, assembled there, take part in our deathwatch, the lights grows darker. With each passing Reflection observed, another flickering flame is extinguished. As we continue to immerse ourselves in the painful recollection of what was humiliating and dehumanizing, we cannot seem to turn our eyes away. No, in fact, we stare intently and try to make sense of it.
Behold the Man upon the cross
My sin upon His shoulder
Ashamed I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers
It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished
The final flame-snuffed out. The hush. The death knell tolls. We make our way to the wooden structure. Quietly. Quietly. I reach my hand out to feel the ruggedness of it. The surface coarse and rough.
"Thank You, thank You, Jesus."
I turn quickly and walk away. I must go, must get out.
"Now what?" I think as I burst through the doorway to the streaming brightness of the sun outside.
I don't know. But it leads me to more questions.
What did the disciples know of death? Up to that point, what did they think was going on? Even though they had lived with, learned from, and followed Him, they were still in the dark. At least that is what I have come up with. They didn't understand fully, and would not until His return and the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. They must have questioned every conversation. Every word spoken from Him. They had no hope.
And here is my trouble. My Saturday, that day between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday is not like that first one. My Saturday is filled with hope. I know what Sunday brings. How do I try to relate to the depth to which the disciples must have plummeted? I can recall the times in my life, those times before Christ, the ones that were despairing, but that doesn't really compare.
I propose my questions to others. Someone who may have insight to something I have missed. One such person has called the Saturday between an "indescribable gift", stating: (the) "Most important growth in our lives happens on Saturday-between loss and glory."
I think about this. I think he is on to something. This "gift"? Yes. I'll take it. How many times will I get to observe this wonder? I have the opportunity every year I am alive and following Christ, to partake in the joy that is the Saturday between Good Friday and Resurrection Sunday. While I do have the hope, knowing full well the outcome, I also have the presence of One who is there. I can find the joy in the scourging, the degradation, the humiliation, the piercing, the wounding, the death that is the sacrifice of the Lamb. The payment for my sin. I find joy in it because I know that there will be nothing that will keep Him in the grave. I take joy in the knowledge that they have done all they could and still, the grave could not hold Him. Death could not keep Him. My Savior has conquered the grave.
Saturday is the "wait for it, wait for it..." as my heart leaps in expectation. As I find my excitement this eve before more intense than any other eve that precedes an amazing day. The day where I can find no uncertainty because the battle is already won. A day I find filled with anticipation and expectancy, knowing full well my God will come through. A day to reflect on what the disciples may have thought or been burdened with. A day to praise Him for what is coming, and to praise Him for the joy of redemption. A day set aside for a time of important growth.
A day when all things are made new.
A day when all things are made new.
A day pressed between the days of our greatest sorrow and our greatest joy.
...But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom
Glory.
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