Tamaracks were raining orange needles to the silent ground. The grasses were golden and leaning toward the earth. But it was not the glory of those colours or the brilliant green of determined mosses that captured my imagination. No, it was what could not be seen, deep in the rich dark possibility of the soil.
All evidence to the contrary, I knew that the soil held the promise of another spring when everything pointed to an ending. It is this unseen potential, unrestrained by the evidence, that is so exhilarating. Just imagine what might come of this. Perhaps God has put within me, within you, within the world, this same possibility.
Just imagine what might become of this!
Good Friday is tainted with murder, gloom, defeat and mayhem. Easter brings the symbols of new life -- the curving green necks of fiddleheads, the crocus blossoms. Saturday, though, is the day between all that. It is the day of the miracle hidden deep in the soil of our existence. It is a day of hope bound to possibility, all evidence to the contrary.
But how does one traverse that canyon of a day between the pooling blood at the foot of the cross and the glory of the resurrection? What can possibly carry our broken hearts across that ancient ravine between the cliffs of death and the giddy heights of new life? Perhaps only metaphysical materials -- grace, hope, beauty, love, patience -- can build a bridge long enough, strong enough, to bear the weight of our lives.
Only a baby's downy ear and the love that made her could make it worth the trouble. Or an August raspberry. Or the clicking of chickadee's feet on a branch. Or the mystery of the One within and beyond, who calls us, in spite of the defeat, to something, we know not what. But there it is again -- a whiff of something breathtaking.
Mercifully, life's journey is not made mostly on Good Friday. Nor do we live out our days basking in the radiant joy of Sunday's resurrection -- although when life does take us to either extreme, we find a faithful companion crucified beside us, or a dance partner on the lawn beyond the empty tomb.
Mostly, it seems to me, our lives are lived in that relentless Holy Saturday where joy and sorrow, bondage and liberation, life and death tangle. A day that unfolds forever between the cross and rising Son.
Holy Saturday is the day of release from prison, with a new set of clothes and walking money, but no place to go. Or the day we see clearly the marriage has broken beyond repair but a ring is still on our finger. Or the day the funeral flowers have wilted, the out-of- town mourners have gone home, but our life is stuck near the grave.
Or it is simply the day when nothing happens. Holy Saturday, that in-between day, is the day we know best.
No doubt we trivialize the reality of Jesus' death, and our own. "On Good Friday we put Jesus in the tomb like bread in the toaster, fully expecting him to pop on Easter morning." I forget who said that, pointing out the temptation to sidestep the pain and grief of his death as our own. But we also skip over what is happening between the cross and the rolled-away-stone. For most of us, Saturday is that non- day between the death-and-life events of Easter weekend. We put on coffee, paint some eggs, buy a ham. Jesus is gone but he'll be right back.
But a Holy Saturday spirituality is crucial.
For one thing, it is a spirituality for in-between times. By that virtue alone, it is a holy day among holy days. Author and theologian Frederick Buechner writes in Whistling in the Dark (Harper and Row):
"The ancient Druids are said to have taken a special interest in in- between things like mistletoe, which is neither quite a plant nor quite a tree, and mist, which is neither quite a rain nor quite air, and dreams which are neither quite waking or sleep. They believed that in such things as those they are able to glimpse the mystery of the two worlds at once."
Holy Saturday spirituality stands between the two absolutes of our existence. It is neither quite life nor quite death. It is on this day, between absolutes, that most of us catch glimpses of the mystery of those two worlds at once. This in-between day is a doorway to the sacredness of all days.
And it is unusually quiet. "There is nothing in this world that resembles God as much as silence," wrote Meister Eckhart. Saturday is a day of rest, of silence. Even God -- or especially God, it seems -- was silent that day.
All the Gospel writers leap from "... they put his body in the tomb and it was sealed" to "Early on the third day...." It's only later, when they tell the resurrection story, that they double back to images of fear and locked doors. Maybe Saturday can only truly be seen through the lens of Sunday. Luke alone has a word on how the disciples spent the day between death and resurrection: "On [Saturday] they rested according to the commandment" (Luke 23: 56b).
Perhaps the first discipline of a Holy Saturday spirituality is stillness.
If so, it is an expectant stillness. Some years the Roman Catholics in our town light up a vigil fire on Holy Saturday night. They gather outside the church dressed in parkas, tuques and mittens, because it is usually still winter in these parts. There are as few as 10 or 15 people, never more than 30. Maybe the children wonder why there are no marshmallows to roast. The fire casts their shadows up against the red-brick church and the Credit Union next door. It is not a big fire. It could not be seen with the naked eye from a space station, for example, or even a high-flying jet. Unless you happened to drive by, you wouldn't even know it was burning.
But it is burning. That is the exciting thing. Even as the shadow of the cross lengthens across the weekend, there is a fire, a light that will not be defeated. John's Gospel makes that promise at the outset: "The light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not overcome it" (John1:5). The Saturday fire is not big, but it stands as a defiant witness to the Great Light that will not be overcome, even by the blackened sky of Friday.
It is a mirror reminding us of the Light within and among us, refusing to surrender to the principalities and powers that would leave us languish on the cross, in whatever guise it appears.
The spirituality of Holy Saturday is one that stands its ground with the Light, in spite of the pain and cruelty and darkness of the cross. This testimony of fire is not rooted in the evidence of the previous day but on the unseen promise of the day to come.
This hope sustains the seed in the winter and awakens in springtime.
Perhaps not fear alone, but also hope, kept the disciples clinging to one another until Sunday. "In the midst of winter," wrote Albert Camus, "I discovered there was, within me, an invincible summer."
Saturday hope is much more than optimism; it is a choice for tomorrow against the evidence of yesterday. "To hope is to gamble," writes author and activist Rebecca Solnit in Hope in the Dark (Penguin).
"[It is] to give yourself to the future." Holy Saturday spirituality involves committing one's life to the flow of love against the tide of death and hatred. It is a spirituality that binds one's life to the undefeatable light, possibility and hope woven into the very nature of Creation, woven into the promises of Jesus and into the longing heart of God's desire.
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