HOLY SATURDAY
Psalm 31:1-4, 15-16 (NRSV)
In you, O LORD, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in your righteousness deliver me. Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me. You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name's sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge.
My times are in your hand; deliver me from the hand of my enemies and persecutors. Let your face shine upon your servant; save me in your steadfast love.
______________________________
I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger
Traveling through this world below
There is no sickness, no toil, nor danger
In that bright land to which I go
I'm going there to see my Father
And all my loved ones who've gone on
I'm just going over Jordan
I'm just going over home
I know dark clouds will gather 'round me
I know my way is hard and steep
But beauteous fields arise before me
Where God's redeemed, their vigils keep
I'm going there to see my Mother
She said she'd meet me when I come
So, I'm just going over Jordan
I'm just going over home
______________________________
“Wayfaring Stranger” might not be a spiritual in the classic sense. It is more like a gospel song or even a folk tune. Yet, it speaks of a Holy Saturday kind of feeling. It is about wandering through a difficult world, but it has an echo of the promise, a hint of what might have been; yet the heaviness of life presses down. Holy Saturday seems a wayfaring kind of day.
The gospels are strangely silent about what happened on Holy Saturday. After the incredible detail of that Good Friday, there are no words left to describe Saturday, the Sabbath day in between. The Sabbath is the reason why there was a delay. The law prevented the work of tending to the dead, the preparing of the body for burial. There was a forced pause in the terrifying events of the past few days. A cloud of fear and doubt surrounded them as they wondered what might be next.
Did they huddle together, taking comfort from their shared grief? Did they run to familiar places and reach out for hands that were curiously, painfully empty? Or did they avoid looking at the despair in one another’s eyes, afraid that alongside the grief and the pain would be accusation and disappointment; or were they simply afraid that seeing another who had given himself to Jesus would bring the hurt and memories rushing back and unleash another flood of tears, despite the feeling that there were no tears left?
The Sabbath belongs to God. That was what the law said; that was what their practice taught them. You can’t help but wonder, however, whether those who had lost their purpose for living even bothered to go through the motions. Did they sit in the pews while the familiar words bounced off their numb consciousness, barely aware of their own bodies as they stood and sat, as they knelt and repeated the words that were as familiar to them as their own names? Or did they discover a growing resentment building up inside them as they watched their fellow worshipers singing praise as though the world had not come to an end, as though this was just another day to acknowledge the goodness of God? Did they want to shout out, “How can we sing the Lord’s song in this foreign land?”
Or did they know, deep down, that their anger wasn’t at the blind worshipers, not at their neighbors and family members who were simply doing what they always had done without a second thought? Did they reach inside far enough to realize that their disappointment, their frustration, their anger was at God? Did they compose psalms in their minds that they didn’t dare bring to their lips? Now God, who had seemed so tantalizingly close whenever Jesus spoke, seemed so far away. God had let this beautiful vision of Someday slip through the divine fingers with careless abandon.
So maybe they hid, afraid of Roman power so excruciatingly evident on Friday, wary of Jewish authorities who, having tasted blood, just might be hungry for more. Maybe they felt let down by God, the one Jesus called Father, the one who had abandoned them with brutal indifference. Maybe that is why we don’t know any details of that Holy Saturday; no one had the strength to talk about what they did or thought or felt on that day. And each was painfully alone in a private hell.
We do know one detail of that day. We have one thread in the tapestry of Holy Saturday. It is not much to go on, I admit, but it may be enough to color the day with a little more light then we might have imagined at first glance.
Matthew’s Gospel says that on the day after Holy Saturday, the women went to see the tomb. Just see it, Matthew says. But Luke says something different. “But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared” (Luke 24:1).
“Taking the spices they had prepared”: Whatever else happened on Holy Saturday, at some point, someone stopped and took the time to gather together the items they would need for the ritual task of caring for the dead. Maybe it was an attempt to stop thinking and slip into rote responses; maybe it was a way of focusing away from eternal implications and on to mundane responsibilities. Maybe it was just easier, taking inventory, setting aside cloth and spices, remembering the prayers over the dead that had to be spoken as each item was applied. Maybe it allowed them to return to a simpler time, as they remembered assisting their mothers when they cared for old Aunt Judith who had lived a long and happy life, with mother teaching them the how and the why and the blessing it was to be able to serve.
That’s the thread of hope I see in Holy Saturday. In the midst of despair and suffering, it was the call to service that rose up in them, or some of them anyway. It was service that got them to dry their tears enough to think outside themselves for a moment. It got some of them to get their feet moving again, to distract themselves from their grief by the busyness of their hands.
Maybe they remembered Jesus’ words, about giving yourself away to find yourself, about Samaritans who bind up wounds, about loving your neighbor. Maybe that is what sustained them through the darkness of Holy Saturday -- that thread of service born out of love. Maybe that was what gave them a sense of purpose when their hearts were broken. Maybe that was what gave them strength to put one foot in front of another on this interminable day.
The psalmist cries out for a place of refuge, about avoiding shame, deliverance through the righteousness of God’s holy name. Maybe such a refuge can be found, not as a hiding place, a place removed from the world, but rather as an investment in the world of need and brokenness. Maybe such a refuge is found elbow deep in the service of those who have been called the least of these. Maybe the way to seek the shining face of God is not in the solitude of a sanctuary, but in the grateful eyes of a hurting child.
Psalm 31:1-4, 15-16 (NRSV)
In you, O LORD, I seek refuge; do not let me ever be put to shame; in your righteousness deliver me. Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily. Be a rock of refuge for me, a strong fortress to save me. You are indeed my rock and my fortress; for your name's sake lead me and guide me, take me out of the net that is hidden for me, for you are my refuge.
My times are in your hand; deliver me from the hand of my enemies and persecutors. Let your face shine upon your servant; save me in your steadfast love.
______________________________
I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger
Traveling through this world below
There is no sickness, no toil, nor danger
In that bright land to which I go
I'm going there to see my Father
And all my loved ones who've gone on
I'm just going over Jordan
I'm just going over home
I know dark clouds will gather 'round me
I know my way is hard and steep
But beauteous fields arise before me
Where God's redeemed, their vigils keep
I'm going there to see my Mother
She said she'd meet me when I come
So, I'm just going over Jordan
I'm just going over home
______________________________
“Wayfaring Stranger” might not be a spiritual in the classic sense. It is more like a gospel song or even a folk tune. Yet, it speaks of a Holy Saturday kind of feeling. It is about wandering through a difficult world, but it has an echo of the promise, a hint of what might have been; yet the heaviness of life presses down. Holy Saturday seems a wayfaring kind of day.
The gospels are strangely silent about what happened on Holy Saturday. After the incredible detail of that Good Friday, there are no words left to describe Saturday, the Sabbath day in between. The Sabbath is the reason why there was a delay. The law prevented the work of tending to the dead, the preparing of the body for burial. There was a forced pause in the terrifying events of the past few days. A cloud of fear and doubt surrounded them as they wondered what might be next.
Did they huddle together, taking comfort from their shared grief? Did they run to familiar places and reach out for hands that were curiously, painfully empty? Or did they avoid looking at the despair in one another’s eyes, afraid that alongside the grief and the pain would be accusation and disappointment; or were they simply afraid that seeing another who had given himself to Jesus would bring the hurt and memories rushing back and unleash another flood of tears, despite the feeling that there were no tears left?
The Sabbath belongs to God. That was what the law said; that was what their practice taught them. You can’t help but wonder, however, whether those who had lost their purpose for living even bothered to go through the motions. Did they sit in the pews while the familiar words bounced off their numb consciousness, barely aware of their own bodies as they stood and sat, as they knelt and repeated the words that were as familiar to them as their own names? Or did they discover a growing resentment building up inside them as they watched their fellow worshipers singing praise as though the world had not come to an end, as though this was just another day to acknowledge the goodness of God? Did they want to shout out, “How can we sing the Lord’s song in this foreign land?”
Or did they know, deep down, that their anger wasn’t at the blind worshipers, not at their neighbors and family members who were simply doing what they always had done without a second thought? Did they reach inside far enough to realize that their disappointment, their frustration, their anger was at God? Did they compose psalms in their minds that they didn’t dare bring to their lips? Now God, who had seemed so tantalizingly close whenever Jesus spoke, seemed so far away. God had let this beautiful vision of Someday slip through the divine fingers with careless abandon.
So maybe they hid, afraid of Roman power so excruciatingly evident on Friday, wary of Jewish authorities who, having tasted blood, just might be hungry for more. Maybe they felt let down by God, the one Jesus called Father, the one who had abandoned them with brutal indifference. Maybe that is why we don’t know any details of that Holy Saturday; no one had the strength to talk about what they did or thought or felt on that day. And each was painfully alone in a private hell.
We do know one detail of that day. We have one thread in the tapestry of Holy Saturday. It is not much to go on, I admit, but it may be enough to color the day with a little more light then we might have imagined at first glance.
Matthew’s Gospel says that on the day after Holy Saturday, the women went to see the tomb. Just see it, Matthew says. But Luke says something different. “But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared” (Luke 24:1).
“Taking the spices they had prepared”: Whatever else happened on Holy Saturday, at some point, someone stopped and took the time to gather together the items they would need for the ritual task of caring for the dead. Maybe it was an attempt to stop thinking and slip into rote responses; maybe it was a way of focusing away from eternal implications and on to mundane responsibilities. Maybe it was just easier, taking inventory, setting aside cloth and spices, remembering the prayers over the dead that had to be spoken as each item was applied. Maybe it allowed them to return to a simpler time, as they remembered assisting their mothers when they cared for old Aunt Judith who had lived a long and happy life, with mother teaching them the how and the why and the blessing it was to be able to serve.
That’s the thread of hope I see in Holy Saturday. In the midst of despair and suffering, it was the call to service that rose up in them, or some of them anyway. It was service that got them to dry their tears enough to think outside themselves for a moment. It got some of them to get their feet moving again, to distract themselves from their grief by the busyness of their hands.
Maybe they remembered Jesus’ words, about giving yourself away to find yourself, about Samaritans who bind up wounds, about loving your neighbor. Maybe that is what sustained them through the darkness of Holy Saturday -- that thread of service born out of love. Maybe that was what gave them a sense of purpose when their hearts were broken. Maybe that was what gave them strength to put one foot in front of another on this interminable day.
The psalmist cries out for a place of refuge, about avoiding shame, deliverance through the righteousness of God’s holy name. Maybe such a refuge can be found, not as a hiding place, a place removed from the world, but rather as an investment in the world of need and brokenness. Maybe such a refuge is found elbow deep in the service of those who have been called the least of these. Maybe the way to seek the shining face of God is not in the solitude of a sanctuary, but in the grateful eyes of a hurting child.
Today’s devotion comes from Discipleship Ministries,
an agency of The United Methodist Church.
For more, visit: www.discipleshipministries.org
an agency of The United Methodist Church.
For more, visit: www.discipleshipministries.org