Black Saturday

It’s more than a little ironic that the commencement of quarantine held the period of Lent. Many had just comically chosen to give up coffee, sugar, social media, etc. before entering this season, where more than we could have imagined was unexpectedly stripped away. And now we have marched through Lent right up into Holy Week and beyond with no end in sight. But over the past few months, my quarantine musings and contemplation have been persistently redirected back to the day before Easter, Holy Saturday, or as it is more accurately called, Black Saturday.

The day of in-betweens.

The aching pause between Good Friday, which was marked by crushed hopes, unspeakable grief, tenuous futures

and Easter, when began the resurrection and redemption of all lost and broken things.

The Old Testament story of the Jews is that of a nation awaiting a long-prophesied Messiah who would make right all of the brokenness in the world. And after 4 centuries of what are called “the silent years,” Jesus was born. Reports spread of the miraculous. Rumor had it he could literally raise the dead to life. Many began to wonder, was this the one? They staggered under the weight of centuries of expectation surrounding what their God in flesh would look like, act like, speak like. Jesus and his Kingdom were far from what they expected. 

He was a King of lowly birth, who was often found on the fringes of society amongst the outcasts, the lepers, the unclean, the foreigners, the prostitutes, the morally questionable, tax collectors, women, the poor, etc. A King whose hands gently stretched to heal the weak and vulnerable. A King who encouraged a life of love, humility, and service. “Whoever wants to be first must take last place and be the servant of everyone else.” (Matt. 20:27) A King whose recorded moments of anger were directed toward the Jewish religious elite as he challenged long-standing, exclusionary customs. A King who on the last day of his life on earth, chose to kneel in the dust and wash the soiled feet of the very man who would betray him to his death.

And in the most climactic moment of his time here, this King didn’t climb down off the cross in a blaze of glory. He bowed his head in powerful resignation and breathed his last in humble submission. This was on Passover, the day we call Good Friday. 

He and his Kingdom were not what anyone expected.

And then on the day after his death, Black Saturday, Jesus’s followers were left with a mountain of fears and unknowns. They were disillusioned. Their hopes were trampled, their plans for the future uprooted. They had countless unanswered questions and couldn’t find a reason or a purpose for all that they had experienced. They grieved the loss of their friend, someone who had become family. They justifiably feared for their lives and locked themselves away in hiding. It was the Sabbath, so they were required by Jewish law to stay home and they couldn’t even embalm the body of their lost loved one. They wondered if life could ever go back to the way it used to be. Or if it could ever be good again.

They simply had to sit and wait in the ache of the in-between, not knowing what the uncertain days ahead would hold.

Us too.

The world looks a little different after a couple of millennia, but all across the globe, we find ourselves in the equivalent of a Black Saturday—stuck in the tension of the in-between. Many of us are locked away in our homes. We fear for our lives and the lives of our loved ones. We live in constant worry for those deemed “high risk.” We grieve for those we have lost whether because of the virus or not, and are unable to hold traditional memorial services. We have lost the luxury of planning for the future. We have postponed weddings and vacations. We are achingly lonely. We struggle with mental illness. Relationships have become strained and perhaps even disintegrated. Many have lost jobs and are facing financial instability. Some, especially those on the frontlines, are working longer hours than ever before, in tougher conditions. We wonder if the economy will ever bounce back. We cringe as we watch our investments dwindle. We are all struggling to create a new normal, a structure for working from home, parenting, online school schedules, etc. We miss our friends and families who we are separated from indefinitely. We have a lot of information but no concrete answers or timelines. We struggle to weed through the information to determine what to believe. We are unable to reason and fully understand all that we are facing. We feel trapped and out of control. And just like Jesus’ followers on Black Saturday, we wonder if life will ever be the same. If it will ever be good again.

Black Saturday has stripped and exposed us, and what lies naked underneath has been telling. We are a people plagued with anxiety, addiction, hopelessness, rage, apathy, discontentment, etc. and in the pressing, all of our ugliness is leaking out. We have employed our worst coping mechanisms. We are keeping busy, lashing out, numbing out, etc. as we wait for the time to pass. The darkness of our world is oppressively overwhelming, but it is also sorrowfully and inextricably bound to our own internal darkness.

It feels as though we are groping about in a cavernous, murky obscurity. Feet stretching cautiously, stumbling across a dusty floor. Callused fingers dragging along rough-hewn, damp, stone walls. Feeling for any sort of guiding edge that could lead out of the never-ending nightfall.

Some have recklessly raged about in the dark, wreaking havoc on themselves and all those in the vicinity. Like a caged animal, with fur-raised on end and claws out. The walls feel as if they are closing in, constricting. “But maybe,” we tell ourselves insistently, “if I just yell loud enough, fight hard enough, then I can bust a hole through these walls.” Fists aching from pounding on relentless stone, shins and elbows bruised and bleeding, knuckles broken and torn.

Some have pressed bent backs to jagged rock, attempting to find grounding and security in the enveloping night. Eyes sealed as tightly as possible, denying that the darkness is real. Like a child playing hide and seek, thinking, “if I shut my eyes, then they cannot see me.” Perhaps with eyes closed in a dazed slumber, the gloom will simply disappear during hibernation. Better to be surrounded by a darkness created by my own familiar eyelids. Better a darkness I can control.

And yet these words from my morning reading persistently reverberate throughout my consciousness, “Faith steps on seeming void, and finds the rock beneath.” (Crumbs)

Two thousand years ago, Jesus taught that His Kingdom came to deal with the darkness within. A transformation from the inside, radiating outward. And during this, our Black Saturday, our forced Sabbath, I believe Christ wants to do the same. He wants to lead us out of our destructive patterns and remind us what his Kingdom is all about.

Somewhere in the ink of the cave we lost track of this truth, that the dawn we seek is already within us. We were magnificently sculpted in the image of God, carefully fashioned out of dust and divine breath, by the source of unquenchable light. This light needs only to be uncovered and embraced. And this is simultaneously both simple and the most difficult thing we will ever do.

We stretch our feet onto the “seeming void,” testing footholds, praying for solidity, with hopeful and expectant hearts. We risk to trust, to see, to expose; and we allow gentle hands to untangle and clear away the fig leaves of shame, anxiety, bitterness, rage, and every other unhealthy and stifling shroud. Slowly the light seeps through, perhaps tenuously at first, and in those wide-eyed moments, we gaze downward unexpectedly at the glow emanating from our own beating chests. We find we are the lantern in the cave, the beacon of Christ’s guiding light that we have been waiting for. That our families have been waiting for. That our communities and our world have been waiting for.

May we find our knees in the divine dust of this cave and open our hearts to the uncovering we so desperately need. And as we internally transform, may we be a people radiating and carrying His Kingdom into our lost and broken world.

May we become acquainted with ourselves and the areas that need restoration that we have long ignored. May we choose to fight for our own physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual health. May we pick up the phone and call that telehealth mental health counselor or that trusted friend, family member, mentor. May we check into that rehab facility. May we schedule that appointment we have been putting off. May we pick up that dusty Bible, join that small group or support group, order that book we’ve been wanting to read, attend that 12-step meeting. May we start or restart paying attention to what we feed our bodies and our minds. May we unashamedly run/walk that 12 minute mile. May we take that quiet time we desperately need instead of filling it with the noise from our screens. May we take a walk and drink in the beauty of the world around us. May we choose to seek redemption in broken places in our families and marriages. May we have uncomfortable conversations that teach us how to grow. May we look deeply into the eyes of our children, our spouses, our family, and friends. May we truly see them. May we pick up those groceries or mow that lawn for our neighbors, the elderly widow, the single mom just barely keeping her head above water. May we call that friend who lost her mom, or his best friend, or her brother, or his wife; the one who is isolated and entrenched in grief. May we sit in the silence with them not having to fix but offering our comforting presence. May we actively engage in raising our voices to defend the weak and serving the forgotten ones on the fringes of society all around us. May we stand against injustice, be an advocate for the unseen, and teach our loved ones to do the same. May we never stop engaging in Christ’s Kingdom.

His Kingdom is one of true internal transformation. And this is the kind of transformation that has the power to change the world. The kind that ends in bowed heads, bended knees, and arms spread wide to serve the poor, the vulnerable, the oppressed, and the outcasts among us.

Sunday is coming, we don’t know when, but may we choose to be a people who usher in this kind of Kingdom. His Kingdom. Right here. Right now.