This morning is the Saturday before Easter. It has no name. Other days this week have names--Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Sunday, and even White Monday, the day after Easter. But Saturday, the day between Good Friday and Easter, is nameless. If I were to name it, I would name it Dry Saturday, or maybe Stunned Saturday.
Good Friday was such an emotional shock to the disciples that it sent them reeling in every direction. Peter hid somewhere, weeping in shame. Thomas went home, unwilling to believe there was anything more to do or say. The rest huddled together somewhere in Jerusalem, uncertain of what to do next.
It was probably a bright April morning, much like this one. The sun was shining, flowers blooming, birds singing, but there was no singing in their soul. I picture them being like those photographs of tornado survivors, picking through the shambles of their lives, mechanically putting their shattered hopes in little piles, trying to figure out what to do with them next. If they could have left town that day, they would, but the town was sealed until Sunday, and so they sat stunned silence and looked at each other. It was, as Melville put it, a "dark November of the soul."
This year, I have been trying to observe Lent as thoroughly as I can. It is an ancient ritual of personal humiliation and repentance. One thing I have found is that trying to observe it fully is a lot harder than I thought. I have been pouring myself into reading about the spiritual disciplines of meditation, prayer, fasting, and journalling. Yesterday, I tried fasting for the first time in years, and found it a lot harder than I thought. The hardest thing about fasting is not the hunger, but the dread of hunger. You always think it is going to be irresistible, for a time it seems so, and overcoming it takes a lot out of you.
This year, I have been availing myself of all worship services I can, leading up to Easter. Wednesday, we attended a Seder among the Lutherans, I participated in Maundy Thursday with the ARPs of Lancaster on Thursday. Friday, it was back to the Lutherans for Good Friday. After we got home, Joy and I turned on Mel Gibson's Passion of the Christ. Somewhere between the Good Friday and the Passion I reached my breaking point. I had had enough of mourning and submission. I was ready for something, anything else, but emotionally and spiritually I was spent. Whoever told you that spiritual exercise always refreshes you has never practiced spiritual exercise. The spiritual disciplines are like any other disciplines--they may be helpful, but they can be exhausting. Mourning is pain. Don't let anyone tell you different. To enter into the sufferings of Christ is to feel some of that pain.
I can't imagine how hard it must have been for the disciples to go through it that Saturday, but I can imagine that by Saturday morning they were numb.
It's no fun to experience the dark November of our souls, but that doesn't mean its' bad. The Saturday before Easter is like darkness before the dawn, or the calm after the storm. It is the moment of turning from darkness to light. It is a remembering that often when the worst happens, the best is just beyond. God doesn't leave us in a season of dryness forever. It's just that before we get to the promised land, we have to endure the desert.
Lent, properly experienced, is a reminder of that desert and in a way a preparation for it. It reminds us that there is an end of sadness, and a way through.
So happy Dry Saturday, if that is the right word. No, really--it is a blessing. We are here for now, but life goes on tomorrow, and tomorrow will be better than today.
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