It's a beautiful Saturday here in Nashville. The sun is shining, even though there is a little nip in the air. It's a perfect day for opening the windows to air out the house; take the dog to Radnor Lake; start cooking goodies for tomorrow's Easter feast.
But it's Saturday. If you've ever grieved over the loss of a loved one, it doesn't matter if the birds are singing on a perfect day, and people are whizzing down the highway with their windows open or tops down, smiling away. Don't they know? Don't they know that someone important and beloved has died?
I can stand in line with most of you in the "loss queue." Grandparent, parent, child, friend, spouse, pet. A big chunk of our hearts falls right out of our souls, and we know life is never going to be the same again. The question looms again. Why is the world going on like nothing's happened? Don't they know that the whole world should be stopping and crying with us?
Yesterday was Good Friday, and we at West End UMC gathered in dark clothes, somber faces, and not a few tears as we recalled the death of our innocent, undeserving Lord. The Choral Ensemble sang, our liturgists read words and scripture, candles were snuffed out one by one, the Bible was removed from its sacred place and taken away I know not where. And then the most dreadful thing of all--the cross, draped in black, was carried out past us all, not lifted up but horizontal, and we all just sat there. Something deep inside me said "Stand, stand to honor your Lord." But I just sat there, with my head down.
There are those, I would fathom, who will shake their heads and say it's all drama, pure emotionalism, contrived for the moment deemed Good Friday. I beg to differ. In the parking lot after the service, I cried with one of the most loving couples I know as they shared an evil happening in their world, affecting their undeserving, beloved children. I passed an elderly gentleman, hawking The Contributor, and as I handed over the bit of cash from my purse, I wondered how far that would really go to help his situation. I changed clothes and drove over to the Humane Society to help a church member, despite a recent life-changing surgery with her chores, knowing full well that even with a bright clean bandana around their necks, a treat from a pocket and a big hug with a human reminder that God loves them and how handsome/pretty they were, many wouldn't be rescued from their abandonment. When I got home and loved on my own puppy, a newscaster announced that a baby at Vanderbilt had died from the abuse received at the hands of her parents. My Lord was dying again and again, all day long.
It's Saturday. The entombment of Christ is all around us. Frankly, the Good Friday days of crucifixion and the silence of Saturday appear to have the power to crush us all. It's time for a good, deep, heart-wrenching cry. The pain does have a gift for us, even though we cannot see in in the darkness of the Saturday tomb. Don't gloss over the pain, but hold on. Hold on tight. We first have to become aware; awareness leads to empathy; and empathy is where God can break through the hard-hearted stones of everyday oblivion to transform us, then our neighbors, and ultimately the world.
Because tomorrow's Sunday. Our task today, however, is just getting through Saturday. We can do it. Hold on tight, even with a box of tissues in your hand.
Grace and joy,
Julie
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