Holy Saturday -- April 23, 2011
Luke 23:50 – 56
Now there was a man named Joseph, a member of the Council, a good and upright man, who had not consented to their decision and action. He came from the Judean town of Arimathea, and he himself was waiting for the kingdom of God. Going to Pilate, he asked for Jesus’ body. Then he took it down, wrapped it in linen cloth and placed it in a tomb cut in the rock, one in which no one had yet been laid. It was Preparation Day, and the Sabbath was about to begin.
The women who had come with Jesus from Galilee followed Joseph and saw the tomb and how his body was laid in it. Then they went home and prepared spices and perfumes. But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.
For a long, long time I took a very “literal” approach to Lent and Holy Week. Thus, for years the season tended to be pretty flat for me.
Over the last decade or so I’ve been especially drawn to the more sensory expressions of the season, reflected in the symbols of Lent and Holy Week. The sounds and sights appeal to me, and the meanings that lie beneath the obvious draw my heart.
Maundy Thursday and Good Friday are full of such symbols. On Good Friday, for example, the lights are dimmed during the Tenebrae and the altar paraments gradually removed. The symbolism is striking to me.
The Holy Saturday symbolism is more subtle, yet nonetheless stark. The day rests on the Jewish Sabbath.
In Jewish tradition, the Sabbath means complete rest. Nothing happens. Activity stops. Ordinary work ceases.
That cessation on this Holy Saturday is important because those who loved Jesus and those who crucified Jesus all stopped for the Sabbath. So Luke comments in verse 56, “They rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.”
But there is another “resting” here. Jesus is resting – that’s what we call death sometimes – and out of sight. This is not empty time, but pregnant time. The tomb is becoming a womb, and something is going to come forth in birth. But before that birthing happens, we wait and watch.
In the Christian tradition there are no liturgical services on Holy Saturday. Out of respect for the Christ who was crucified, we stop. It is a day of rest. The drama of the Last Supper on Maundy Thursday and the excruciating events of Good Friday are over. The movement of Holy Week is exhausting.
Holy Saturday is a day of rest, not only because it’s the Jewish Sabbath, but because the Church is waiting and watching, keeping vigils before this stone-covered womb. I think of it as a kind of “bridge-day,” that is, the day that bridges Good Friday (crucifixion) to Easter (Resurrection).
You will note, no doubt, that waiting and watching, resting and vigils are not the ways of the culture that surrounds many of us. The day is commemorated in many circles as one of the biggest retail days of the year, the day to buy clothing and goodies for Easter baskets. Easter sales abound in the stores. For many folks it is a day of scurrying around, busy activity and final plans before large Easter Sunday gatherings.
I suppose I have done my share of the scurrying, but over the last 15 years or so I’ve felt more drawn to be still, to reconnect with the center, to rest and reflect. In following the rhythm of Lent and Holy Week, someone beloved has just died, and it seems almost insulting for me to indulge in something flippant during the hours Jesus is in the tomb.
For me Holy Saturday provides space for reflection. I may reflect over the Lenten season and ask: “How did that go?” or “What were my awarenesses during Lent?”
I may bring into my prayer the willingness (or unwillingness) I had to following Jesus all the way to the cross. “How fully did I join You as You walked toward the cross?”
Or I may pay special attention to invitations I sensed from God through Lent and Holy Week. “What stirrings did I notice within me as I journeyed with You?” “In what ways are You inviting me into the next season of my life?”
This much I know: You can observe all the Lenten disciplines you want and you can attend all the Holy Week services offered, but if you don’t connect these events in Jesus’ life to your own real life, it’s all just a bland exercise. “Observing and attending” may be good and helpful and it may all be inspirational. At some point, though, we are invited to consider these rhythms in our own lived-experience.
Because we all have . . .
. . . our own Maundy Thursdays (meals with family and friends that are fraught with both tension and betrayal, as well as with mercy and acts of love);
. . . our own Good Fridays (the death of someone or something we didn’t think we could live without);
. . . our own Holy Saturdays (a period of waiting and watching for whatever is next, a period of trying to be faithful in the mystery and darkness of what has just happened, a period of “keeping vigils” in light of that which we don’t fully understand).
A restful, watchful Holy Saturday to you.
Now there was a man named Joseph, a member of the Council, a good and upright man, who had not consented to their decision and action. He came from the Judean town of Arimathea, and he himself was waiting for the kingdom of God. Going to Pilate, he asked for Jesus’ body. Then he took it down, wrapped it in linen cloth and placed it in a tomb cut in the rock, one in which no one had yet been laid. It was Preparation Day, and the Sabbath was about to begin.
The women who had come with Jesus from Galilee followed Joseph and saw the tomb and how his body was laid in it. Then they went home and prepared spices and perfumes. But they rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.
For a long, long time I took a very “literal” approach to Lent and Holy Week. Thus, for years the season tended to be pretty flat for me.
Over the last decade or so I’ve been especially drawn to the more sensory expressions of the season, reflected in the symbols of Lent and Holy Week. The sounds and sights appeal to me, and the meanings that lie beneath the obvious draw my heart.
Maundy Thursday and Good Friday are full of such symbols. On Good Friday, for example, the lights are dimmed during the Tenebrae and the altar paraments gradually removed. The symbolism is striking to me.
The Holy Saturday symbolism is more subtle, yet nonetheless stark. The day rests on the Jewish Sabbath.
In Jewish tradition, the Sabbath means complete rest. Nothing happens. Activity stops. Ordinary work ceases.
That cessation on this Holy Saturday is important because those who loved Jesus and those who crucified Jesus all stopped for the Sabbath. So Luke comments in verse 56, “They rested on the Sabbath in obedience to the commandment.”
But there is another “resting” here. Jesus is resting – that’s what we call death sometimes – and out of sight. This is not empty time, but pregnant time. The tomb is becoming a womb, and something is going to come forth in birth. But before that birthing happens, we wait and watch.
In the Christian tradition there are no liturgical services on Holy Saturday. Out of respect for the Christ who was crucified, we stop. It is a day of rest. The drama of the Last Supper on Maundy Thursday and the excruciating events of Good Friday are over. The movement of Holy Week is exhausting.
Holy Saturday is a day of rest, not only because it’s the Jewish Sabbath, but because the Church is waiting and watching, keeping vigils before this stone-covered womb. I think of it as a kind of “bridge-day,” that is, the day that bridges Good Friday (crucifixion) to Easter (Resurrection).
You will note, no doubt, that waiting and watching, resting and vigils are not the ways of the culture that surrounds many of us. The day is commemorated in many circles as one of the biggest retail days of the year, the day to buy clothing and goodies for Easter baskets. Easter sales abound in the stores. For many folks it is a day of scurrying around, busy activity and final plans before large Easter Sunday gatherings.
I suppose I have done my share of the scurrying, but over the last 15 years or so I’ve felt more drawn to be still, to reconnect with the center, to rest and reflect. In following the rhythm of Lent and Holy Week, someone beloved has just died, and it seems almost insulting for me to indulge in something flippant during the hours Jesus is in the tomb.
For me Holy Saturday provides space for reflection. I may reflect over the Lenten season and ask: “How did that go?” or “What were my awarenesses during Lent?”
I may bring into my prayer the willingness (or unwillingness) I had to following Jesus all the way to the cross. “How fully did I join You as You walked toward the cross?”
Or I may pay special attention to invitations I sensed from God through Lent and Holy Week. “What stirrings did I notice within me as I journeyed with You?” “In what ways are You inviting me into the next season of my life?”
This much I know: You can observe all the Lenten disciplines you want and you can attend all the Holy Week services offered, but if you don’t connect these events in Jesus’ life to your own real life, it’s all just a bland exercise. “Observing and attending” may be good and helpful and it may all be inspirational. At some point, though, we are invited to consider these rhythms in our own lived-experience.
Because we all have . . .
. . . our own Maundy Thursdays (meals with family and friends that are fraught with both tension and betrayal, as well as with mercy and acts of love);
. . . our own Good Fridays (the death of someone or something we didn’t think we could live without);
. . . our own Holy Saturdays (a period of waiting and watching for whatever is next, a period of trying to be faithful in the mystery and darkness of what has just happened, a period of “keeping vigils” in light of that which we don’t fully understand).
A restful, watchful Holy Saturday to you.
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