“I am weary,” my fingers tap on the keyboard.
“I. Am. Weary.” I pound emphatically as if my friend, the recipient of my lament, could feel my feelings with me. The feelings I keep tightly bottled…the dread, despair, discouragement.
I keep my head down; force my feet forward. When I sneak a glance, the pot-holed path rising before me reveals more bumps, battles, and booby traps. The victories behind me dim in the face of what is to come, obstacles I see and those I imagine. I don’t want this struggle; I’m not a fighter. I didn’t choose this.
I’m stuck in the Saturday between Good Friday and Easter. Each new thing so much like the last in a continuous loop like the movie Groundhog Day.
Good Friday is a somber day for Christians. It is a day to be mindful of Jesus’ death and our humanity that made his willing sacrifice necessary.
On the other end, Easter Sunday is a joyful day. We celebrate Jesus’ resurrection, victory over death, and the grace and redemption he gives us freely.
From Friday to Sunday in a single effortless leap. And yet, it wasn’t all that effortless for the disciples.
There was a lifetime of woes between the crucifixion and resurrection. Confusion, dreams shattered and abandoned, and fear cloaked that Saturday. Hope was lost. Even after the resurrection they hid behind locked doors in Jerusalem (John 20:19), afraid that they would share the fate of Jesus.
One short week before, Jesus was given a hero’s welcome as he entered Jerusalem. The crowds cheered, proclaimed him the king of the Jews. Heady stuff for the disciples who probably thought that THIS (John 12:12) was the plan. Jesus is the king of the world! For this they discarded their fishing boats.
As they bickered over who would get to sit next to Jesus when he reigned, betrayal was set. Arrest. Denial. A trial. The crowds who had hailed him as king now demanded his death.
Friday. The crucifixion.
Then Saturday. They hid behind locked doors. They scattered. They went fishing. All the things they thought were going to happen didn’t. I imagine them going over in their minds all of the things Jesus said. All the things they saw, the things they did. How could this happen? How could this be part of the plan? It just didn’t make sense.
Saturday. The space between the death and the resurrection. The place of shattered dreams.
There are lots of Saturdays.
The days between Lazarus’ death and his resurrection. (John 11)
The years between David’s anointing as king (1 Samuel 16) and when he actually became king. (2 Samuel 2)
The years Abraham and Sarah waited for their promised son to be born. (Genesis 18, 21)
I have my own Saturdays. You might be dwelling in a Saturday of your own.
But Sunday is coming.
Our faith and hope hinge on that “But.” Sunday is coming.
Whatever you are waiting for, a job, an answer, a purpose, healing, Sunday is coming.
“I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in his holy people, and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is the same as the mighty strength he exerted when he raised Christ from the dead.” Ephesians 1:18-20
I hope you really read that verse and didn’t just skim it. In the midst of our Saturdays, we have God’s incomparably great power; the same power that raised Jesus from the dead.
Sunday is coming. Sunday has come.