The nagging sensation that there must be more than Cadbury Eggs and bunnies and new clothes.
I am completely on board with everyone’s complaints and critiques of the Easter holiday. It has gotten to be so much like Christmas. The power of the story that we are celebrating gets lost on us because we haven’t been in a frame of mind to recognize it and receive it.
But instead of just complaining about this phenomenon, blaming the “liberal media” or whomever Facebook Christianity is pointing the finger at these days, in our church community, we try to do something about it. And so, each year at Vintage, we attempt to enter into the story of Jesus and re-live it. We attempt to walk with Jesus and his disciples through the final days of his life. Read More…
I didn’t grow up observing holy week. I vaguely remember Palm Sunday being something, but we always rushed right into Easter, cantata and all. In the churches of my youth, we rarely entered into the story. We didn’t sit with Jesus and his disciples at the table in the upper room. We didn’t walk with him to the cross. We didn’t place his body in the tomb. We knew the story, but we just didn’t entered into it.
For the last couple of years, at Vintage Fellowship, we have observed Holy Week. We have sought to insert ourselves into the story so that when Easter finally arrives, we have something to celebrate. Beginning on Thursday, we gather together each evening in simplicity and quiet. The story itself is central. It has become one of my favorite weeks in the calendar.
Maundy Thursday – We gather like Jesus did with his disciples. We pray and share communion. We wash one another’s feet and sing a hymn.
Good Friday – We go to the cross. We try to really observe it. We listen closely to the story. We hear the nails being pounded. We feel the blood spatter. We exhale as Jesus breathes his last. We go in silence.
Holy Saturday – We sit shiva. We sit and say very little.
Tonight as we were sitting shiva for Jesus I realized something. Most of my life is Holy Saturdays.
I have a few days that are like Maundy Thursday, when I truly humble myself and serve others. But not too many. I have a few days like Good Friday, when I sacrifice and suffer and deeply feel the loss. But not too many. I have a few days like Easter, when I am raptured in joy and victory. But not too many.
Mostly, I just have the numbness of God being buried and dead. Most of my days are Holy Saturdays.
I don’t know quite what to make of this observation about my life. I imagine I will begin to unpack it in the coming days. Maybe by the time Holy Saturday rolls around next year, I’ll have more insight. Tonight, I’m content to just admit that I miss God.