Holy Waiting for Easter

Holy Saturday is the day we skip and we skip it because we are arranging flowers in the sanctuary, hanging banners, rehearsing one more time and taking a deep breath before Easter. Some folks throughout history have imagined Holy Saturday as the day Jesus “descended into hell” to have what we might call a Come to Jesus meeting with death and darkness. There are some folks who debate and wonder and even write papers about the nature of Jesus on Holy Saturday; Jesus is trading his human nature in and refueling on all totally divine energy…like nature is so cut and dry, leaded or unleaded or maybe it’s so different it’s like diesel. And these might all be worthy imaginings, but they don’t interest me at all. The hard truth is Holy Saturday is really just about waiting and in our action-oriented culture, no one likes waiting. It is also the worst kind of waiting, it’s wondering about when the test results will arrive or the old man with a purse resting on his lap in the surgery waiting room, it’s the parent pacing the floor in love and anger and wondering if and when this child will come home, it is the relationship in limbo wondering what the next phone call will bring, it is waiting to know the verdict, it is waiting without any power to act and it is praying because there is nothing left to do or say or try. Holy Saturday is waiting in grief and sadness and loss. That is probably why we as Christians jump from Good Friday’s tragedy to Easter Sunday’s triumph with such glee.

But this year, after a year of loss and pandemic and struggle and grief, the triumphant Easter didn’t feel quite right. Maybe it never should. And this year we have witness too much pain and death and loss to gloss over the Holy Saturday seed that germinates into Easter. And the truth is, a triumphant Easter isn’t made for the powerful or privileged, (which by global standards most of us likely are) but the ancient peasant living under the boot of history’s mighty empire, and you just witnessed the brutal death of a man you love and when all hope seems lost, you find truth in the poet’s words, “love is as strong as death.” Easter’s triumph is much more humble and intimate and tender than our celebrations happy bonnets and patent leather shoes let on.

Easter begins in a week of palm waving, table-turning, and foot washing. It’s bread breaking and hearts breaking, it’s betrayal by kiss and denial by friends, it’s crowds singing, “Hosanna” and shouting, “crucify!," it is separation and trial and state sponsored brutality, it is burial and spices and loss and fear and it is sobbing until you gulp for breath and your face is swollen and you feel your heart breaking into deviating pieces until you, with Jesus, cry out, “why have your forsaken me?” Easter looks at the very worse and seems to whisper, “and yet."

Peter Betrays Jesus, James and John are nowhere to be found and yet Mary and the women are right there to witness and watch over Jesus in his trauma. Mary Magdalene has every reason to stay in bed, wish the world would not turn another day, and yet she shows up before dawn’s first ray of light. Easter is small and tender and humble. Easter is loves sturdy surprise.

Perhaps most surprising of all is Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus, two “secret disciples” showing up for the heavy lifting on this holy week. They are the ones who didn’t follow all the way, Nicodemus comes to Jesus in the quiet curve of evening and will forever be the one who came at night…aka “Nic at night.” Peter is tending his denial and big talkers James and John are nowhere to be found, and yet somehow on this day, Joseph and Nicodemus are there with Jesus.

The Burial of Jesus: John 19: 38-42, 20:1

After these things, Joseph of Arimathea, who was a disciple of Jesus, (though a secret one because of his fear of the religious leaders) asked Pilate to let him take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him permission; so he came and removed his body. Nicodemus, who had at first come to Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jewish people. Now there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and, in the garden, there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. And so, because it was the Jewish day of Preparation and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.

Joseph is afraid of the religious leaders because he is one and he knows the risk. Every gospel shares his presence and offered us this generous, powerful, rich, and righteous man. He, like Nicodemus, holds all the right credentials and knows all the right people. He is a faithful leader who knows his history and dreams of a better future for his people. He could have taken the easy path, just writing this Jesus and his movement off. He could have rejected this challenging teacher and stayed pretty comfortable, but Joseph (like Nicodemus) is drawn to this light. So the secret disciples come out of the shadows and they do the heavy lifting of Holy Saturday.

Joseph uses his privilege and asks Pilate if he can tend the battered body of Jesus. Sometimes in reading this Gospel, I am surprised that Mary Magdalene let someone else do this work rather than doing it herself…another miracle of Easter. Joseph provides the space, the new and nearby tomb, as the space where finally the body that has been battered by the state and tortured by our inhumanity is tended in love. Nicodemus buys spices and aloes for the burial and it’s no small gift. We can imagine lugging 75 pounds to the tomb, the Bible measures it as almost double the gift a really good king would receive. These once secret disciples, once too quiet and too afraid to show up, are in the middle of the holy moment, doing the heavy lifting. Holy love is dirty and messy and risky. They have every reason to be afraid, they have witnessed the violence of the state first hand and yet they are there, wrapping the body of a man they loved. They have every reason to leave this to the women, it’s women’s work, and yet they are there anointing Jesus with spice and aloe while they wrap his body in linen. They have every reason to stay home, prepare for a normal Passover, forget this whole mess and move on, and yet they are there as the stench of death and spice mingle.

Look at how love transformed these once secret followers, the ones who didn’t show up in the daylight, the ones who stayed at arm’s length when Jesus was feeding and healing and teaching, who were too busy or had other plans and yet they are transformed. Even in death, Jesus draws people into God’s Light. Even in grief and confusion and stench and evil and trauma, Easter whispers, “and yet.” They are there in the hard stuff. Holy Saturday might be a day of fear and trembling, grief and loss, a day of placing one foot in front of the other. Holy Saturday seems quiet but it is the seed of resurrection. This is the story of Easter, love is as strong as death.

Love’s strength is not magic, love’s presence does not render death less savage, love’s presence does not make grief irrelevant or leave pain unfelt. Love does not prevent suffering, stop hurt or free us from tears. Love shows up with the casserole. Love answers the phone and listens to whatever words you can make out through sobs. Love is there when the spell of the hospital or the sickness or the medicine is heavy. Love is there for the hard moments. Love creates safety and love builds sanctuary. Love is a salve in a wounded world, a harmony singing through the discord, kindness in a world of disregard. Easter says the world is cold and yet spring always follows winter. Easter says we are surrounded by patriarch and churches that only permit male clergy and yet Mary Magdalene is still the first preacher of Easter’s good news. Easter says empires are cruel, the powerful are greedy, and hate is easy to teach, and yet love wins. Easter says we may be surrounded by white supremacy, toxic masculinity, and rampant gun violence, and yet hope sparks new, calls us to change, with louder voices, younger voices, and hopeful voices pointing the way. Our history bears witness to our American genocide of First Peoples, and yet Deb Haaland will lead the department once tasked with dealing death to Native Americans. Voter suppression abounds, and yet Stacey Abrams lifts us all. The twin viruses Covid-19 and misinformation steals 550,000 plus lives, and yet vaccines and masks and science and families and communities find a way. In the face of despair and loss and brokenness, Easter says, “and yet.” Easter is at work in all of us, love is not done with any of us and keeps asking more of us. Easter whispers, “and yet.” This Easter season, what will your answer be? What will emerge from our holy waiting and bloom into Easter’s flourishing? May we have the courage to be Easter people, eyes open to the quiet surprise on the horizon. Amen.

P.S.
When you need a little extra light in the waiting, join Anne Lamont. She says, “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work; you don’t give up.”