Holy Saturday
Holy Saturday is a difficult day. Do I write about the most solemn celebration of our liturgical year that is the Easter Vigil, or do I talk about the actual day of Holy Saturday, this time between Christ's Death and Resurrection; the tomb time?
There's so much I could talk about with the Vigil, but I'm going to refrain today. Let it suffice to say that if you have yet to attend an Easter Vigil, let next year be your year, if possible. Even if not done particularly well, the depth of what is done, said, professed, etc. is tremendous on its own merit. If you are a member of a parish that also does things aesthetically well, has good musical taste and talent, is welcoming several Elect and candidates into the Church, and has a knack for bringing liturgy to life in a way that is engaging without being self-celebratory--or truly, even one of those things--then you've hit a jackpot.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, I will be offering an Easter Sunday post as well (part 4 of 3). At that time, I will likely reflect on why I think 'Easter' is a stupid name for this holiday, among more important things (probably). For now, however, I simply reflect on the difficulty of Holy Saturday day.
It's a day of being in the tomb. Of things being still. Of life being numb. The Ancient Homily in today's Office of Readings posits that beneath this numb stillness and passivity on this plane, Christ is at work scouring Hell of its denizens, claiming them for Heaven, ushering them into new life.
When I read this Office reading, it evokes an image of things simmering beneath the surface without us having the resources to be aware. It's only when it reaches a rolling boil that we might take notice. Perhaps that is symbolically at the Vigil, or Easter Sunday.
In our own lives, the journey through grief, loss, and death is 99.999% likely to take longer than a weekend. The loss of a loved one, or a limb, or a job, or the life I once had, often takes weeks if not months to fully settle in (and will continue to settle in new ways for a long time after). It can take a while for us to realize just how hurt, damaged, or affected we are. And then it's usually much more time to come to a place where we find ourselves able to enjoy life again in a full manner, albeit modified. Sometimes we can see some of the work that goes into that; often we aren't aware that healing has been happening until one day we realize that we've recovered.
Holy Saturday is a day of hope for the Christian. It serves as a reminder that trials nor tribulations, principalities nor powers, etc. can keep us from the love of God. We celebrate the embodiment of that perfectly shown in the Paschal Mystery, of course. In my own life, it offers me hope that God's grace is at work in my heart, my mind, my soul...thought much of the time I am not aware of it. It bubbles over it moments of deepening conversion. I catch glimpses when I'm able to see how many wild elements of my life and relationships and events have worked together to achieve a certain outcome, and if even one thing were out of place, my life as it stands or some crucial event therein wouldn't have happened or been the same. I naturally see it in times of grief and loss, both of loved ones and of lost opportunities, as well as a few health moments and transitions into new phases of life.
Where in your life do you need assurance that God is at work, even if things seem completely at a standstill and things aren't where you want them? How can you nurture hope and trust in God in those places? Holy Saturday is a day of hope; Easter Sunday, God bringing new life from death, and the ultimate promise of new life after the end of the age...all this might still be far away on the horizon (or yet to be seen), but Good Friday is in the rearview mirror and shrinking away, even if imperceptably at times. Take heart; the battle may be far from over, but you are not alone, and the one who has conquered the world and death is with you and is not giving up any time soon.
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