Through His Life... A Holy Week Reflection

This week is probably one of my top three favorite weeks of the year. And believe it or not, I am not saying that because it's Spring Break week...

Holy Week is, and always has been, a highlight of my year. In fact, when I was little, I loved Easter even more than Christmas. I think my affection for the holiday was a mix of the beautiful spring weather and the Passion Play at church. That play, though I know it is so much work for so many people, is something I desperately miss every year. I have heard criticism of those type plays, the blood, the focus on the Crucifixion instead of the Resurrection. 

But you know... I cherish the reminder of the blood, the violence, the beating, the mocking, the nails, the crown, the cross... the death. Because way too many times, I am so caught up in my little life that I forget the suffering that made my life possible. Sometimes I bemoan the need for time spent in the Word, Sunday School classes, and dedication to various ministries. I need to stop and really SEE... SEE the wounds on His back, SEE the blood drip from His head, SEE the pain on His face mix with the sweet compassion for the man hanging to His side--and for me... I need the reminder of His sacrifice. 

I also need the reminder of that Saturday, the day that is so often skipped completely in the telling of the story. Even the Bible skims Saturday, with only a brief mention of them resting on that day in Luke. I think a lot about Saturday. I imagine Saturday might have hurt even more than Friday, in some ways. Friday was so raw, so vile, so heartbreaking... But Saturday was that "day after" feeling. If you have lost a loved one, you know the feeling I am referring to. You wake up somewhat disoriented, feeling heavy but typically not remembering immediately why until the weight of the world comes crashing down with the memory that life will never be the same again. And this day after... oh how much worse it had to have been. This was not just the loss of a loved one, this was the loss of what they had thought was going to be their Savior. And who saves from a tomb? No one.

I can imagine their confusion-- maybe we misinterpreted what He said? maybe we missed it all along? -- their embarrassment-- we have to face the world and admit that He wasn't who we thought, who He preached --
 their heaviness-- it wasn't supposed to be this way, to end this way--
their fear-- it's only a matter of time until they find us and we meet the same end as He--
and probably a little bit of their hope-- maybe, just maybe ... maybe somehow it can still be so.

I've had those Saturdays. Those are the days when, even though I have been so sure I was right in the middle of His plan, I just can't see Him. And by not seeing Him, I can't see myself. I just feel lost and aimless, hopeless and desperate, heavy. 

But then... As much as I need the reminder of Friday and Saturday, oh how I need to feel Sunday! That moment when the tomb shakes and He steps out, clothed in glory, leaving those earthly grave clothes behind... what a feeling! What a promise and a hope! Then the faces of the women and the disciples when they first see, with their own eyes, the empty tomb... when that flicker of hope that had nearly faded in the storm of Friday and the darkness of Saturday is ignited by the light of Sunday morning! The Resurrection is such a beautiful promise that the work He started, both on that cross and in me on the day of my salvation, will not end in a borrowed tomb. It lives and moves and walks and talks. 

But each piece of the Story is integral to the Story. Friday's pain has to yield to Saturday's fear in order to allow for Sunday's hope. This is the journey that He is taking us on through this life... a journey that He traveled first. And a journey that I am tangibly reminded of during Holy Week every single year. For it is only through His life that my own is made possible.