Maximillian Amadeus Banzai (banzai) wrote,
Maximillian Amadeus Banzai

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The Saturday between Good Friday and Easter is strange and unique. Jesus is in the tomb. Expectation and resignation wrestle violently; hope and hopelessness vy for power in the human heart. Is everything I believed in, everything I dreamed of, so much dust? Death seems to have claimed victory in the Place of the Skull. In so many ways, we all exist in Saturday.

I wonder if we aren't more comfortable in Saturday. Friday's crucifixion is too painful to bear; Sunday's resurrection turns our lives upside down even as every dream is fulfilled in glory. Saturday is ours alone-- we can think about Jesus if we want, or not. For that day alone, He is safely dead and we can be the captains of our own souls even if we realize the ship is sinking.

I wish I didn't like Saturday so much (and yet, I don't wish that at all). Christ calls me to Sunday, where He is, and I linger in Saturday, browsing the baubles and trinkets of Vanity Fair over and over again. He bids me to come and buy wine and milk without money and without cost, but I spend my money on what is not bread and my labor on what does not satisfy.

My only hope is in that it's not about me. More inevitable than time, Sunday's coming (and has already come). I will be changed.

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