Black Saturday

Black Saturday is the most human day of Christian Holy Week. If you’re a Christian or spiritually curious, you’ll want to read on. If not, you’re still welcome to continue reading but I’d understand if you choose to move on with your day at this point. I just wanted to offer a thought or two about these 24 hours.

Friday is done. The event is over. We believed in the man, up to various points and down to various levels. Pledged loyalty and allegiance. Prayed, sang, and listened to stories told from the tops of boulders, the sides of hills, the boat anchored in the lake. We walked behind, sat near or beside and followed into villages and towns. There was magic and miracles.

Things turned tense, then tough, and finally harsh, bloody, violent, and dangerous. Us? We peeled away one by one or in groups. We saved ourselves. We know what the bearded men in big hats and fancy robes have told us. We saw the swords and helmets of other men ready to hurt us. Both sides have authority and power and retain it still. Now where does that leave us?

Nowhere. Like before.

Were the explanations and promises wrong? False? Overdone?

It’s hard to say. All we see on this day is the reality of our own flaws and failings. We scattered like rats when the big dogs came. If you look closely enough you can see our tracks on the ground, wet and muddy from yesterday’s storm. The walls we’re hiding behind feel a little weaker after yesterday’s tremors.

We’re in a dark room of stone and dust. Every sound outside is a threat.

For many, the duty is clear. It’s worship, another seventh day. Maybe we hold tighter to Sabbath routines. Maybe we let them go altogether. Maybe it just doesn’t make any difference either way.

It’s the first day of the rest of my life. The goal is staying alive. Work. Eat. Sleep. Whatever interrupts or connects them is an extra. Getting older. And then there’s tomorrow, and the day after that.

I’m adrift, waiting for the sun and the next sound.