Tag: Good Friday

Years ago, my dad sent me S. M. Lockridge’s famous sermon, It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming. Over time, this has become shorthand between us. Facing hard times? “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.” Frustrated with seemingly unanswered prayers? “It’s Friday, but Sunday’s coming.” It always brings a smile to our faces, but also encouragement and solace as we remember the deep well of comfort Lockridge’s words bring.

If you are unfamiliar with this sermon, it paints a picture of the devastating events of the Friday of Jesus’ betrayal, arrest and crucifixion. The disciples’ abandonment, the accusations of the crowd, the beatings of the Romans. In his beautiful preacher’s voice and cadence, Lockridge layers despair upon despair, until you can practically feel the weight of Jesus’ exhaustion and grief. But he ends each layer with the refrain “Sunday’s coming.”

This week, while discussing a difficult situation with my folks and sister, I threw out the well-worn line and then quipped, “What about poor Saturday? Nobody ever talks about poor Saturday.” I was thinking about “poor Saturday” during the Good Friday service I attended today. Friday gets to be good, Sunday gets TWO names (Palm and Resurrection), but poor Saturday. Nothing. The wallflower of Easter; always a bridesmaid, never the bride.

It seems very human to focus on the dramatic events of Friday and Sunday and not give Saturday another thought. We do this with the events of our own lives as well. We want to rush past the middle of the drama and skip to the part where everything works out, we get the job, the test comes back negative, etc.

But just for a moment, let’s think about that Saturday. Jesus was dead, so was Judas. The disciples were terrified and without a leader. Peter, I’m sure, was trying not to buckle under the grief and shame of his denials, the bitter tears still hanging in his beard. The women were preparing for Sunday. Not preparing to celebrate with plastic grass and Cadbury eggs. They were preparing to perform as ancient world morticians. To wash away the blood and sweat, cover the stink of death and decay with spices and ointments. Grief and confusion were hanging in the air.

Sure, there had been miraculous signs: unnatural darkness, an earthquake, split rocks, and the Temple’s torn curtain. These are hardly signs to lighten the mood. Tombs were opened and loved ones brought back to life, but this is cold comfort for those whose Hope has just died, naked and crying out to God. At one time, this Hope, this man, had seemed so favored. Heaven had opened, and the Spirit descended on Him while He was proclaimed to be God’s beloved Son.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes Fridays are easier to navigate than Saturdays. During Fridays, I am on high alert, rallying the troops for prayer, seeking wisdom in Scripture and looking for God’s direction. A season of crisis and drama can put me in “hero mode,” at least of a little while. But when the crisis is prolonged, or worse, when it feels like all hope is lost, the tomb of Hope is sealed and guarded, I have a tendency to retreat to habits of consultation, seeking solace in distraction and a good dose of carbohydrates.

But distraction doesn’t prepare me for Sunday. How can I worship if I’m not waiting for the dawn of God’s glory? The women honored to be the first witnesses of Jesus’ resurrection did so because they spent Saturday preparing. Let us do the same. Let us resist the despair of waiting. Let us refuse distraction and the bitterness of unfulfilled expectations. In the words of musical theologian Elton John, “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting.” So let us fight the good fight on Saturday. After all, Sunday’s coming.

Yesterday, our family observed Good Friday. I say, “observed” because it seems a bit inappropriate to say “celebrated.” Though I certainly rejoice in the forgiveness and new life purchased for me at Calvary, one doesn’t want to be cheery about it. “Gee, Jesus, sure glad You died on the cross and all.” Somehow, throwing a birthday party for Jesus on Christmas, though having often struck me as a bit patronizing to the Son of God, seems far more appropriate than celebrating the day of His death.

Anyway, I am afraid that we didn’t do much observing either. Mostly I cleaned the house after a delicious sleep-in (as no one had school) and yelled at the kids to clean up the mess in the basement (“I’m sure Jesus cleaned up His toys when He was done playing with them!”). But after dinner, we did read the story of the crucifixion and talk about how amazing it was that Jesus not only died for us rebel ingrates, but that He also lived a perfect life without sinning once. This part pricked my conscience a bit when looking back on the yelling and all. Hopefully, the kids were thinking about the eye-rolling they had been doing throughout the day.

I also “observed” that it was two days ’til Easter and went hog wild at the grocery, buying everyone those things that they gave up for Lent. I love Easter morning even more than Christmas because, yes, it’s great to partake of whatever we have voluntarily abstained from over the past forty days, but I also feel so happy to remember that, for Jesus, the trial of His earthly existence is over. He carried such a heavy burden for us and now “It is finished.”

But for us that isn’t the case. Though we have hope, we haven’t reached the finish line yet. If we are believers, then we’ve gotten past Friday, with all its earthquakes and dark skies. We have come to the cross, received forgiveness, been freed from the bonds of sin, and been given the promise of things to come. But that promise isn’t reality yet. We are still at Saturday, longing for Sunday morning. And Saturday can be hell.

In our Saturday existence, we do things that leave us full of regret, like, I don’t know, let’s say, yelling at our kids. Or forgetting to pray for that person who so desperately needs our prayers. On Saturday, Friday seems like a lifetime ago and Sunday seems as though it will never dawn. I’m not quite sure what to do with Saturday. I was full of sadness and gratitude on Friday; I know I will be full of joy and praise on Sunday. But Saturday? It feels like an oversight, something to be skipped and gotten over with.

It makes you wonder, what was Jesus doing on Saturday? No longer on earth but not yet in heaven. No longer bound by death but not yet seated in glory. I suppose that latter part describes me pretty well too, though I am quite sure my estate will be far less glorious than His. For now I am called to live a life not bound by sin and death, not afraid of what is to come. With tears still wet on my cheeks but with the knowledge that chocolate bunnies and Diet Coke are just around the bend. I suppose, if nothing else, this Saturday life makes our mouths water for Sunday morning, when we, like Mary, will see our Savior in the garden, only this time it will be forever.