Holy Saturday

I didn't grow up in a religious tradition that observed Easter Vigil. In fact, I was in my fifties when I was first exposure to the concept. A friend of mine invited me to her Greek Orthodox Church's Vigil - a late night (and for some, all night) event. How strange it all seemed - the ikons, the incense, lighting skinny candles, walking around the outside of the building en mass following the priest raising a bejeweled cross, singing music I never heard in a language I did not understand and yet somehow it all making sense, feeling familiar.

It almost felt like I could have been one of the women who stood at the foot of the cross while Jesus was dying, who afterwards had to go home and await the dawning of the next day to go out and anoint the body of Jesus for burial. Can you imagine how difficult it must have been for them to abandon Jesus' body in an unfamiliar tomb because of the Sabbath laws? How do you go home (and to what) when you are in such turmoil and grief, to endure the long, long night of darkness, left alone with the surreal events of such horror playing in your mind over and over and over? Where is the relief from such agony?

Yet you have no choice, so you lie there, rigid in the silent night, waiting, waiting, stiff with sickness, alone in your sorrow, inconsolable, perhaps rocking yourself in a futile attempt at relief. Perhaps you rise from time to time to wander about the house to no purpose other than that you cannot stand the waiting, trying to assuage your need to do Something, Anything to relieve the angst.

Finally, you can stand it no longer. You get up, put on your sandals and head out even before the first tentative rays of dawn.

Attending such a vigil was an interesting experience, especially since it was followed by an incredible meal of celebration chock full of Greek specialties. Wow, how amazing and memorable!

This year, I attended the Great Vigil of Easter at Community of the Savior. How wonderful it was to be among friends and family. We gathered in the lobby, hugging and catching up. The conversation rose and fell as people arrived, many of us a bit nervous as we waded into unfamiliar territory. Then, at the given moment, our cantor provides a few whispered instructions and we all file out doors, huddling together on the front walk, watching from the darkness while the Christ candle is lighted, holding our breath while the wind blows the flames, challenging the minister to catch the fire on the wick.

The cantor lifts the candle high, shielding it with his hand until he enters the foyer. Three times we halt our procession while the cantor sings "The light of Christ" and we respond, repeating his cadence, "Thanks be to God!" We enter the sanctuary by the sole light of the Christ candle and take our places while the cantor chants an invitation to the world and the heavenly realms to Rejoice in the rising of Christ, an event we are about to celebrate.

Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, we listen as various members of the congregation tell the stories of Scripture beginning with Creation and the Flood, continuing with Abraham's Sacrifice of Isaac and Israel's Deliverance at the Red Sea, encouraged by Ezekiel and the story in Luke 24 of the women arriving at the empty tomb. The pastor encourages us in his homily to remember, to cherish these things.

As was the custom in the early Church, we participate in the baptism of a baby girl (unexpected bonus!) followed by partaking communion. Times flies away unnoticed as it always does when you love what you are doing. This is so much better than seeing in a New Year or even than unwrapping an Easter basket of goodies when I was young. I wouldn't miss the rich reflection on how much God loves us, the tempering of the brutality of the crucifixion, the sweetness of arms of fellowship hugging me, the community of singing praise to God with others I know.

This is a healing time when the hardness of one's heart, so battered and bruised by the daily events of suffering inflicted by a fallen world, is massaged, softened, revitalized. I can almost feel my heart moving to a more tender place. I hope it stays renewed for a long time.