we eagerly wait for it with perseverance.
In Louisiana, a woman lies buried beneath a
grove of 150-year-old oak trees in the cemetery
of an Episcopal church. Only one word is
carved on her tombstone: “Waiting.”
A friend of mine knows an elderly pastor who
delivered a stirring Good Friday sermon titled
“It’s Friday, but Sunday’s Comin’.” In a cadence
that increases in tempo and volume, his sermon
contrasts how the world looked on Friday—when
the forces of evil seemed to have triumphed—with
how it looked on Sunday. The disciples who lived
through both days never doubted God again.
They learned that when God seems most absent,
He may be closest of all.
The sermon skips one day, though—Saturday—the day
with no name. What the disciples lived through in
small scale, we now live through on cosmic scale.
It’s Saturday on planet earth; will Sunday ever come?
That dark, Golgothan Friday can only be called
good because of what happened on Sunday.
Easter opened up a crack in a universe winding down
toward decay. And someday God will enlarge the miracle
of Easter to cosmic scale.
Meanwhile, we wait in hopeful anticipation, living out
our days on Saturday, the in-between day with no name.
It’s Saturday. But Sunday’s comin’.
ஃ Philip Yancey ஃ