the eve of Easter Sunday

It is the Saturday night before the day Christians celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

I have always identified closely with the Saturday of Easter more than the extreme sorrow of good Friday or the extreme joy of Easter Sunday. It was the day of Jesus in the grave....in the dark...in the silence...covered and shrouded and...dead. It sound a bit macabre...but this day seems most symbolic of my constant struggle with things of faith and of God. Most of the time it has been a blind groping in the dark. Most of the time it has been struggling with a silent God. Most of the time it has been completely shrouded and covered in many things, both from within and out. If i were to be completely honest this is how it has been, for the most part. I can relate to this part of the Easter story.

Jesus in the grave: hanging in the infinitesimally fine balance between certainties.

I can understand that. Because that is what most of life is, i think. At least, that is what mine has been. It is the place of ultimate unknowing and vulnerability. This is what is completely real and not illusory. This I know to be a major part of my life and spirituality. God in the grave....in the very middle....carrying the tension of all the inbetween places of the world, and of the deepest caverns of the human heart.

So - I want to keep vigil for this Jesus. Just as he, in his dark grave is attending to my most hidden vulnerabilities and holding them steady...in divine resignation. I'm not afraid of this resignation - because by it and through it there can come a transformation of sorts. Maybe, a slow movement from illusions to reality, at it's most stark and beautiful. A slow movement towards acceptance of myself, and all the things I will never know or understand about God.

A movement....
A way opening...
A stone rolling away.