There’s a commercial that’s run on the radio for years for a chair that comes in many colors including, we are specifically told “true black.” That phrase has always caught my attention. Why, I’ve often thought, does that merit special attention? How is “true black” different from other black?
It’s a phrase that comes to mind when I think of Holy Saturday. It’s the darkest day of the liturgical year. It’s the day of unrelenting grief and loss. It’s the day we sit in the darkness of the tomb. And wait.
Yet even that word, “wait,” isn’t quite correct. We can only wait if we think there is something to wait for – and from the perspective of Good Friday, there isn’t. Dead is dead. That’s just the way it is. And I think as we journey through Holy Week, it’s important to look at it this way – and remember. Remember that on Saturday there was no hope – or so it seemed. While Jesus lay, and his followers lay with him in spirit, in the darkness of the tomb, God was working towards something amazing – but they didn’t know it yet. So for those early followers, there was nothing to wait for, no hope. We don’t have any stories about this – about the disciples huddled together, what they talked about, what they did. It’s a like a void in the story. As if nothing at all happened on that day, as if the whole world paused in it’s grief.
The darkness of Holy Saturday isn’t the darkness of the night, when you can look up and see the stars. It isn’t even the darkness of a room with all the curtains drawn, but a little light just seeps around the windows – so over time your eyes adjust and you can begin to see. Holy Saturday is true black.
I’ve always been drawn to darkness myself. I’ve always found it comforting. Perhaps it’s because I grew up in South Florida where the sun at times can be so bright it hurts your eyes, and shade is not just a blessing, it is a necessity. So, I was immediately drawn to Barbara Brown Taylor’s new book, Learning to Walk in the Dark, where she explores the different blessings that darkness has to offer.
And she tells a story about going for the first time into a “wild cave” with some experienced cavers. Several times, as they go deeper and deeper into the cave system, the three would pick a spot and turn off their lamps, and sit in the darkness. Feel it wrap around them. She describes how as she sat she began to hear the sound of her own life – the blood pumping through her; her nervous system firing. Maybe she couldn’t see – but there were other ways to tell that life with all its wonder and mystery was there in that darkness.
The other thing that struck me about that story was as dark as things were deep in that cave, with no visible source of light, light still existed. Barbara and her friends brought it with them – the small beams of their headlamps. I do think that we carry God’s light within us, even into the darkest of caves in our lives. And God is working in the dark within us to teach us or help us to remember how to flip the switch so we can see the light, that was really always there, and let it guide us out.
So all we can do, this Holy Saturday, is to let the true black of this darkness hold us, listen to the sounds of life within us, giving us the message that true black is not true death – because God, the source of all life, is here. And so there is hope -- even if we don't know what we are waiting for . . .
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