Saturday

All great stories have a moment when all is lost.

We're drawn to these stories, these tales of narrow victory over defeat, the last-minute success of the rebels just when things are at their blackest and it looks like the Empire has won. Something in them speaks to our soul, I think. There is a reason why we feel ourselves drawn to the underdog, that unlikely champion, who proves in the end that love and truth are more powerful than whatever seemingly inconquerable forces have been amassed against him. The more impossible his triumph appears, the more joyful, the more just it seems.

This Passion week is no exception. As we commemorate that Greatest Story, we remember not just the joy, but that the champion falls, the lion dies, the messiah is in the tomb. Salvation is not just snatched from the jaws of loss at the last moment--it is actually swallowed up in defeat. Death has the victory. There are three days of mourning.

We understand that it had to happen this way because you cannot truly, fully defeat something until it first defeats you. Otherwise, your victory is hollow; there is always the chance that it might be overthrown, should some greater challenge arise. Every true champion must defeat the strongest enemy, must neutralize the greatest threat, must do so at the height of its power. Death must do its worst.

In this Easter season, I sometimes hear it said or preached, "It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!' We hold out the promise that just when things seem darkest, the greatest of victories is just around the corner. How easy it is to see, for all of us Monday morning quarterbacks. As we celebrate now, so far in the future, we have the advantage of hindsight that removes any element of suspense or doubt. We know the end of the story. Even though the battle is lost, the war is not over--the enemy trembles, the table cracks, the King rises up. From our vantage point, where, then, is death's sting? But truly, in that interval of defeat, hindsight is not present. Death has triumphed, and it is the ultimate power in the universe. All is lost. In that time of mourning, between Friday and Sunday, the future is uncertain. We do not know what will happen next--all we know is what has happened now.

The only hope of victory must come by faith--it cannot come by sight. And right now, I find that I can't muster the confidence to be so certain. The immediate truth of loss is so present, so powerful. I have lost my sense of the ancient magic. Sunday may come, with its promise of resurrection, of restoration, of life; but I am stuck in Saturday, and today, I've seen with my own eyes that death has the victory. I wait in the dark, which is always where hope comes. I do not know what will happen next.