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| Today the whole world is a waiting room. |
April 3, 2021—Holy Saturday
Video of this sermon may be found here (at the 7:00 mark).
My soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen for the morning,
more than watchmen for the morning.
(Psalm 130:6)
I do not like to sit in waiting rooms,
At doctors’ offices,
Or the dentist’s.
There I fidget, barely sitting still,
Worrying about my blood pressure,
Or a cavity.
Out the window, I spot a tree—barren or not yet in bloom.
I fight the urge to pull out my phone.
This last year, the entire world became a waiting room—and today is its epitome.
As I wait,
I wonder not about my body’s health,
But my soul’s.
If I could see my soul’s true state
With an X-Ray of sorts,
Or, if I could take it in to see a specialist,
What would I discover?
Mortality?
My soul makes not a peep.
Silently it sits.
“All are from women,
Have few days and are full of turmoil,”
Job says.
Like a flower, we wither.
In the impurity of this life,
Death slowly soils our existence.
Then, we fade
Like the afternoon sun.
“I wish you would hide me in the underworld,”
I plead alongside Job.
If people die, will they live again?
That’s what I think of in the waiting room
Sitting with my soul.
Silently, we wait for God’s reply,
More than watchmen for the morning,
More than watchmen for the morning.
Others point to mercy here—
Love covering a multitude of sins—
But in the obscurity of death,
Fear approaches.
It shrivels me up.
I feel like a parched riverbed.
The weatherman says,
“No rain today.”
Still I wait and I watch,
Together with my soul.
If people die will they live again?
How did Joseph and Nicodemus respond?
They did not wait.
They acted!
With care and without hope.
Certainly sorrowful.
No mirth.
Dutifully though with oils and linen.
Like, washing someone’s feet,
Lovingly, extravagantly, but lacking expectation.
Some women though,
They waited.
Following Jesus,
They waited.
Almost silently,
They waited.
Quietly crying,
They waited.
Like watchmen,
They waited.
Like Job,
They waited.
Like my soul,
They waited.
They waited
Wondering…
If people die will they live again?
Will he live again?
A human dies, the body remains.
A person expires but,
Where is the soul?
One is chopped down,
And hauled away.
Why then, are we waiting?
Something remains.
Not much, really…
Save for a delicately wrapped body.
As Joseph and his companion leave,
I tarry…
With the women and my soul.
“Jesus died, will he live again?”
I sit in the waiting room pondering.
And, at that moment,
Of all times,
My soul dares say something.
What?
I lean in to listen.
“’All the days of my service,
I would wait
Until my release should come.’
Wait
With me
For him.”
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