The rocky touchpoint of Holy Saturday
Touching the stories of Easter Week in our own way.
Hi I’m Debbie, a spiritual director, writer and mother based in Glasgow. I offer stories, ponderings and gentle invitations to share a moment with your soul.
Amongst the scattered hillside congregation of stone, the directions brought her to this particular rock. Turning left at the end of the path she’d seen where footsteps had disturbed the ground the day before. There the boulder rested in the quietness of this Sabbath day. Dark grey, with etchings of yellow lichen across it, naïve to its task. Before a thought passed she reached out her fingers and felt rough, numb stone under her hand. She found herself held in place.
The circling thoughts came in to roost then. Thoughts of death, of fear, of dreams lost. Palm to cold stone she thought of the friend losing her independence to age. She thought of the one with the uncertain diagnosis. The lonely ones she passed daily, she didn’t know their names. She thought of the wars, the snippets of news she could swallow. The surface held her up, unflinching in its cold, still presence. Her hope had resigned, all that was left was the comfort of this solid stone reality.
The next day the stone calls me back. I go to face that cold once again, holding all that is wrong in this place that withstands it. But something has shifted to reveal the crack of an entrance. I cautiously move my feet forward into the airless space, braced for signs of death. Beyond the boulder there’s nothing but darkness: more confusion, more uncertainty, more despair. I stop and sit: where do I go from here?
Then he’s there sitting with me; oh the relief, the joy, and in his eyes I see mischief. He always loved to surprise us. I lean my head on his shoulder and cry, clinging to his arm. I do not ever want to leave from here. I want to sit with him, right here amongst the cold and all that is wrong. I want to gently grow in this quiet, enclosed place. In his safe company.
Eventually he stands up and leaves. Walks right out past that stone, glancing back at me on his way out. I don’t want to leave the safe womb, anger flints that he would leave me again, but I know. I know that it’s time to leave the tomb and walk out into the daylight, to face all that exists out there.
Resurrected.
This week, I have returned to some of my experiences of slowly praying through Jesus’ story with the Exercises of St Ignatius (which I wrote about here). One invitation was to pause at the rock on ‘Tomb Day’, and I was surprised at the way my imaginative contemplation unfolded. Surprise is one of the Spirit’s prompts to pay attention. Here I am still noticing and nourished by that time, playing with words to try to capture it. Unhurriedly praying through Holy Week in this contemplative way offered me a new path of approach to this story: the path of mystery rather than reason. But instead I felt my feet on the ground of then and now, my heart open to God’s story touching mine.
Every year I try to mark Holy Week in a way that is authentic and for the past few years attending a service on Good Friday has become a tender touchpoint. My questions and doubts have felt heavier some years; I’ve lugged them along to services, stashing them under my seat or scattering them on the ground in prayer. Good Friday confronts and the cross is a complex cornerstone of my faith. I lean into these days curious about how I feel about this now; how does this story feel in my hands and heart this year?
I wonder how the Easter story is touching your story this year?
If you would appreciate a gentle opportunity to approach part of the Easter story with your senses Fiona Stewart’s Gethsemene poem is an exquisite reminder of ‘the power of gentleness to heal and disarm’. Listening to her read it will only take 3 and a half minutes…
Questions about faith can make this time of year painful. As Fiona Koefoed-Jesperson says Easter can ‘bring our doubt into full focus’. This piece from Fiona has wise, helpful suggestions if you are going through faith shift or deconstruction:
May we touch the Easter story in our own authentic way and may we be open to surprise,
With love,
Debbie
"Then he’s there sitting with me; oh the relief, the joy, and in his eyes I see mischief. He always loved to surprise us. I lean my head on his shoulder and cry, clinging to his arm. I do not ever want to leave from here. I want to sit with him, right here amongst the cold and all that is wrong. I want to gently grow in this quiet, enclosed place. In his safe company.”
I love how true this feels.
Thank you for these words Debbie. I spent yesterday at The Bield. In the chapel my eyes were drawn to a large rugged heavy cross suspended high by thick ropes and nails, and a black cloth lightly draped and hanging down.
The silence felt heavy and pinned.
We spoke together the seven sentences - the last words spoken by Christ on the cross.
As the last words ‘It is finished’ were spoken I looked up. No longer did the cross seem to hold any power. It was simply an empty cross. There was a peace, a quietness within the circle of bowed heads. An emptiness waiting to be filled. The heaviness had gone. My thoughts went to those words: Oh death where is your sting?