Blessed Holy Saturday: A Poem

 

Blessed Holy Saturday to the alienated ones,

the questioning, uncomfortable,

dissociated,

doubting;

the bitter,

the mourning,

the ones too weary to care.

Blessed Holy Saturday to the spiritual immigrant,

the uneasy pilgrim,

the severed,

the bleeding,

the angry,

the ones who just want things back to normal.

Blessed Holy Saturday to the ones in-between,

the spiritually homeless,

the ones who walked away,

the ones clinging on,

the ones going through the motions,

the ones breaking free,

the ones running toward Jesus

and away from Jesus

and not running at all but curled up in a fetal position

sobbing.

Blessed Holy Saturday to the ones who are sure,

the ones swaddled in theology

and held without question.

Blessed Holy Saturday to the ones who used to be sure,

and aren't now,

and are lost and empty

or are found and full,

for the first time.

Blessed Holy Saturday to the liminal space,

the waiting,

the nectarine blossoms touched by frost,

the mockingbird on my compost pile

pecking at apples.

Blessed Holy Saturday to the world,

the world that Jesus died for,

to show he was with us, even in death,

the ultimate incarnation,

God with us:

crucified God,

weeping God,

lonely God,

doubting God,

God of weakness,

God of humiliation,

God of being there with us

no matter what, no matter when, no matter how.

Blessed Holy Saturday

to the uncertain

open space.