Holy Saturday

Something about Holy Saturday really resonates with me.

Its that in-between day, between "it is finished" and the evidence as such. Or at least we see that now.

At the time what did they think; feel; do?

I guess I just think so much about how we ourselves are in an in-between time, between "he is risen" and the full experience as such.

We still live with death and suffering, and Jesus lives with us. But he wept in the face of it when he was here, and though he's raised he did promise we'd have trouble in this time, and we'd have to be patient as God was being patient, not wanting anyone to perish. Of course he also said to take heart, because he'd overcome the world.

But like I said, we're living between the "it is finished" and the full experience. He isn't going to feast again like he did at the last supper until the kingdom has come in full.

I don't think I'd like Holy Saturday if I didn't know what was next. But something about it puts the peril and the adventure; the vital relevance and the yearning hope of this faith in focus.

One website describes Holy Saturday (in Latin, Sabbatum Sanctum ) this way: It is the 'day of the entombed Christ,' is the Lord's day of rest, for on that day Christ's body lay in His tomb. We recall the Apostle's Creed which says "He descended unto the dead." It is a day of suspense between two worlds, that of darkness, sin and death, and that of the Resurrection and the restoration of the Light of the World. For this reason no divine services are held until the Easter Vigil at night. This day between Good Friday and Easter Day makes present to us the end of one world and the complete newness of the era of salvation inaugurated by the Resurrection of Christ."

As a pastor in particular, between the busyness of Good Friday and Easter Sunday (and in the face of their inevitable failure to capture the significance of those events), there is something about the quietness of Holy Saturday that is special as well. It is a day to ponder, and let life speak for itself, groan for itself, breathe a little bit in the meantime, and wait. We look back, we look ahead, and here we are. We live in light of passion week, without denying where we are.

Yeah, there is something about this day that really resonates with me.

Go Padraig!

I don't particularly like golf, nor do I intend to watch much of it in the future, but I now have a favourite golfer.

Padraig Harrington.

There is no telling what makes you decide to begin rooting for a team or an athlete. Some folks just cheer for whoever is hot; winning; has the coolest uniform. That used to bother me but I don't care that much anymore. That said, the reward is greater and the journey is more fun if you just choose a team or player early and stick with it.

But where does it start? Often it is a chance event, like catching a live game at an early age or just growing up with a team. Sometimes it is something as minor as a logo or as central as a player who catches your eye early and it just snowballs from there.

For me, Steve Yzerman made me like the Red Wings when they dwelt in the cellar. I cheered for years, they won a few Stanley Cups, he retired, and I'm not a Wings fan anymore. About seven years ago I caught Marvin Harrison and Peyton Manning working their magic one Monday Night and I was hooked on the Indianapolis Colts. Cutting my knee open falling from my chair in agony when they lost in the playoffs one year only deepened my love. I almost randomly chose Liverpool a half dozen years ago and slowly grew to like some of their mainstays (Gerrard) and younger recruits (Torres!) as time went on.

But then there are these side-sports that you catch once in awhile, like golf. I golf once a year and have a few relatives who are into it, and end up seeing it on TV sometimes. So it can help to have a player. But I never have.

Until last week.

Padraig Harrington.

He's won a couple major tournaments this year with Tiger Woods injured. But that's not why I've decided he is my favourite golfer. It is much simpler than that. In fact it is as simple as the following 20-second portion of a five minute interview on PTI (Pardon the Interruption):

PTI: "How did those victories change you at all?

Padraig: "I don't think too much has changed really. Its certainly heightened my profile . . . . (laughter)"

PTI: "I wonder, though, if you have changed your expectations of yourself, just based on the stellar way you have played the last couple of years?"

Padraig: "You know, (pause) I would like to tell you I have, but I have a very strange outlook on golf: I play totally based on fear. And, you know, I'm always worried that I'm going to hit a bad shot, or whatever is going to happen.

I thought winning three majors it would change; I thought I'd be able to walk up to the first tee, and puff out my chest, and own the first tee, but I didn't, I'm just the same old guy who plods along, and, you know, I tee it up every week, I'm worried about missing the cut, I'm worried about hitting bad shots, I'm worried about the out of bounds down the left---all of things are going through my head. . . .

It really didn't change, even though I thought it would change, it just didn't happen."

So candid. So fragile. So fearful and self-conscious, even in success. Especially in success. So like me. And so honest about it. What a guy. I'm rootin for you in the Masters Padraig!

When is the Masters anyway?

Reliving Paris, and Home

Relaxing at the river Seine.

Inside Notre Dame Cathedral.

One of the side chapels.

Tracing the hunchback's steps.

The gargoyles overlook the city.

Back down to street level. The church is overrun with disrespectful tourists. But I guess its keepers are more gracious than I.

Everyone jaywalks halfway for this photo, and it is actually a bit harrowing. But worth it.

A sense of the scope.

We hung around down below 'til nearer sunset.

A long way down.

We stared at the lit streets forever.

The spotlight is actually four spotlights.

Goodbye Paris.

The cliffs of Dover. Along with Iceland, a nice bonus finish.

Reliving Paris

One year ago Monday . . .

When one of the tunnels is awhile in opening to sunlight, it's: "We're not underwater now are we?" Next thing we know it is the French countryside.

And the streets of Paris.


Walking past Notre Dame to the Louvre we run into my aunt, herself on a stopover on the way to Africa. Of course we forget to prove it with a photo of us. But here's a beauty of the cathedral.

Inside the Louvre, looking down at its central courtyard.

I like how you can see my wife seemingly in amongst these ancient figurines.

Statues galore.

A sense of the scope. You need to take a lot of sitting breaks.

One of her favourites.

One of mine. I love the look on Lazarus' resurrected face.

Outside, for another sitting break. That was a lot of walking in there.

Back to the hotel we see Notre Dame again. Promises of tomorrow.

The street outside our hotel room falls near to dusk.

My wife exhausted, I take to the streets for a couple hours myself. I don't smoke, but for some reason I wanted a cigarette really badly. Weird. I can't remember what this building was. I think it's the Pantheon.

A glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. Can't wait for tomorrow, and yet sadly it will be our last on this adventure.

Reliving London

Our last day in London, a year ago Sunday, we awake to big flakes of snow out our window.

King's Cross Station is down the street from our hotel.

We arrive at St. Paul's in time for their worship service, and in time to see snow on the dome.

After that it's off to Tower Bridge.

On Tower Bridge.

The GKC collection was closed. Still a fascinating visit.

Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese: Pub to Charles Dickens, Chesterton, and others. Also closed. Oops. There's St. Paul's in the background.

Elsewhere for supper. The air conditioner vent buzzed loudly overhead (the things you remember), but it was otherwise nice and quiet.

One last peak at Big Ben, and the Millenium Eye across the way. In the morning it is off to Paris.