Holy Week

I realized last Sunday in Livingstone that it was Palm Sunday when we saw a larger parade of brightly dressed Zambians coming out of the church near Jolly Boys Backpackers carrying palm fronds and singing.  I was sad to miss the day's celebration in the Macha church but began to look forward to seeing how the rest of Holy Week's events are marked in this place.

Last night was Maundy Thursday, the night prior to Jesus' crucifixion on today, Good Friday, a time to remember the Last Supper and all its significance, his suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane, his trials, and his desertion by his disciples.  Linda and I traipsed off a bit late for the service at 1830 to the church after our dinner at the MIAM cafeteria.  Upon arriving, the church was dark and no one visible.  We were about to turn around when Mrs. Spurrier, wife of Dr. Spurrier with whom we work in the hospital, came up from the dark church.  Cheered by each other's company, we decided to wait a bit longer to see if the advertised service would happen.

After about 15-20 minutes, about 10-15 people had assembled, so we entered the sanctuary.  The power was off, so we sang some hymns (including some I knew the tunes and the words in English) by flashlight and candlelight.  Despite the small group in a T-shaped church that usually seats about 800, I've been told, the singing was hearty, lovely, and inspiring.  We then heard a short, bilingual message about Passover and Jesus' institution of the new covenant and fulfillment of the Passover salvation of the Hebrew people in Egypt by becoming our Passover lamb.  As we were preparing for the closing song and prayer, about 20 more people came in.  They joined us for the last part of the service, and then we left.

I've been to a number of Maundy Thursday services, often called Tenebrae (service of shadows), which start out in light and end in darkness (either by the gradual extinguishing of candles or lightbulbs).  This one started in the gathering darkness of late twilight as we walked to the church, proceeded through the companionable sharing of flashlights and candles to read Tonga song words or Bible readings, and ended again in darkness lit by the Milky Way as we walked home.  We'll have another service tonight, tomorrow night, and two on Easter Sunday.

As Linda and I read the events of Thursday night from the account according to Matthew, I was reminded of light and darkness in the story.  The lights of the upper room where Jesus breaks the bread and passes the cup.  The darkness of the garden of Gethsemane.  The lights of approaching torches that allow visualization of the betraying kiss.  The lights on His face as he is silent under accusation on trial first before the Sanhedrin and then Pilate.  The dim light of early morning and fading night fires on Peter's tear-streaked face as he mourns that he has betrayed his Lord thrice before the cock crowed.  The darkness behind the blindfold from which Jesus was mocked and asked to identify those beating and taunting him.  The utter darkness of mid-day on Good Friday as the One who is the Resurrection and the Life breathed his last, crying, "It is finished." 

And I look forward to celebrating the shafts of bright early morning light that lit the empty tomb on Easter Sunday.  But for now, I wait.  I wait in a world in which innocent people suffer, in which the one truly innocent Man was brutally flogged, forsaken, and hung on a cross.  I wait in a world in which we don't live up to our best hopes for ourselves - hopes of courage, faithfulness, sacrifice, a world in which we may even betray our very best Friend.  I wait in a world in which God's call for you, for me, may include walking through pain to achieve his ends; it did for his Son.  I wait.