Always Winter, Never Easter

On Holy Saturday, we wait. Christ is in the tomb, and we sit with the poignant desolation felt by the apostles between the Cross and the Resurrection. To those who cannot see what Jesus is doing this day, it seems like death and darkness have won. But Our Lord is busy. His Descent into Hell is a messianic mission to free the righteous dead for heaven at last (Catechism of the Catholic Church 631-637). Jesus does not abandon his own to death: he goes right into the depths after them.  

How often do we feel the weight of darkness in our lives, feel ourselves in the grip of death, and think we’ve been abandoned there? We go through many Holy Saturdays. On the surface, we can feel very much like the apostles, deeply confused and afraid, wondering if this is all there is for us. Things can seem like they will continue this way forever, leaving us with little reason to hope. Our hearts stagnate in a kind of winter. My fellow North Dakotans right now know exactly this feeling of endless winter! While my family out of state is enjoying real springtime and warm weather, in Fargo we still have deep snowdrifts after a particularly brutal season (we just had another snowstorm this Holy Week to top it all off). Lovers of C. S. Lewis tend to make light of our winters by joking that it’s “always winter, never Christmas” like in Narnia under the hundred-year spell of the White Witch. With winter lingering so long this year, it seemed appropriate to me this week to modify the quote to “always winter, never Easter.”  

Though it was initially just a lighthearted quip, I think this phrase can sometimes describe our hearts with startling accuracy. Where is it winter in your heart, without Easter? What are the places entombed in Holy Saturday, where, like the apostles, you don’t see the Resurrection coming? Is there something that doesn’t seem to have much hope? Hope has always been a particularly difficult virtue for me.  

I think this is how the great dramatic irony of Holy Saturday can help us. The secret we know (unlike the apostles) is that this day, the tomb, isn’t the end. The darkness does not have the final say. Winter won’t last forever. As elusive as hope may seem in your particular circumstance, the promise of this day is that Our Lord is not idle. His work is hidden (sometimes thoroughly), but he is still busy. As you wait, Jesus dives into the depths of death and hell to free you from that place and heal your desolation.  

So in the midst of Holy Saturday, my friend, remember what Christ is doing. Tomorrow is Easter, and spring is coming at last.