An Article for the Climax of Holy Week

Satan enjoyed that Friday intensely.

He perched on the cross, watching the Son of God suffering and dying, sin piled on his boney shoulders, occasionally crying out in pain.

He crept up beside him to mock and jeer. He made his way through the crowd, throwing fuel on the fire of hatred and spite in the men who mumbled, “He saved others, but he can’t save himself” and shouted with a laugh, “Come on down! Then we will worship you!”

He enjoyed sticking his sword through the heart of Jesus’ mother who was weeping in a heap a few yards from the cross, while Jesus writhed in agony, seemingly helpless to put a stop to it.

And he enjoyed stroking the egos of the religious leaders standing at a distance, stirring up an almost sexual glee in their flesh as they watched their enemy finally get what he deserved.

When Christ gave up and died (the first on the hill to cash it in, the demons pointed out with a scoff), the Devil laughed himself hoarse. The sight of the King of Kings, slumped against that pole, his eyes vacant, the birds of prey already swooping closer and closer, was too hilarious for words.

The Christ’s hold—or what had remained of it—on this wicked planet had finally been broken. Decisively. It was now the exclusive property of the Devil and his angels. If Satan had any doubt of that, it was put to rest when he heard the news that the curtain in the temple was split in two (so long, “holy place!”) and a surge of supernatural energy had caused hundreds of people to start seeing ghosts all over the city!

The age of evil—unfettered evil—was now beginning.

Saturday was a field day for Satan. He was usually in a foul mood on the Sabbath, but not today; not ever again! He attended a Roman orgy, the stoning of a young child, and several pagan temple services. And between each, he made a stop back at the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, where Jesus’ dead body lay at room temperature.

As for Jesus’ soul, it was in Hades with all the pitiful slaves of sin and objects of wrath who had died before him. How utterly stupid of God himself to become sin and tempt fate on a Roman cross. Didn’t he know that, to the Prince of Darkness, a cross was like a lyre in the hands of a skilled musician?

The Devil spent the evening curled up under the bloated body of Judas Isacriot, hanging dead from a tree. Treachery was a great dessert, and Satan lingered there, dreaming about what he would do to his slaves tomorrow.

Then came Sunday.

Satan first heard the report from a demonic foot soldier who had been skulking . . .

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Sunny with a Chance of Suffering

Easter is relatively late this year. That usually makes me happy. Not because I want to put it off or even because I need more time to prepare for Holy Week (although that never hurts), but because it means we’re that much more likely to have a sunny, bright, pleasant day for our Easter celebration. That’s good for family photos, it’s good for the people wearing new clothes, good for kids searching for Easter eggs. But most of all, it just feels right, doesn’t it?

The same way a White Christmas feels right. I get really bummed when there is visible grass on Christmas. Or (worse) cold rain or sleet. Or (worse yet) a giant ice storm that destroys the crab apple tree in my front yard. Christmas is supposed to be cold, but calm—snowy, pretty, pleasant, and of course silent. We have no idea what that first Christmas night (or morn or whatever) was like, but we won't stand for depressing rain or raging blizzards—not quietly, anyway.

Likewise, Easter is supposed to be warm, sunny, maybe a comfortable breeze. And, let’s face it, we’re borderline-offended if we have rain or, as was the case a couple years ago, thunderstorms. Why would God mess up his own party like that? That’s just weird.

But here’s the thing: when the baby Jesus was born, he didn’t enter a world that was idyllic, peaceful, silent, and serene. It was a world where power-mad kings who thought they were gods demanded that people make treacherous journeys so they could pay more crippling taxes, where governors who thought they were kings ordered the deaths of babies in order to protect their own thrones, and even the worship of the true God had become big business that mostly benefited a few corrupt individuals at the top. That sounds a lot more like a blizzard or an ice storm than a soft blanket of white snow.

And likewise when Jesus rose again—while he did indeed conquer sin and death—he certainly did not leave his followers to enjoy a perpetual nice spring day. In the wake of his resurrection came accusations, man-hunts, conspiracies and cover-ups, stonings, beatings, floggings, and all sorts of persecution. 

That may be worth bearing in mind as we celebrate these events.

Is it good to take some time to enjoy a peaceful winter night or a bright spring morning, gathered together, meditating on what Christ has done for us? Of course! But if/when the weather refuses to cooperate, perhaps that is just as well. Because it reminds us that Jesus’ first advent—his coming in the flesh, living a sinless life, dying a substitutionary death, and rising again on the third day—gives us life, not just when everything is perfect, but in the midst of our own storms, whatever they may be.

Naturally, I’m praying for sun, chirping birds, and all manner of pleasantness on Easter morning, but if the clouds burst, I pray I’ll be all the more thankful that our Risen King is still the Risen King in the midst of the storm.