Day 40: Until I drink it new
The room is thick with emotion. Jesus’ mother, Mary, her face puffy and red from sobbing, sinks down on a mat, resting her throbbing head on Mary Magdalene’s lap. Every few minutes, Mary inhales sharply and lets out an anguished cry, letting the tears flow freely. Mary Magdalene sits in stunned silence, staring vacantly at the door, tears sliding down her cheeks as she smooths out the wrinkles on Mary’s forehead with her thumb. The other women from Galilee that had been at the cross yesterday are huddled, weeping and quietly making plans to purchase spices and ointments to anoint Jesus’ body as soon as Sabbath is over.
On Simon’s recommendation, the doors and windows of the upper room were shut tight so the neighbors couldn’t pin any disruptions on their hostess, Susanna. He has stationed himself by the door just in case any outsider might be too curious. Matthew paces back and forth until James snaps at him to stop. Everyone is exhausted and on edge.
“I still can’t believe it,” John says quietly. “How could we let this happen?” His question prompts more tears, and everyone shakes their head in disbelief. Just two nights ago, they had been in this same room, sharing the Passover meal.
Andrew stands up and rubs the back of his neck. He had been mentally reviewing everything Jesus had said over the last few days to see if he could find any clues or small comfort. “What do you think Jesus meant when he said he ‘would not drink the fruit of the vine until he drinks it with us in his Father’s kingdom?’ I’m so confused. I thought Jesus would bring in the new kingdom.”* He pauses, then continues, “Now he’s dead.” Simon sighs, “Yeah, I don’t get it either.” A muffled silence falls over the room as if there is not enough oxygen to talk.
Matthew 26:29 NIV
Vineyard Metaphor
A vineyard in winter looks dead.
After harvest, after the leaves fall off, and after a cold snap, the life-giving sap that has powered the vine’s growth through the year, retreats into the trunk of the vine to be stored during the winter dormant season. Soon after the sap has fallen, vineyard workers prune back the canes leaving what looks like a stick stuck in the ground. A newcomer visiting wine country in the winter may wonder what giant hand jammed a bunch of gnarled sticks into the ground in such meticulous rows.
The vines rest during winter. They know spring will come and all the sap that is stored will be the energy needed to push out new buds. As the soil begins to warm up, the roots start drawing water up into the trunk, testing the newly formed xylem cells–long, thin cells that wrap around the trunk and act like tiny straws delivering water to the branches. In anticipation of the new growth, the water pushes up, defies gravity, and clears out any bubbles along the way, exiting the vine at the point of pruning.
On a quiet day in late winter, you can actually hear the drip…drip…drip…of the vines weeping as tiny droplets gather at each wound of pruning and fall to the ground.
Reflection and Meditation
The weeping of the vines is such a beautiful metaphor for loss and grief.
It’s as if the vine finally gives itself license to weep long after the wound of pruning has been inflicted. Not only does the weeping “clean” the wound, but it prepares the way for the next season of growth.
Something new is almost always received through loss. As we grieve the loss, our tears pave the way forward. We are often so quick to want to move forward to something new, we forget the necessary step of grief and the cleansing power of weeping.
The waiting, the grieving, and the weeping of Holy Saturday is necessary to experience the full joy of resurrection.
Take a moment and consider any grief or loss you may be experiencing or have experienced. Perhaps you would like to name the loss or losses.
What would it look like for you to stop and grieve?
Close your eyes and imagine Jesus weeping with you. Can you feel his strong embrace and his tears falling with yours? He sees your grief; he understands your loss.
Feel the peace that surpasses all understanding wash over your soul.
“Weeping may last through the night,
But joy comes in the morning. ”