Last night's dinner was rained out. The tables were set, one long row of them, a banqueting spread, the plates and napkins and tulips in their spring array. We stood there, palms up, eyes up, willing to sky to close, the grey to leave, but it didn't. We moved everything indoors—set that banqueting table through the whole of our living space. And the rains came down.
Friends arrived, wet and laughing, because what is there to do but laugh when you have gotten caught in the downpour that almost wasn't? We lit candles and passed dishes, drank wine out of clear plastic cups, and feasted on lamb and pork tenderloin—because although we are in the new covenant, we never forget the old.
After dinner worship, twenty-five people, most transplants from elsewhere, some strangers, all sinners and saints, we sang and some wept. And then confession. The right of the gospel is confession, one to another, and oh how often we forget that holy act of worship. Strangers confessed doubt, fear, weariness, rejoiced in a hope that does not disappoint, and then became friends.
The cross saves us, the resurrection raises us though, and oh how we need to be raised. We who are sown in weakness, need so badly to be raised in power; sown perishable, need to be raised imperishable; sown natural, raised spiritual—we need the resurrection not only as proof of Christ, but proof of us too.
A friend stays late and we talk on the couch about the truths of the gospel, how frail we feel and how good He is. We who are wasting away, we cannot lose heart, because day by day by every blessed day we are drawing nearer to that final resurrection. Saturday feels like an eternity sometimes, a whole lifetime of Saturdays, waiting for resurrection.
But Sunday is coming.