Let Us Not So Quickly Forget

Sitting in a crowded concert hall in Vienna with several hundreds of people, Trent and I were taking in J.S. Bach’s “St. Matthew’s Passion” for the first time. We were still learning German, but thankfully, there was an English translation, which we followed closely. That need, however, did not in the least diminish the stirring music, the stunning voices, the aura of the heavy movements by which Bach attempted to convey that night of tears and grief and sorrow.

The tears were Jesus’ tears. The grief was Jesus’ grief. The sorrow was the disciples’ sorrow as they realized they had deserted their best friend in His deepest need. Indeed, one of them had lied to escape alignment with his Master. One of them ran away naked in his haste to get away from a desperate situation. Afterwards, their sorrow must have been heavier still: not only were they deserters, they were also now bereft.

There were other tears: the deceiver, who was himself deceived, and who grasped too late the utter awfulness of his deception and betrayal.

Bach, to be sure, did not cover all of the Gospel accounts of that night in his oratorio. But I, in my lack of understanding of what the “Passion” was meant to entail, was expecting a glorious, triumphant closure, a resolution, a grand and victorious overcoming of the tears, the grief, the sorrow.

I sat there, stunned by the final chorus, a song to Jesus in His tomb: “Rest gently, gently rest…”

The music stopped. The audience burst into applause. I could hardly stay in my seat. “NO!” I wanted to frantically shout. “NO! He’s not there! He has risen!” I was close to tears myself. How could they applaud at this moment? Were they ignorant of the Resurrection? I felt there should be an immense silence as we all pondered what we had just heard. And I wanted that audience to know there was much more to the story.

I was depressed for a long while until I finally got what Bach was doing, which he meant to do. The passion and betrayal and crucifixion and agony and desertion and burial were enough. More than the emotions could endure. But more importantly, the mind needed to contemplate—and try to comprehend—those depths of darkness before rushing on to final victory, relief, and gladness.

I have often wondered what the disciples did and thought in that bleak interim between the two most momentous events in all of history. They did not understand that they were living “in between.”

We know that they were fearful. We know some of them came to the tomb secretly, by night. We know that some of them prepared burial spices. We know that they were fixated on Jesus’ dead body. How to get it off the cross, where it should be buried, when they could administer the spices.

We know that they “remembered,” later, what Jesus had told them about rising again from the dead. He even told them, point-blank: three days. But on the third day, none of them appear to have remembered. And when they at last came to the tomb, now empty of His body, they were confused, afraid, astonished, disbelieving, hiding out behind locked doors.

Centuries later, we are still living “in between.” The tomb is empty, the Lord is risen, but when is the final resolution we long for? Along with the scoffers that Peter describes, we may sometimes ask, “Where is the promise of His coming?” i We are, by turns, confused, afraid, disbelieving, tired of waiting. Our long-held hopes are dashed. Our years of prayers are not answered. With the two disciples on the Emmaus Road, we may protest, “… we had hoped that He was the one—” ii The one who would finally satisfy us with answers, who would show up when we expected Him to, who would not leave us hanging, downhearted and despondent. Sometimes, we may even hide out in the face of the skepticism all around us. Hide our alignment with Him.

It is good, perhaps, to sometimes pause and contemplate that Black Saturday, to let ourselves feel the depth of the disciples’ confusion and sorrow. Because we know. We know! We know what awaited them, and that their sorrow would be turned to joy and gladness, to marveling at this answer beyond belief. Their pain of loss would be assuaged, even forgotten.

We know that our in-between has a resolution, that there will be a grand and victorious overcoming of the tears, the grief, the sorrow—beyond belief, our pain and loss will forever be assuaged.

And Bach, too, did not leave us with Jesus in the grave, “resting gently.” He went on to compose the Easter oratorio, which begins: “Come, hurry and run, you speedy feet/ reach the cavern which conceals Jesus! / Laughter and merriment accompanies our hearts/ since our Savior is risen again.” iii

This is how we can live the “in-between.” We can remember—because we have His written word— “I am coming soon.” iv He came at the promised time for them. He will come at the right time for us.

Let us not so quickly forget.

i 2 Peter 3:4

ii Luke 24:21

iii Trans. Emmanuel Music

iv The Book of Revelation 22:20