During Holy Week we are invited to consider Jesus’ final days and wonder what those events might say to us today.
There is no Scripture for today because no events are recorded. The cataclysm of the crucifixion had taken place. Judas had betrayed. Peter had denied. The disciples ran away. On Saturday, there was simply the empty, hollow reality of pain. Jesus’ followers were left with the sad, miserable, terrifying aftermath.
It is Silent Saturday.
We modern-day believers know that we simply have to wait until tomorrow – or until just after midnight if we attend an Easter vigil – and we will hear the triumphant, miraculous announcement of new life and resurrection.
But for the first believers, it was a day of sorrow and loss. A day without hope and a bleak future looming in front of them.
Maybe you know someone who is experiencing that profound silence and loss. Maybe you are yourself. This seemingly endless experience, unbroken by any word of hope or comfort, is also part of our human story. There are times when there are no easy answers, no slick solutions, no rescue from our pain.
In those times, we can simply acknowledge the reality. If we go to someone who is suffering, we will not help them by ignoring their agony or trying to convince them otherwise. Sometimes the greatest gift we can offer is to recognize their pain. We can validate their experience not by trying to alter it but by saying, “I hear you, I see you, I am with you.”
Those early believers were not God-forsaken. God had not abandoned them. They simply could not see or believe or imagine that God could be in that excruciating place with them.
It is a day of waiting, a day simply of existing. It is a day to cling onto the hope that God’s steadfast love will eventually break through our darkness.