Holy Saturday

Today, the Church holds her breath. Holy Saturday is a day of waiting, of sacred stillness. Jesus lies in the tomb. He is at rest. Some theologians have referred to it as a ‘Second Sabbath’. We sit quietly, in grief, meditating on Jesus suffering and death.

In the church the candles are extinguished. The tabernacle stands empty. It is the in-between time—when death seems to have won and hope lies buried beneath the weight of sorrow. And yet, even in this silence, something holy is unfolding.

Later tonight, darkness itself will begin to tremble. When the first spark of light is kindled. When the Paschal candle breaks into the shadows and the ancient hymn Exsultet proclaims the victory of Christ over death. We will move from silence to song, from mourning to rejoicing, from the grave to new life.

Today, we reflect on the Holy Saturdays of our own lives—those days of waiting, in grief, of holding on to hope when nothing seems to change. We remember the quiet after the diagnosis, the numbness after a loss, the long nights of prayer with no answer. These are the times when resurrection begins—in silence, in surrender, in grief.

Probably we are facing such a time this Easter, where the promise is still hidden, and the dawn feels far off. If so, I urge us to wait with Mary and the disciples. To trust in the slow work of God. To believe that even in the silence, the stone is already beginning to move. We wait with Him, hope in Him.