“After Jesus breathes his last, the world goes quiet.
Jesus, on the cross, now waits—not in peace, but in agony. Every breath grows heavier, every moment darker, as He endures the unbearable weight of suffering. He waits to fulfil the mission He was sent to complete, the sacrifice that would reconcile humanity to God. He waits for the end of pain, for the moment when His work will be finished, when He will cry out, “It is finished.” He waits for God, for the assurance that His suffering is not in vain, for the embrace of the Father who seems so far away in this moment of forsakenness. He waits, not just for death, but for the victory that only death can bring. But the waiting was only starting. He has to wait some more.
The crowds disperse. The soldiers leave. The jeers and the cries fade into silence. His lifeless body waits before being taken down. He must wait to be pierced by that last soldier to check he is gone. He must wait for the blood and water to flow. He waits to be taken down, carefully, reverently, by those who loved him enough to stay despite their fear. Wrapped in linen, he is laid in a tomb. The heavy stone rolls into place, sealing him away. And so, Saturday begins—a day that sits between the agony of Good Friday and the joy of Easter Sunday. It is a day of silence, of waiting, of unanswered questions. It is a day where hope feels distant, a day where darkness seems to reign. The world waits—unsure, grieving, and wondering whether God’s promise will ever come to pass.
This in-between space, this day of shadows, is something many of us know too well.
It feels suspended, heavy with uncertainty, with no clear end in sight. For those living with disabilities, mental health conditions, or chronic illness, life can often feel like one long ‘Saturday.’ A place where the present struggles overshadow hope for the future. It’s the waiting for a diagnosis, a treatment, or the next small improvement. It’s the waiting for acceptance and inclusion in a world that so often overlooks or marginalizes. It’s the long nights of pain, loneliness, or exhaustion where answers feel just out of reach and light seems impossibly distant. For many, this ‘Saturday’ becomes a place of unanswered prayers, a place of questioning where God’s presence is felt least but needed most.
Yet, Saturday is not without meaning.
This silence, this space of waiting, carries with it an ache that is deeply human—a longing for resolution, for redemption, for hope to break through. If you have ever felt trapped in a moment that seems never-ending, if you have ever asked, “How long, Lord?” then you know what this Saturday feels like. It’s the parent waiting for the strength to carry on, the patient waiting for healing, the grieving soul waiting for peace. It’s the universal human experience of sitting in the dark, hoping the light will find you but fearing it never will. For many, this feels like the hardest part—not the suffering itself, but the waiting for it to end.
The tomb is not the end of the story.
Silent Saturday is not meaningless—it points us toward what is coming. It is the prelude to resurrection, to the moment where the stone is rolled away and life bursts forth. Silent Saturday reminds us that even in the shadows, God is at work. Even in the quiet, unseen moments, the promise of restoration is being prepared. Just as Jesus lay in the tomb, seemingly alone, God’s presence had not left him—it was moving, waiting, bringing forth the triumph of Sunday morning. Silent Saturday tells us that hope is not lost, even when it cannot be seen. It assures us that no matter how long the darkness seems to linger, the dawn will come.
So, as a Church, we are called to reflect that light.
We are called to be the presence of hope for those still sitting in their ‘Saturday.’ To sit with them in the silence, to offer comfort, and to remind them that restoration is coming. This isn’t just about words—it’s about action. It’s about creating spaces of inclusion, offering support without pity, and listening without judgment. It’s about being the hands and feet of Christ for those who feel forgotten, holding their burdens with compassion and faith. Just as Jesus waits in the tomb, so we are invited to wait with those who feel trapped, to share their pain, and to remind them that they are not alone.
Waiting reminds us of the power of hope.
It teaches us that waiting is not wasted, that silence does not mean abandonment, and that the darkest moments are often where God’s promise is most profound. It reminds us that love holds strong even in the shadows, and that faith carries us toward the day when the stone is rolled away. And so, as we reflect on this day of waiting, let us hold fast to the truth that resurrection is coming—light will break through, and restoration will meet us in the waiting. All brought to us by our broken Saviour. Restricted. Isolated. And waiting. The cross of Christ is not distant from human suffering—it stands at the very centre. It speaks into our restriction, enters our isolation, and meets us in our waiting.
This is the truth about the broken saviour. In his brokenness, he unites himself with broken humanity. Through his wounds, we find healing. Through his suffering, we find solidarity, and through his death, we find life.
🙏 Prayer 🙏:
Lord, we thank you for the cross—the place where you took on our pain, our restriction, and our isolation. We thank you for the tomb—reminding us that even in the silence, you are near. And we pray for the resurrection—that we may always be a people of hope, bringing light into the darkest places. Amen.
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