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I’ve always preferred Easter to Christmas. Christmas has grown into something bigger, busier, and more frantic than it ever was when I was a child. Yes, I do realise how old I sound saying that. Easter still feels rooted. It remains focused on why we celebrate, and that grounding means even more to me as I move through the ordination process.
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At three o’clock on Good Friday, Jesus dies.
The world stops for a moment.
Heaven holds its breath.
And then… nothing.
No miracles.
No teachings.
No crowds.
No light breaking through.
No longer misunderstood.
No longer crying out in forsakenness.
Just stillness. Jesus is dead.
But Holy Saturday begins.
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There is a moment here where everything seems to collapse into darkness. The sky grows dim, the noise fades, and Jesus cries out with words that have echoed through centuries: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
It is one of the most unsettling sentences in Scripture. Yet it can be painfully familiar.
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“He restores my soul.” (Psalm 23:3)
“He must remain in heaven until the time comes for God to restore everything.” (Acts 3:21)
The Bible treats restoration as a deep, covenant act of God. In the Old Testament, several words gather around this idea. The verb shuv—to turn, return, come back—describes God restoring His people as they return to Him, something we explored in repentance. Another word, chadash, means to make new, renew, or repair. When God promises, “I will restore the fortunes of my people” (Jeremiah 30:3), it is not simply about land or wealth; it is about relationship, identity, and hope being put back together.
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“He was pierced for our transgressions… and by His wounds we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:5)
“We preach Christ crucified… the power of God and the wisdom of God.” (1 Corinthians 1:23–24)
The cross does not appear in the Old Testament, but the reality is already known. Israel knew the horror of public execution on wood, the shame of bodies displayed on stakes, and the weight of covenant curses. Deuteronomy mentions the one “hung on a tree” as cursed (Deuteronomy 21:22–23), where sin and judgment were not abstract ideas but visible realities. The prophets saw empires like Assyria and Babylon use poles and stakes to display their power, and Esther records Haman’s execution on a great wooden stake (Esther 7:9–10). These are not crosses, but the same torture seen through the cross. Alongside this, Israel carried the memory of the Valley of Hinnom — Gehenna — where child sacrifice had taken place (2 Kings 23:10; Jeremiah 7:31–32). It became a symbol of everything Israel rejected: idolatry, violence, the destruction of innocence. By Jesus’ time, Gehenna had become a metaphor for divine judgment, consequences of turning from God were imagined in fire and ruin.
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“The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.” (Exodus 34:6)
“But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which He loved us…” (Ephesians 2:4)
The Hebrew word Ḥesed is often translated as mercy — a word with no single English comparison. Hesed means mercy, steadfast love, covenant, loyalty, faithful kindness, and unbreakable commitment. God chooses it when He reveals His character to Moses: “abounding in ḥesed” (Exo. 34:6). This is not sentimental softness; it is the fierce love that refuses to let go. Hesed is the reason God keeps returning to His people, even when they wander (Deut. 7:9; Ps. 103:8). It is the refrain of Israel’s worship: “His ḥesed endures forever” (Ps. 136).
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“At once the Spirit sent him out into the wilderness, and he was in the wilderness forty days, being tempted by Satan. He was with the wild animals, and angels attended him.” (Mark 1:12–13)
The Hebrew word midbar means wilderness — a harsh place that evokes images of emptiness, dryness, disorientation, and exposure. Yet in Scripture, the wilderness is rarely like this. It is a place of formation and covenant renewal, where God meets His people without distraction or illusion. Midbar does not simply mean desert; it's a place beyond control — where life is stripped back and where God speaks with clarity. It is where Israel learns who they are, who God is, and what it means to belong to Him.
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"Return to me, says the Lord, and I will return to you.” (Malachi 3:7)
Repent is a word that often arrives with baggage. For many, it sounds like guilt, shame, or religious pressure. But in Scripture, the word is far gentler, far deeper, and far more hopeful than the versions we’ve inherited. In the Old Testament, the primary word is shuv — to turn back, to return, to come home. It is the language of movement, not punishment. When the prophets cry out, “Return to the Lord” (Joel 2:13), they are not demanding grovelling; they are inviting restoration. They are calling Israel back to the relationship they were made for.
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“By the sweat of your face you shall eat bread, till you return to the ground, for out of it you were taken; you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19)
These words, spoken at the end of Eden’s story, are often heard as a sentence of doom, yet the Hebrew imagination heard something far more layered. The word aphar does not describe the debris of failure but the material of creation itself — loose, fine earth, easily scattered yet capable of being shaped. Before dust ever symbolised mortality, it symbolised intimacy. Close your eyes and picture this: God bends down, gathers dust, forms it, and breathes His own life into it. Dust is the meeting place of divine breath and human form. As shown in Genesis 2:7.
“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.
Now we move deeper into the scene from our first reflection.
Jesus is not only restricted on the cross; he is utterly alone.
Misunderstood, mocked, betrayed. The physical agony he endures is compounded by emotional abandonment. Those who loved him—the disciples who followed him, the people who listened to his teachings—are at a distance, watching helplessly, powerless to intervene. The crowd jeers. Soldiers gamble for the few possessions he has left, reducing his humanity to the value of a tunic. And then comes the cry that pierces through time: ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ The depth of this moment is almost too much to comprehend. Jesus, who walked in perfect union with God throughout his life, feels a separation so profound, a forsakenness that shatters the intimacy he has always known. In that moment, Jesus embodies the experience of ultimate isolation—a loneliness that is both devastating and deeply human.
