The curtain is torn. Not in anger. Not to destroy what is sacred, but to open it—to let the presence of God out into the world.

Holy Saturday is a day of absence. Of waiting. Of breath held.

Jesus has died. The body has been taken down, wrapped in cloth, and laid in the tomb. The stone is rolled into place. Guards are posted. Everything is still.

The curtain is torn. Not in anger. Not to destroy what is sacred, but to open it—to let the presence of God out into the world.

If I returned here, barefoot and silent,
would the ground still carry the prayer,
“Not my will, but yours”?

This was the hardest day to write about this week.  The most difficult moment to understand.  I sit with these two acts — the pouring and the betrayal — and try to untangle them.  It feels like this is a pivot point, a hinge - something incredibly important, startling - and yet almost indecipherable.

It’s not a question of curiosity.
It’s a challenge. A line drawn in the sand.
A demand to justify your presence in a space someone else thinks they own.
And the unspoken words beneath it:
Who let you in?
Who gave you the right to change things?

When Jesus entered the temple and overturned the tables, it wasn’t chaos for chaos’ sake. This was purposeful rage. It was clarity. He saw what worship had become — crowded, noisy, transactional. The place meant to welcome the world had become a market — where the privileged moved with ease, as though they owned it, while the poor paid in ill-afforded coin just to rent a place at the edges.

His protest was not just against exploitation — it was for something better.

So many of us have learned to associate power with dominance, control, force. But here, Jesus redefines it. His power is humble, healing, peace-seeking. It’s not weakness — but it’s not the power we’ve been taught to see.