The presence in the waiting
“He rolled a big stone in front of the entrance and went away”
Matthew 27:60
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.
This is not the joy of Easter or the sorrow of Good Friday. It is something in between — unresolved. A space of not knowing. The story isn’t over, but no one knows that yet.
I’ve spent many happy hours exploring the churches and museums of Italy. Italian faith is often loud — full of gold, movement, and song. In the Uffizi, room after room of Mary and Jesus shimmered with undeniable beauty and reverent faith, but much of it felt distant to me — decorative, overwhelming, almost hollow. I didn’t sense the Spirit there.
Perhaps it’s because faith, when removed from its context and gathered behind glass, becomes something else. Categorised, labelled, and hung in rows, it risks becoming an exhibit rather than a living presence — something to be looked at, not entered into.
But then came the Pietà. After the conveyor belt of the Vatican Museum and the strange soundtrack of shhhh in the Sistine Chapel, I saw her — still, alone, silent and distant behind her protective glass — Mary, cradling her lifeless son. Her arms open in quiet acceptance.
And somehow, through the distance and the barrier, through centuries, she reached out.
She touched my soul with her human experience — her resigned despair caught in my throat and held my breath still.
Some find presence in the grandeur.
I often find it in the starkness.
In the waiting.
In the parts of the story where nothing can be fixed, but hope clings on anyway - a small crack in the dark.
Holy Saturday is one of those places.
The pain.
The cry.
Then — darkness.
Silence.
Trusting.
Waiting.
Art Journaling Prompt: The Tear
Take a blank page. Draw a single circle.
Sit with it. Let your thoughts wander.
You don’t need to be perfectly still - just present.
Let silence become your prayer.
Wait.
Then wait a little longer.
Somewhere in the quiet, a word will begin to rise. It might repeat softly, it might come unexpectedly. But it will be clear. Trust that it will happen.
When it comes, write that one word in the centre of your circle.
Then stop.
Let the page be what it is.
Let the silence be the prayer.
Let the space be enough.
Reflect on your word - what is God saying to you today, in the silence and waiting?
Study Questions:
What does waiting feel like hope is hard to see?
Can I trust God even in the silence?
Where in my life am I sitting in Holy Saturday — in the gap between what has broken and what will be restored?
Do I rush to Easter, or can I remain in the stillness for a while?
Journal Notes:
Matthew 27:57–66 narrates the burial of Jesus. Joseph of Arimathea, takes courage and requests the body. The tomb is sealed and guarded, fulfilling both Roman legal procedure and Jewish concerns about potential disturbance. The disciples are scattered. The women wait.
Crucifixion was not just execution; it was humiliation. Burial was a mercy not always granted. Roman sealing of a tomb carried weight — it meant "no access, by order of empire.
In Jewish tradition, the Sabbath was a time of rest and stillness, work was not permitted - the women would have to wait to return to the tomb to tend to the body after the Sabbath had passed (Luke 23:56). Holy Saturday takes on that stillness, but with a sharp edge: grief is fresh, and hope feels far.
The church holds space for Holy Saturday, often with a stark, undecorated church. In many Anglican traditions, the altars are stripped on Maundy Thursday and remain bare — a visual echo of absence, of waiting. Anglican theology acknowledges mystery and allows for silence as part of the rhythm of faith. This day honours the in-between — the grief that has not yet turned to joy.
