Scripture Reading: (Jerusalem Bible)
Luke 23:55–56, 24:1
The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid.
Then they returned and prepared spices and ointments.
And on the Sabbath they rested, as the Law required.
But on the first day of the week, at the first sign of dawn, they went to the tomb…
Reflection:
Today is the silence that holds everything.
It is the still point at the center of all we have walked through.
Holy Saturday is not a space of absence.
It is a space of fullness.
A fullness too deep for sound.
The tomb is sealed.
The world is quiet.
The Church has no liturgy, no Eucharist, no words—
because today, Christ speaks from the depths.
He is hidden. Descending. Gathering the lost.
Breaking the gates of death, not in fire or thunder,
but with the silence of love that will not abandon those who wait in darkness.
And we, too, are called to descend.
Into our hearts.
Into our memory.
Into our love.
Today we remember everything.
We remember how He called us.
How He forgave us.
How He healed us, taught us, walked with us, wept with us.
We remember Gethsemane. The scourging. The weight of the Cross.
We remember the last breath—and the yes that poured out from the Cross to cover the whole world.
And we remember the forty-five days that brought us here.
Forgiveness. Justice. Trust. Interior poverty. Spiritual clarity.
We remember how we were invited to love when it hurt,
to surrender when it didn’t make sense,
to stay when we longed to flee.
And now, the invitation is simply this:
Remain. Rest. Love.
Because this silence is not empty.
It is the heart of prayer.
The prayer that does not need words.
The prayer that waits with Mary in darkness.
The prayer that allows what is broken to remain broken,
until God raises it.
This is the deep contemplative space that so few know how to enter.
But you—you have been led to it.
The Catechism tells us:
“In prayer, the Holy Spirit opens the eyes of our hearts and teaches us to see everything in the light of Christ.”
— CCC 2711
And on this day, the Spirit does that not through speech, but through silence.
St. John of the Cross writes:
“Silence is God’s first language. Everything else is a poor translation.”
— Sayings of Light and Love, 118
And Abba Isaac the Syrian says:
“The highest form of prayer is to stand silently, inwardly attentive, in love before God.”
— Ascetical Homilies, I.5
So that is what we do now.
We stand in love.
In memory.
In the in-between.
Where death has passed—but resurrection has not yet been seen.
This is the hour where you ask not for answers, but for presence.
Not for resolution, but for communion.
You are being invited into the prayer Jesus prayed in the tomb:
The silent offering of all.
The trust that God would raise what was placed in His hands.
The hope that love, hidden though it is, still holds the final word.
And so today, remember to love.
Let that be your prayer.
Let that be your offering.
Let that be what rests with Him in the tomb, waiting for dawn.
There is a line found scratched into the wall of a cellar in Cologne during the Holocaust—believed to have been written by a Jewish prisoner:
“I believe in the sun even when I don’t see it.
I believe in love even when I don’t feel it.
I believe in God even when He is silent.”
This is the posture of Holy Saturday:
Not loud. Not triumphant.
But reverent, watchful, and full of hope that does not depend on sight.
It is the silence of Mary’s heart—pondering all these things.
It is the stillness of the Church at the tomb—keeping vigil in faith.
It is the prayer of the soul that trusts in God’s promise,
even when everything remains hidden.
Because silence is not empty.
It is the stillness where heaven breathes and eternity begins to speak.
It is where God’s deepest work unfolds—beneath words, beyond vision,
in the furnace of the heart.
Reflection Questions:
1. What is Christ asking me to remember today—not just in my mind, but in my heart?
2. Have I learned how to pray in silence? Can I let love be my only word?
3. What must I place in the tomb with Christ tonight—trusting it will be raised?
Closing Prayer:
Lord Jesus,
This is the silence I feared—
and yet now, it feels like home.
I bring to You every moment of this retreat.
Every quiet “yes,”
every small surrender,
every prayer prayed in secret.
You remember it all.
You hold it now—
even the parts I don’t understand.
I will not rush the silence.
I will not fill the stillness.
I will let love remain here.
Let my memory be prayer.
Let my silence be trust.
Let this quiet become union.
I will wait.
I will remember.
And I will love.
Amen.
This reflection is written by Kris McGregor of Discerning Hearts®. The Scripture passage is taken from the Jerusalem Bible (1966 edition), used with permission. No unauthorized use or reproduction is permitted without prior written consent.
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Eternal Father, turn Your merciful gaze upon all mankind and especially upon poor sinners, all enfolded in the Most Compassionate Heart of Jesus. For the sake of His sorrowful Passion show us Your mercy, that we may praise the omnipotence of Your mercy forever and ever. Amen.
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