As hard as Good Friday is, the Saturday of that first Holy Week was harder. The disciples were in hiding. Their rabbi was dead. Everything they had worked for in the previous years a seemed to have crumbled to dust.

If they could remember, Jesus had told them that this would happen. That he would die, and then rise again. But even though they had seen him work miracles, even though Peter had declared him Messiah, the Son of the Living God, the trauma of his suffering and death was too much. They were overwhelmed and in despair.

They didn’t know the end of the story, the way that you and I do. They didn’t know that in a few short days, he would once again be having breakfast with them on the shores of the Sea of Galilee.

We call it Silent Saturday because the scriptures don’t say anything about what happened on the Saturday. All we can do is imagine, and infer from what the Scriptures tell us about the Sunday.

For me, this Saturday has been far from silent. I have spent most of it in solitude (with my dog, whose quiet companionship is always a blessing), preparing for tomorrow’s Easter services. But I have noticed how the world was full of sound. It poured rain for most of the day, and the sound of tired hissing over wet pavement was constant. Around 5pm the rain stopped and we got a little bit of sunshine. Koski and I went for a short walk, and I heard the call of birds, something that always seems louder in springtime. I have noticed how the world is hoeing green again, and people are coming out of their winter hibernation.

The earth is coming back to life. And it is almost time for us to celebrate our risen Lord.

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