This day holds us in its bleak starkness. It is not only the trauma of a tortured, disfigured, broken and lifeless body, or the scandal of goodness and innocence systematically dismembered and destroyed… Memory is held disoriented, dislocated, and disconnected, a refugee lost in the alien land of Holy Saturday…
If we enter into the
silence of Holy Saturday, its bareness gives us no distractions. There is nowhere to go but inwards; into the
very empty places of our own soul and imagination… [And] in the emptiness of
waiting, we begin to learn something that the god of this world cannot bear,
the knowledge that it does not want us to know:
at the very point of our failure and betrayals, when we taste our own
impotence and limit, if we are not afraid to live in his absence, we discover
him.
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