Holy Week, Day 6: Waiting and Watching at the Tomb...
“Then they took the body of Jesus and wrapped it… and laid Him in the tomb.” —John 19:40–42
After Jesus dies, devoted followers remove His body from the cross, wrap it up, and carry it to a nearby tomb.
(James Tissot, Jesus Carried to the Tomb, Brooklyn Museum)
There are no miracles.
No bold declarations.
Just silence.
This is Holy Saturday.
The in-between day.
The day after death, but before resurrection.
The day when God feels absent, and grief feels endless.
The tomb is closed. The body is still. The story—uncertain.
Is this it? Is this all there is?
Doubt. Fear. Anger. Grief.
The Weight of What’s Lost
We don’t talk about this day much.
But every Christian, at some point, lives here:
After the diagnosis, before the healing.
After the betrayal, before the restoration.
After the death of a dream, before something new is born.
There are no shortcuts through Saturday.
You can’t pray it away or rush past it.
Even Jesus went into the tomb.
We often feel like the two Marys, sitting and staring at the tomb.
Waiting for something. A sign.
Anything to show that this is just a dream.
But it’s not a dream.
It’s the “fertile void,” where nothing seems to be happening.
(James Tissot, “The Two Marys Watch the Tomb”, Brooklyn Museum)
Grief, the Right Brain, and Identity in the Dark
Neuroscience tells us that well-being emerges from integration. Dr. Dan Siegel describes integration as the linkage of differentiated parts within a system—bringing together emotion and reason, memory and present awareness, autonomy and connection. It's what allows us to move from chaos or rigidity into flexibility, harmony, and wholeness.
This is what Saturday offers us:
The chance to feel the full weight of what has died.
The opportunity to be present to pain without needing to solve it.
The space to allow what feels fragmented in us to begin coming together slowly.
Holy Saturday is the quiet ground where grief, love, longing, and identity all meet—often without words. It’s not about solving or understanding, but about sitting with all the parts of our experience and letting the Spirit be present with us gently.
This is also how identity is reshaped in Christ.
Not through quick answers, but through the slow, often unseen work of integration—where the pain isn’t denied, the questions aren’t rushed, and the presence of God meets us right where we are.
In the tomb, the false identities we’ve clung to are stripped away.
We are no longer the one who was successful.
Or admired.
Or certain.
We are simply… loved.
Even in the dark.
Especially in the dark.
This is where spiritual formation deepens:
When we discover that who we are is not what we do, or what we’ve lost—but to whom we belong.
Even in the tomb, we are being made whole.
The Invitation: What Must Die in Me?
The silence of Saturday is not empty—it’s formative.
In this space between death and resurrection, we are invited to ask:
What am I grieving that I haven’t fully named?
What false identities or illusions must be buried?
Where do I need to stop striving… and simply rest in the tomb with Jesus?
We often want to skip from Friday to Sunday.
But without Saturday, resurrection is hollow.
It is the death of the old that makes space for the birth of the new.
Reflect: A Grief that Forms Me
What “death” have I experienced—literal or symbolic—that still sits unresolved inside me?
Where am I trying to rush healing or skip the silence?
What would it mean to rest in God’s presence, even when I hear no answers?
Can I let this waiting shape me, instead of shame me?
“My soul waits in silence for God alone.” —Psalm 62:1
“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone…” —John 12:24
“Be still and know that I am God.” —Psalm 46:10
“You are hidden with Christ in God.” —Colossians 3:3
Holy Saturday Practices: Making Space for Stillness and Grief
These simple practices can help you stay present in the silence of this holy day—not to fix or explain it, but to be with Jesus in the tomb, and to let the quiet form you.
1. Candlelit Silence (Be Still and Know)
Set a timer for 10–20 minutes.
Light a single candle.
Sit in stillness—no music, no distractions. Just silence.
Let your breath slow.
If your mind wanders, return with the simple prayer:
“Even in the dark, Lord, You are here.”
Let the silence say what words cannot.
2. Write a Grief Psalm (Lament + Hope)
Take 15–30 minutes to write your own psalm of lament.
Use the pattern from Scripture:
Name what you’ve lost
Say what it feels like
Ask God to draw near
End with a whisper of hope and/or praise, even if faint
Example opening:
God, You know the part of me that still aches for what used to be…
This is just your honest voice, on paper, with God.
3. Create a Tomb Space (Symbolic Surrender)
Write down on slips of paper the things in you that feel like they are dying, done, or buried:
A hope
A relationship
A season
An identity
A sense of control
Option 1: Place them in a box, close it, and put it away. Option 2: Go for a walk in nature and bury the paper under a rock.
Let it be your symbolic tomb—trusting that God is still at work. In either case, have your own little memorial ceremony to give yourself some closure, and trust that God creates new life only after a seed is placed in the ground and dies.
A Closing Prayer
Jesus,
You entered the silence.
You lay still in the tomb.
And for a day, the world held its breath.
Teach me not to fear this space.
To name what I’ve lost.
To let go of what can’t be resurrected.
To sit in the dark with You—without rushing, without needing to know what comes next.
Let this holy waiting shape me.
Let it deepen my roots.
Let it form in me a truer identity—
Not in what I do, but in who You say I am.
I will wait with You, Jesus.
In the quiet. In the dark.
In hope for the new life that comes next.
Amen.