Homily for Holy Saturday 2023
An outline for the homily of Holy Saturday
Last night we found our places at the foot of the cross. But tonight we wait with Jesus inside the tomb. It is absolutely dark. There is no sound. It is a silent night of a very different kind. For the powers and principalities of this world, it is the sound of victory. Rome has rid itself of a troublemaker. Caiaphas and his ruling elders have finally shut down this troubler of Israel, this stirrer-up of the ragged multitudes, this purveyor of false hopes. As it turns out, Satan had the winning card, and he played it. The whip, and the nails, and the torment of the cross have drawn the last breath out of his body. And an immense stone has been rolled against the opening of the grave.
And we’ve all been here before. We know this place.
I can remember the night of my mother’s death like it was yesterday: sitting with my sister in a darkened room, one of us on either side of my Mom’s bed. We were playing a cd, quietly, jazz that my Mom used to enjoy. We talked in whispers, though I don’t think we could have waked her up. And if she woke, she wouldn’t know us – Alzheimers had already taken her away from us. And neither of us really had anything left to say; we were just waiting together for the end.
I can remember grieving a friendship that had been broken beyond repair, all our good memories overshadowed and ruined by the death of our relationship.
I can remember the sadness of saying goodbye to what had been our home for many years, the place our children had grown up, knowing that we could never go back to that time and place.
I can remember so many times, sitting through what seemed like endless nights with sick children, weary and sad and imagining all the worst and scariest things.
And you’ve been here, too – we can all remember dark nights when it seemed like the sun would never rise again.
We have all known times when thought our sickness would last forever, when we thought our grief would last forever, when we thought our loneliness would last forever, when we thought our doubt would last forever. There have been times for each and every one of us, when it seemed that death and darkness and sadness had had the last word. We thought the thunderous crash of the stone was the end.
I think we’ve all spent time in the darkness of the tomb, when joy and light and hope seemed to be gone out of our lives forever – we’ve all experienced darkness that seemed as final as death. Maybe some of us are there even now. And yet, after the long darkness of every night the sun always rises, just that hint of less darkness at first, and then the tentative fingers of dawn, and then, always, always, the glorious burning real-ness of the sun at last.
Because God is not undone by the powers and principalities and world rulers of this present darkness.
“This I call to mind,” says Jeremiah, “and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. The Lord is my portion,” says my soul, “therefore I will hope in him.”
On this darkest of all nights, the stone has been rolled against the entrance
the tomb is sealed
night has fallen.
But morning is on the way. +
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St. Philip's Episcopal Church 