What's Happening?

There’s something hauntingly quiet about Holy Saturday.

The crowds are gone. The cross stands empty. The tomb is closed. And we’re left here in the in-between.

Holy Saturday doesn’t get much attention. It’s the space between sorrow and celebration, between the grief of Good Friday and the joy of Easter morning. It’s easy to overlook. But maybe that’s where its power lies.

This is the day of waiting.
Of not knowing.
Of not understanding.
Of wondering if the story really is over.

It’s a liminal space, neither here nor there. The kind of space where time feels stretched and strange. Where we’re not who we were, and not yet who we will become. A place of disorientation. A place of quiet transformation.

And maybe you know that space.

Maybe you’ve stood in a hospital hallway after hard news.
Maybe you’ve packed up the house you once called home.
Maybe you’ve left a job, or a relationship, or a version of yourself that no longer fits—and now you’re waiting, wondering what’s next.

Holy Saturday tells us that even God knows what it’s like to dwell in the unknown.

Jesus lies in the tomb. The disciples grieve. The world holds its breath.

But something is happening beneath the surface.

In the silence, in the stillness, in the dark, transformation begins.
The story isn’t over. Not yet. But resurrection doesn’t rush. It rises.

So if you find yourself in a Saturday space, in the tension between what was and what’s to come, take heart.

A Prayer for Holy Saturday

God of the in-between, we come to you in the quiet spaces where answers are few, where grief is real, and where hope feels just out of reach. Hold us in the stillness. Teach us to wait without rushing, to trust without knowing, to believe that even in the silence, you are near. As we sit in this holy pause, may we find you in the shadows, in the ache, in the mystery. And may we remember: resurrection doesn’t always come with trumpets.Sometimes, it begins in the dark. Amen.

A Question to Carry

Where are you right now in the story? Are you holding grief, lingering in uncertainty, or simply waiting for what’s next? Whatever your Holy Saturday looks like may you know that this space, too, is sacred.

You are not alone.

“Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen.”
-Luke 24:5

It’s early morning. The women come to the tomb with spices, hearts heavy with grief, prepared to tend to death. But what they find shakes the ground of their expectations: the stone rolled away, the body gone, and two messengers asking the most unexpected question: “Why do you look for the living among the dead?”

It’s a question that echoes beyond that first Easter morning.

Because don’t we all, at times, look for life in places that can’t truly offer it?

We look for worth in our accomplishments.
We seek love through the lens of approval.
We chase peace through busyness, trying to outrun our anxiety.
We turn back to habits, relationships, or rhythms that once made us feel safe – even when they no longer serve us.

Grief, fear, and disappointment can keep us in the graveyard, lingering near old hopes or tired narratives, unsure of what resurrection even looks like.

But the tomb is empty, and the question remains:
Why are you searching for life in what cannot hold it?

The good news of Easter is not only that Christ is risen, but that we are invited to rise, too. To lift our eyes. To let go of what is lifeless. To trust that God is already at work beyond what we can see – rolling away stones, rewriting endings, breathing life into dry places.

This week, consider:
Where might you be looking for the living among the dead?
What are you being invited to leave behind so you can step into new life?

Christ is risen. And life is calling.

Luke 19:29–44

There’s something deeply jarring about this passage. Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey—an echo of Zechariah’s prophecy, a signal of peace. The crowd erupts with joy, laying their cloaks on the road, shouting blessings, praising God for the miracles they’ve seen. It feels like a celebration. It feels like a beginning.

And yet—Jesus weeps.

The people expected a king, but not this kind of king. They expected power, but not this kind of power. They thought they knew what God was doing—and what God should do—but they couldn’t recognize what was right in front of them.

It’s unsettling, isn’t it?

It makes me wonder:
What expectations do I carry into my faith that might blind me to how God is actually showing up?

We expect God to fix things the way we think they should be fixed. We expect clarity, comfort, maybe even control. But sometimes God shows up in disruption, in questions, in vulnerability. Sometimes, God walks a road we’d rather avoid, and invites us to follow.

The people didn’t recognize “the things that make for peace.” And sometimes, neither do we—especially when peace doesn’t look like triumph, but like surrender.

I am also struggling with those things that I know I need to let go of: Control. Expectations. Fear. Our own ideas of success or what God “should” do. Welcoming Jesus means making room for a surprising, upside-down kind of kingdom.

This week, I’m sitting with these questions. I’m asking God to help me notice where my expectations might be getting in the way of recognizing holy presence. Because if we only look for God in the places we expect—might we miss the very heart of what God is doing?

There are moments when we long to cry out—to be seen, to be heard, to be known. But something stops us.

In Luke 18, a blind man sits by the roadside, calling out to Jesus. “Son of David, have mercy on me!” The crowd tells him to be quiet, to stop making a scene. But he refuses to be silenced. He calls out even louder, and Jesus stops. Jesus listens. Jesus heals.

And then, in the very next chapter, we meet Zacchaeus. He doesn’t cry out, but there’s something in him that longs for Jesus. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s a quiet hope. But Zacchaeus doesn’t push through the crowd like the blind man. Instead, he hesitates. He climbs a tree, watching from a distance. Maybe he thinks he isn’t worthy. Maybe the voices in his own head whisper, He won’t notice you. You don’t deserve this.

Two men. One silenced by others, one held back by himself.

How often do we experience this tension? The world tells us to quiet down, to keep our struggles to ourselves. We’re encouraged to push through, to handle things on our own, to maintain the illusion of control. Admitting need can feel like weakness. Asking for help can feel like failure.

And sometimes, the strongest resistance doesn’t come from the world—it comes from within.

There’s that voice, the one we know too well:
You should have it together by now.
Other people have real problems—yours aren’t that bad.
You’ll just be a burden if you say anything.
You’re not worthy of healing, of love, of grace.

Or maybe it’s the opposite:
You’re too much.
You ask for too much, feel too much, need too much.

These voices convince us that we should stay quiet, stay small, stay hidden. They tell us that Jesus would rather focus on someone else. Someone more deserving.

But Jesus stops for both men.

He hears the blind man’s cry over the noise of the crowd. He stops. He listens. He responds.

And Zacchaeus? Jesus sees him—not just as a man in a tree, but as someone longing for something more. He calls him by name, inviting him into a new way of living.

What if Jesus is stopping for you, too?

What if, even in your hesitance, he sees you? What if, in the middle of the noise—both around you and within you—Jesus is already calling your name?

So I ask again:
What voices—internal or external—try to silence your own cries for grace or healing?
And what might happen if you called out anyway?

Luke 16:19-31 tells the parable of the rich man and Lazarus—a striking contrast between abundance and suffering, privilege and neglect. The rich man feasts lavishly every day while Lazarus, covered in sores, lies at his gate, longing for scraps. But despite their proximity, the rich man never truly sees Lazarus. He walks past him, day after day, unmoved.

It’s a hard story, but Jesus tells it for a reason. He wants us to notice not just Lazarus but the blindness of the rich man. And so, a question arises: What prevents us from seeing and responding to the needs of others?

Perhaps, like the rich man, we get caught up in the comfort of our own lives. Maybe it’s not intentional disregard, but simply the ease of looking away. We live in a world where suffering is often at a distance—on the news, in other communities, in places we don’t frequent. Or sometimes, it’s right at our doorstep, but we’re too preoccupied to stop and truly see.

Fear might also hold us back. The needs of others can feel overwhelming. What if I can’t fix the problem? What if helping means stepping into discomfort? What if it changes me?

Then there’s the illusion that there will always be more time. The rich man only realizes the gravity of his choices when it’s too late. How often do we put off kindness, assuming we’ll get to it eventually?

But this parable is not a warning; it’s an invitation. Jesus calls us to open our eyes and our hearts, to notice and respond while we can. Who in our communities is longing to be seen? Where is God nudging us to act with compassion? What step—small or large—can we take today?

May we be people who see. And in seeing, may we love as Christ calls us to love.

Reflection Questions:

• Who in your daily life might be longing to be noticed, helped, or heard?
• What holds you back from responding?
• What is one intentional act of compassion you can offer this week?

This week’s focus scripture, Luke 15:1-32, brings us one of the most well-known and deeply moving stories in the Bible: the parable of the Prodigal Son. It’s a story that speaks to the heart of God’s grace, but it’s also a story that reveals how difficult grace can be for us to understand, receive, and extend.

As I read this passage, one question kept coming to mind: Who do I most identify with – the younger son, who needs to receive grace, or the older son, who struggles to offer it?

At different points in my life, I’m sure I’ve found myself in both roles. Maybe you have too. Let’s take a moment to reflect on what these two sons can teach us about our own relationship with grace.

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The Younger Son: Receiving Grace

The younger son’s story is one of rebellion, regret, and redemption. He takes his inheritance, squanders it, and hits rock bottom. But when he returns home, broken and ashamed, his father runs to meet him with open arms. No questions, no conditions – just pure, overwhelming grace.

If you identify with the younger son, you might be in a place of needing to receive grace. Maybe you’ve made mistakes, wandered far from where you thought you’d be, or maybe – for whatever reason – you feel unworthy of forgiveness. The beauty of this story is that it reminds us grace isn’t something we earn – it’s a gift. The father’s response shows us that no matter how far we’ve strayed, God’s love is always waiting to welcome us home.

Reflection:

• What would it look like for you to fully accept the grace and forgiveness when it is offered to you?
• Are there areas where you still feel unworthy or hesitant to receive it?

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The Older Son: Extending Grace

Then there’s the older son. He’s stayed home, done everything “right,” and yet he struggles to understand his father’s joy when his brother returns. He’s angry, resentful, and feels overlooked. His struggle isn’t with receiving grace—it’s with extending it.

If you identify with the older son, you might find it hard to celebrate when others receive grace. Maybe you’ve been hurt, feel like you’ve done all the “right things,” or struggle with comparison. The older son’s story challenges us to examine our hearts: Are we willing to extend the same grace we’ve received? Are we ready to join in the celebration when someone else is restored?

Reflection:

• What might be holding you back from extending grace to others?
• How can you move toward a heart of celebration and reconciliation?

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The Father: A Picture of Unconditional Love

At the center of this story is the father, who represents God’s unconditional love. He doesn’t wait for the younger son to grovel or the older son to understand—he simply loves. He runs to meet the younger son and gently reassures the older one. His love is relentless, patient, and all-encompassing.

This is the heart of the gospel: God’s grace is not about what we deserve but about who God is. Whether we’re the younger son, the older son, or somewhere in between, the God’s love is always there, inviting us to come home.

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So, where do you find yourself in this story? Are you the younger son, in need of grace? Or the older son, struggling to extend it? Maybe you’re a bit of both. Whatever your answer, know this: God’s grace is big enough to meet you right where you are.

Take a moment this week to sit with this story. Let it challenge you, comfort you, and remind you of the boundless love of the Father. And as you reflect, ask yourself:

• How can I grow in both receiving and extending grace in my relationships and community?

Grace isn’t always easy to understand, but it’s always worth celebrating. Let’s lean into it together.

Ever felt lost? Wondered if grace could reach you no matter what? 💭

Tonight at 6:30 PM, we’re diving into Luke 15:1-32—the parables of the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the prodigal son. These stories are about God’s relentless love, the joy of being found, and the grace that welcomes us home.

📍 Where? The parlour at Nashwaaksis United Church
💻 Or on Zoom! (https://zoom.us/j/99361959655?pwd=uf985qJv3AtErI2cjMaZGUdObCRQBm.1)

Come with your thoughts, questions, and open hearts. Let’s explore what it means to be lost, found, and deeply loved. 💙

There’s a moment in Luke 13 where Jesus pauses to lament over Jerusalem. He speaks with deep sorrow:

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” (Luke 13:34)

It’s a heart-wrenching image—Jesus longing to gather his people, shelter them, love them, and yet, they resist. They turn away, unwilling or unable to embrace what he offers.

And I wonder—how often do we do the same?

We may not be standing at the gates of Jerusalem, but we resist in other ways. Maybe we resist grace because we feel unworthy. Or because we’re too caught up in self-reliance to accept help. Sometimes, we resist because transformation is uncomfortable—it asks something of us.

Earlier in this passage, Jesus tells the parable of the barren fig tree. The landowner is ready to cut it down—it hasn’t borne fruit, so why let it take up space? But the gardener speaks up: “Let it alone for one more year, until I dig around it and put manure on it.” (Luke 13:8) The gardener pleads for patience, for another chance, promising to tend and nourish the tree so that it might yet bear fruit.

What if we are like that fig tree—struggling to grow, slow to bear fruit? And what if, rather than giving up on us, Christ tends to us like that gardener, patiently working the soil of our hearts, feeding us with grace, urging us toward life?

What holds us back from fully embracing that amazing grace?

Is it fear of change? The weight of our past? The reluctance to trust that God’s love really is as deep as Jesus says it is?

Yet, even in our resistance, Jesus still longs to gather us in. His love remains. His grace is not taken away. The invitation stands. And like the gardener in the parable, Christ does not give up on us.

So this week, I invite you to sit with that question: Where am I resisting grace? And what might it look like to take one step closer to trust?

Join us tonight at 6:30 PM in the parlour or on Zoom as we dive into Luke 13:1-9, 31-35—a passage about repentance, patience, and God’s deep longing to gather us in love. ❤️

🔍 What does it mean to truly grow in faith?
🌱 Where do we see God’s patience at work in our lives?

Let’s wrestle with these questions and more together in a space of reflection and conversation. Whether in person or online, there’s a seat for you!

📅 Tuesday at 6:30 PM
📍 Parlour & Zoom
🔗 Zoom link:: https://zoom.us/j/99361959655?pwd=uf985qJv3AtErI2cjMaZGUdObCRQBm.1