A reflection on the empty Tabernacle

There is something hauntingly beautiful about the empty Tabernacle.  It stands as a stark reminder of what happened roughly 2,000 years ago. 

So often we are caught up in what is going on around us, right now the focus is on the global pandemic and how to end it, that we forget about what actually happened on that first Easter. In the Gospels we hear how the Apostles, Jesus' closest friends, ran and hid. They were scared, Judas and Peter had done just as Jesus said they would, betray and deny. They did not know what would happen and they were worried they would be next. Today we are hiding from an invisible enemy, a virus that has brought the world to it's knees. We are scared like the Apostles, we are wondering if and when we will return to normal. 

I always understood Holy Thursday and Good Friday, but never understood why we waited until Saturday night to usher in the Easter Season. A wise priest, I know a few of those, one spoke about how not to forget the silence of Holy Saturday. It dawned on me that we so often focus on the events of Good Friday and the joy of Easter Sunday that we forget about the silence of Saturday. The Church in her wisdom has given us this time to reflect on what was going on in those hours. 

An ancient Holy Saturday homily says "Something strange is happening—there is a great silence on earth today, a great silence and stillness." We feel this strangeness and silence in many ways this year. We feel it in the unease at when a return to normalcy will happen, the unease for all those working on the front lines, nurses, doctors, respiratory technicians and the rest of the healthcare and essential workers, the pangs of having our church building closed and locked. 

Another wise priest I know said in his Holy Thursday homily there is a "spiritual sadness" hanging over this year's Triduum. There are many things missing from the celebrations, the smells and bells that Catholics are used to are not there in the same way they usually are, but there is hope. 

That strange silence offers us hope. A hope that was born from that "necessary sin of Adam" to bring about "a great Redeemer" that destroyed that sin completely. In that empty Tabernacle there is silence but also hope. A hope in the knowledge that Good triumphed over evil, that Life conquered death, that Happiness overcame sadness. 

May the silence of today remind us of the great joys that are to come. Without Thursday there is no Mass, without Friday there is no Sunday. Today is that odd day that gets lost, today is the day Jesus descended to the dead. The silence of today is just as important as the events of the past few days. May we revel in the silence and the hope that comes from it.