“Where Is God?”

Luke 23:50–56

It’s the day after your loved one passes away.

The funeral hasn’t happened yet. There are decisions to make. Clothes to sort through. Belongings to divide. Calls to return.

If you’re the husband, how do you sleep in that bed again?

If you’re the daughter, where do you go for the hug only your mom could give?

There’s this strange mix of grief and gratitude — thankful she’s not suffering, but shattered that she’s gone.

What do you do with the stillness?

Or maybe it’s the day after the divorce is finalized.

You’ve spent two years in meetings, mediations, paperwork. You’ve cycled through anger, sadness, shock, exhaustion.

And now it’s done.

Are you relieved? Heartbroken? Both?

This isn’t what you pictured your life to look like.

Now what?

Or maybe you’ve been praying for your daughter to come home.

But she seems happy chasing what the world offers — guys, drinks, distraction. The confidence that comes after the third shot. The temporary escape. Why would she come back to rules and expectations?

You pray.

And nothing changes.

Or you get laid off unexpectedly.

You’ve applied everywhere. No interviews. Bills still show up. Kids still need to eat. The mortgage still demands attention.

You’ve asked God to provide.

Where is He?

Saturday is that space.

The day after devastation.

The in-between.

The waiting.

In Luke 23, Jesus is dead.

Joseph of Arimathea, a quiet, faithful man, asks for His body. He places it in a new tomb. A stone is rolled in front of it. The entrance is sealed.

That stone feels final.

The disciples are scattered. Afraid. Confused.

The women who followed Jesus prepare spices for burial.

If I put myself in their shoes, I’m numb.

Operating on autopilot.

I just watched my teacher, my friend, my Savior be mocked, beaten, and crucified. I cried until there were no tears left. Now I move through the motions because that’s what you do when someone dies.

You prepare the body.

You bury hope.

You go home.

You sleep…or try to.

And you wake up to silence.

No angels.

No miracles.

No voice from heaven.

Just quiet.

Have you ever lived there?

Where heaven feels closed?

Where prayers bounce back?

Where the promises you once clung to feel distant?

The stone in front of the tomb feels like the final word.

Maybe the women remembered Jesus saying He would rise on the third day. Maybe they didn’t. Grief has a way of clouding memory.

All they could see was death.

All they could hear was silence.

Where was God on Saturday?

Had His plan gone wrong?

Was He absent?

No.

God had not abandoned the story.

And He had not abandoned them.

But from their vantage point, it felt like He had.

That’s what makes Saturday so relatable.

Because many of us are not living in Sunday resurrection moments.

We’re living in Saturday silence.

We’ve seen God move before.

We’ve trusted His promises.

But right now? It feels quiet.

When the prodigal hasn’t come home.

When the diagnosis hasn’t improved.

When the anxiety hasn’t lifted.

When the marriage hasn’t healed.

When the job offer hasn’t arrived.

Silence can feel like absence.

But Scripture consistently tells us something different.

God’s silence is not His absence.

The tomb was sealed but heaven was not inactive.

Just because the disciples couldn’t see movement didn’t mean God wasn’t moving.

And just because you can’t see resolution doesn’t mean God is idle in your story.

Saturday teaches us something essential about faith: Faith is revealed in the waiting.

Jesus had promised, “The Son of Man will be delivered…and on the third day rise again.” (Luke 9:22)

The promise was spoken.

The fulfillment just hadn’t arrived yet.

And in the in-between, there was fear.

There was confusion.

There was disappointment.

But the promise still stood.

Maybe Saturday isn’t meant to feel like abandonment.

Maybe it’s meant to anchor us to what He has already said.

What promises do you need to cling to when heaven feels quiet?

That He will never leave you nor forsake you. (Isaiah 41:10)

That He is near to the brokenhearted. (Psalm 34:18)

That He gives strength to the weary. (Isaiah 40:20)

That He provides daily bread. (Philippians 4:19)

That nothing can separate you from His love. (Romans 8:38-39)

Saturday invites us to ask:

Will I trust what He said…even when I cannot see what He’s doing?

Will I believe the promise…even when the stone hasn’t moved?

It’s okay if hope feels fragile.

It’s okay if you feel numb.

It’s okay if you’re operating on autopilot.

The women did too.

But silence was never the end of the story.

Saturday was real.

The grief was real.

The fear was real.

But so was the promise.

And the stone was not permanent.

If you’re in a Saturday season — in the quiet, in the waiting, in the disappointment — you are not foolish for hoping.

You are not abandoned in the silence.

God is not absent just because He is quiet.

Sometimes the quiet is where trust deepens.

Sometimes the waiting is where faith grows roots.

The stone may feel heavy.

The silence may feel loud.

But Saturday is not the final chapter.

And neither is this.

Questions

1.     Where does your life feel like “Saturday” right now? What feels unfinished, unresolved, or painfully silent?

2.     When God feels quiet, what story do you tell yourself? Do you assume He is absent or is there space to believe He may be working unseen?

3.     What promise of God do you need to cling to in this season? Is it His presence? His provision? His strength? His love?

4.     Can you trust what He has said even when you cannot see what He is doing? What would that kind of faith look like for you this week?