Holy Saturday

There is, curiously, no Gospel proclaimed today.

No great discourse.
No miracle.
No parable.

Only silence.

“Something strange is happening—
there is a great silence on earth today,
a great silence and stillness.”

God has spoken His Word—
and now rests within it.

And so, on this Saturday,
I am given not a reading,
but a reality.

A Group Picture of Our Family Last Holy Saturday

Which is a peculiar thing to say
about a day that contains… nothing.

No Mass.
No readings.
No movement forward.

And yet—
precisely because of that—
it contains everything.

I could, of course, skip ahead.
Borrow from the Vigil.
Rush toward Resurrection.

But I will not.

I will remain here—
in this strange and sacred Saturday.

Because I have known a Saturday like this before.

Last year.

Graham, Texas.

My family gathered—intentionally, urgently—
because we knew something we did not want to know:

That Daniel was nearing the end.

Hospice had spoken.
Time had shortened.

And so we did what one does
when time is no longer assumed:

We lived.

We celebrated.
We ate.
We laughed.
We prayed.

We were—
fully, painfully, beautifully—
together.

And though I did not say it aloud,
I knew:

This is a Saturday that will not return.

Now I stand in this Holy Saturday,
and I feel that same instinct rising:

To hold it.
To preserve it.
To refuse its passing.

But even as I reach for it,
a voice interrupts—

not harshly,
but with authority:

“Rise, let us leave this place.”

Which seems, at first,
almost cruel.

Until I hear the rest:

“I will not restore you to that last Saturday—
but I will enthrone you in heaven.”

And suddenly I understand:

Holy Saturday is not about holding on—
but about being held.

Not about preserving the past—
but about trusting what is to come.

For the King is asleep—
but He is not absent.

We equate silence with absence.
Stillness with inactivity.
Waiting with waste.

But Holy Saturday reveals a divine contradiction:

The most important work in history
is being done—
and no one can see it.

God is not inactive.

He is descending.
He is searching.
He is raising.

The world calls this day empty.
Heaven calls it preparation.

And so, the great lesson of Saturday is this:

You who rest in the silence of this day,

teach me how to remain.

When I want to rush ahead,
slow me down.

When I want to cling to the past,
loosen my grip.

When I feel the ache of what is gone,
remind me of what is promised.

Receive my memories—
especially those that are most precious—
and hold them within Your eternity.

And teach me to trust
that even now,
in this quiet Saturday,

You are at work.

Laudato si’ §147

Hope is not passive,
but patient—formed in trust, in relationship, and in shared journey.

Today, I will:

Communion is the Diocese of Amarillo’s Centennial pillar for April
  • Embrace stillness rather than escape it.
  • Spend time with others without needing to produce or achieve.
  • Walk synodally—recognizing that waiting together is also a form of communion.

For communion is not only found in action—
but in shared silence.

A gentle invitation to slow down, stay in, and let the moment linger—
a reminder that not every day is meant to be rushed through.
Some Saturdays are meant to be lived slowly.
A story unfolding over the course of a single Saturday
where nothing extraordinary seems to happen,
and yet everything changes.
A reminder that transformation often hides in ordinary time.
I want to share the latest episode of The Introverted Apostle — a podcast that has helped me revisit my own journey and see things in a different light.
This episode features Deacon Tino Frausto and it hits close to home for anyone who has ever thought:
“This isn’t my ministry… or my personality.” 😅
Deacon Tino’s story is a powerful reminder that God doesn’t wait for us to feel ready — He simply invites us to say yes. From wanting to stay behind the scenes to proclaiming the Gospel, his journey shows how grace often begins just outside our comfort zone.
Need a clean slate? We’ve got mercy for that. 🙏 In this episode, we unpack Divine Mercy Sunday, the life and mission of Saint Faustina, and why God never stops inviting us back…no matter how far we think we’ve gone. It’s a powerful mix of real stories and practical faith. Whether you’re all in or still figuring things out, this conversation brings clarity, encouragement, and a reminder that grace always has the final word — and that confession isn’t something to fear…it’s a gift. Plot twist: God’s mercy is undefeated. 🏆
Kick off your day with 5 minutes of faith! Revised Standard Version (RSV) translation New Testament: • Luke 6:27-36 • Matthew 18:21 Old Testament: • Proverbs 25:21-22 Catechism of the Catholic Church: • Paragraph 1970 • Paragraph 2263 Takeaways: • Saint Jerome taught that responding to someone’s wrongdoing with kindness can soften their heart, burn away their anger, and lead them to repentance. • When someone annoys you…like cutting you off in traffic…try praying for them instead of reacting in anger. • If people insult or mistreat you because of your faith, stay faithful and hopeful. Jesus promises that your reward in heaven will be great.
My Story
Photo used by permission of Douglas Kirkland/Corbis via Getty Images
Memorial in the Grotto of St. Mary’s Cathedral. The inscription says:
In memory of the death of innocence of the victims of clergy sexual abuse. When innocence dies…a life stops. It is essential that we never forget.
I was one of “the few” Bishop Zurek spoke of in this letter. He first posted it in August of 2019, and in response to my, “calling out all the more“, he kept reposting it atop the diocesan news page until December 11, 2019. There it remains to this day.
Fr. Ed Graff, brought here from Philadelphia by Bishop Matthiesen, was arrested in 2002 for sexually assaulting a minor and died later that year in jail. Despite the harm linked to his ministry, he was buried in an honored section of Llano Cemetery among our pioneering clergy — a decision that continues to wound survivors and raise hard questions for our diocese.
A tribute to Bishop Matthiesen—now a complex symbol in our diocesan history, erected by former priest John Salazar, whose later abuse conviction reminds us how painful chapters of the Church’s past must be faced honestly as we seek healing and communion.

While we recognize your thoughtful suggestion for a renewed dialogue on Bishop Matthiesen, the present circumstances do not present an opportunity for it. I think it would foster division not dialogue. We remain confident in God’s providence and hopeful for what the future may bring.

from a letter dated March 5, 2026

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