Mark begins the resurrection story with a quiet line: “When the Sabbath was over.” But beneath that stillness lies the turning point of all creation. While Christ’s body rested in the tomb, he was not idle — he descended into death, shattered its gates, and raised Adam and Eve by the hand.

The age of the Sabbath — of shadows and striving — is over. Christ has fulfilled it. He rises not just for himself, but with all of us in him. The silence is broken. The new day has begun.

This is the day of the cross — dark, sorrowful, and still, somehow, good. The weight Christ bore is beyond bearing: sin laid upon innocence, love met with rejection, light extinguished. And yet, this is the day we venerate, for through that crushing burden, life was won.

We are asked to take up the cross as well. But not His. Ours is smaller, shaped for us. It may feel sharp or too much to carry — but it is not. It is light, He says. It is bearable. And when we believe this, even through tears, despair loosens its grip.

This sorrow is not the end. It is the way to joy.

This night begins in communion — bread broken, feet washed — and ends in a garden soaked with blood. Christ, abandoned again, prays the one prayer that undoes our exile: Not my will, but thine be done.

He enters our isolation fully. Judas sells Him. Peter denies Him. The others sleep or scatter. And still He trusts. From the tree where man once fell, He restores what was lost — not by might, but by surrender. In His obedience, trust is reborn. In His love, we are made free.

Now, no betrayal can sever us. No silence can isolate. We are no longer alone.

Tonight the silver is counted. A friend turns betrayer. Jesus is left alone — not just deserted, but handed over, sold. Judas, who walked with Him, shared bread with Him, becomes the figure of all that isolates and breaks trust.

And yet, in this abandonment, Christ takes on the full weight of our fear: that no one will stay, that even God might withdraw. He enters that silence and carries it. “There was no one to help,” says the prophet. Still, He goes — and binds us forever with cords that do not break.

What was shattered, He makes whole.

The mute demon is cast out, but its silence lingers — a silence that reveals more than noise could. Christ shows us that every kingdom has a structure, even the kingdom of evil. It has ranks, roles, even strategy — but no love, no center that holds. This is not just a story of exorcism. It is a warning: if we are not gathered with Christ, we are scattered. Even neglect is a kind of fracture. The Spirit does not fill an empty house unless invited.

He does not ease into Lent — he enters the desert like a warrior, fasting, facing down the enemy, answering every temptation with the voice of the Father. His baptism and his battle, womb and tomb, all come at once. This is the shape of redemption: whole, undivided, already underway. We begin our fast not to become strong, but to remember where our strength comes from.