TL;DR:
Most of ministry, even evangelism, isn’t about fixing pain—it’s about sitting in it. Like Holy Saturday, much of life is lived in the in-between, where we’re called not to produce resurrection, but to be present and trust that God is at work.
Friday evening, around 11:30 p.m.—23:30 in hospital time—I got a page.
I called back, and the nurse said, “She could benefit from a visit, if you have time. Now or later.”
It was the middle of the night. I had just fallen asleep.
But this was a new hospital—shorter drive, better compensation—and and it felt easier than it might have at another hospital. I grabbed my pillow, headed in, and planned to sleep in the on-call room after.
Around midnight, I entered the patient’s room.
An older woman lay in bed, clearly uncomfortable—shifting, fidgeting, groaning, trying to find relief.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to do.
I offered a few quiet, empathic words; “I’m sorry,” “You’re really struggling.” She grimaced in response.
It didn’t feel like a moment for conversation—I was hoping to help her drift off to sleep. So I did what I often do when I don’t know what else to do.
I sat in the silence.
I prayed.
I trusted that the Spirit was at work.
And, I tried something new.
Because it was early Holy Saturday, I read only the four Gospel accounts of the in-between time—after Jesus’ death, before the resurrection.
There’s not much there. Just fragments. Silence, mostly.
Joseph of Arimathea “went boldly to Pilate and asked for Jesus’ body” (Mark 15:43).
They “wrapped it in linen” (Matthew 27:59).
They “laid him in a tomb cut in stone” (Luke 23:53).
A stone was rolled in front (Mark 15:46).
”Because it was the Jewish day of Preparation… the tomb was nearby.” (John 19:42)
That’s it.
No triumph, no resolution; just burial, stillness, and waiting.
Earlier that week, I had read a reflection from chaplain and author Ellen Corcella—someone who has become, at least from a distance, a sort of mentor to me in this work.
Her writing has a way of naming what I often experience but don’t yet have language for.
In that post, she wrote:
“That Jesus returned from death changed and carrying his wounds as a divine wounded healer teaches us that discipleship requires the courage to see and witness the wounds of others as well as our own. It is through this honest witnessing of suffering rather than ignoring it that individuals find the strength to walk out of their own hidden rooms to move past their own Holy Saturday.”
That’s what I was trying to do that night—to see and witness her wounds.
But I’d nuance it just a bit.
I’m not sure it’s our honest witnessing that gives us the strength to walk out.
I think it’s the One who walked out.
Andrew Root, in Evangelism in the Age of Despair, puts it this way:
“The heart of evangelism is consolation.”
To follow Jesus is to follow him to the cross—to enter the sorrow of another and remain there.
“It seems like you’re carrying quite a load,” Root writes, is the first step.
Not fixing.
Not solving.
Not producing an outcome.
Just entering the sorrow.
That’s what I was doing in that hospital room.
It was not particularly impressive. It was not strategic. My impact was not even especially clear in the moment.1
I was just sitting, praying and being present—trusting in the Spirit’s presence.
One of the gifts of chaplaincy is this:
Sometimes I can recognize when Jesus shows up—usually after the fact. Even in a secular age that often breeds doubt. And slowly, I’m learning this: my work isn’t to produce anything.
Evangelism isn’t something we manufacture.
Which brings me back to Holy Saturday.
I suspect most of our lives are lived in Holy Saturday—
in the space between death and resurrection.
Between what has been lost
and what has not yet been restored.
We live in the quiet of Luke 23:56—resting, waiting, wondering what’s next.2
The mistake we often make is this:
We think the miracle depends on us.
That if we say the right thing, do the right thing, act at the right moment—we can bring resurrection.
But resurrection is not our work, it’s God’s work.
Our work is presence. Or, as Root says in another book, to bear witness a different realm and reality—the kingdom of God.
So much of following Jesus is simply this:
To sit in the silence.
To witness the wounds.
To remain in the in-between.
And to trust that even when we cannot see it—
God is still at work.
Just like that first Holy Saturday
I decided to leave once the lab tech came in to draw blood, and set off an alarm as I realized the chair I’d sat in also had a bed alarm…
It’s intriguing and instructive that the disciples fell into routines in this time of great loss and trauma. Rhythms and routines are helpful in times of great disruption, such as this.
Thanks for making explicit that it is God's work, not ours. I often felt like a vessel, thinking after a patient encounter, how did those words come to me, the right words at the right time. Thanks for lifting up chaplaincy.
Which is why I also like Marks abbreviated resurrection, no appearance, and “the women said nothing to anyway, because they were afraid.”