Between the darkness and the dawn...

Today is Holy Saturday…

and it’s been a funny old week. Full of emotion and tears. I am still worried about the high court ruling on Wednesday and what this means for all the trans people I know and love. I am worried for those who are worrying. I wonder how many of them are sitting in their upper rooms with the door locked, frightened by what has just happened? Thinking about what the future will look like. The dreams they had of a better world, a fairer world coming to an end in one moment. A feeling that they have not been valued for who they are. Are they angry or in despair? Are they thinking about fighting or thinking about leaving?

And I am frightened too.

And this morning, as I look out at the rain, and examine my heavy heart, and cry out to a loving God for all who are hurting this week, I think about the disciples, two thousand years ago. Huddled together in a locked room after the horror of the previous day. All their dreams of a Messiah coming to an end. All their hopes for a better world, ending in that cruel moment as they watched their friend and teacher die on that cross. Were they angry or frightened on that Saturday? Or just heartbroken…

If only... they could have had a glimpse of the future. If only they could have seen the dawn rising on a better day. But that’s not how it happened. They had to live through the darkness to see the dawn. And how much brighter was the dawn for the darkness of the night.

Because for Christians around the world we have an advantage. We know Sunday is coming. We know how the story ends. So today we hold that moment of stillness between the sadness of Good Friday and the joy of Easter Sunday. We reflect on the cross. But we look forward to the coming of the dawn. The dawning of a new day. A new way. A new life.

And I suppose that is what I hope for for today.

Today is not a good day for many people around the UK. They are between the darkness and the dawn. A dawn that will surely come one day. That will rise out of this despair. But today I pause with you. I take time with you. And I have hope that the dawn will come for you. And if it doesn’t, I will stand and fight with you.

Because I have faith. Because my God sees you behind those locked doors. My God made you beautiful and unique. My God stands beside you and holds out his hand to you. You are not alone. And when you come out of your room, there will many, like me, who are waiting to welcome you and stand by you. You are loved. You are enough. Jesus died for you. And he will come again.

Alex Sains written on a rainy Saturday morning

19 April 2025