Fr. Augustin Sokolowski
The Gospel tells us that when the Lord Jesus was crucified on the Cross, the sun darkened, and darkness fell. This darkness was experienced not only by those who stood before the Cross of Christ at that moment. All who remember the Lord’s Passion, the Church from the beginning of time until the end of the age, experience and will continue to experience this extraordinary night—the approaching Great Saturday—when the sun seemingly ceases to exist, hiding its rays. They experience darkness filled with light, the mystery of light and fire. This is the light emanating from the face of Christ, the light of the torches carried by those who came to take the Lord to the Cross, and the light of the candles held by the Church as it journeys through history, listening to the Gospel of the Passion. “I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!”—Jesus prophetically spoke of these days (Luke 12:49).
This light illuminates all those who took part, who were present, who witnessed Christ’s Passion, His Crucifixion, and His ascent to the Cross. It shone on each one differently, for each was illuminated by their own light. On this night of suffering, it is important to look into the faces of those who were there, to see them in the light of Christ’s face, in the light of torches, and in the light of our candles. The face of Christ illuminates the apostles, His disciples. The light of His face falls upon those who remained faithful to Him—even if they abandoned Him, they did not betray Him. The light of Christ shines with its quiet evening glow on all of them—those who stood nearby and those who watched the Cross from afar, where the salvation of the world was lifted high.
The Gospels speak of this. The Gospels also speak of the One whom the light of Christ illuminated in a special way—His Mother. Undoubtedly, of all those who stood before the Cross and contemplated Him throughout Christian history, she bore the greatest share of suffering, sharing in Christ’s agony. It is no coincidence that many hymns of Great Saturday are dedicated in abundance to the Virgin Mary.
The light of Christ shines upon the apostles. It illuminates Peter, the First-Called, who promised Christ he would die for Him and then wept at the crowing of the rooster. The light of Christ illuminates the traitor. But the traitor fears the light of Christ, and so his face is only seen in the glow of the torches.
The light of Christ also illuminates the mysterious figures of the Gospel story, about whom little is known beyond a few words of the Evangelists. Among them is Pilate’s wife, who sent a message to the governor, pleading for the release of the Righteous One because she “suffered greatly in a dream because of Him” (Matt. 27:19). The light also reveals the one who, when Christ spoke of having done nothing evil or secret, struck Him in the face, saying, “Is that how You answer the high priest?” (John 18:22). The audacity of this act so outraged the first readers of the Gospel that an apocryphal account claimed that the man who struck Christ was the very paralytic whom the Lord had once healed at the Pool of Bethesda. According to the Gospel, he did not know the name of his Healer, but upon learning it, he immediately reported to the Jews that it was Jesus. The Lord then warned him: “Do not sin anymore, so that nothing worse happens to you” (John 5:14). The early Church saw in this a foreshadowing of such profound betrayal that it could not remain hidden in the darkness of night but became visible in the light of the torches.
Among all those who betrayed, fled, or simply left—who abandoned the Lord yet, in one way or another, still stood before the Cross—there is one person whom the Church, as the Community of Believers, will always observe in a special way: Pontius Pilate. When reading the final chapters of the Gospel of John, one cannot help but sense that the author himself seems to have a certain sympathy for him. John’s Gospel conveys a desire to accuse the Jews while justifying Pilate. Pilate speaks with Jesus Christ, he asks Him where He is from. Finally, Pilate poses the question, “What is truth?” (John 18:38). Commentators have often interpreted this question as the culmination of a pagan search for God. In the postmodern world, where there are many truths yet seemingly none, this question resonates differently.
Pilate, in his own way, is immortal. An eternal figure in human history. He is the only person, apart from the Virgin Mary and Jesus Himself, whose name is mentioned in the Creed. A pagan, Pilate is strangely relatable to everyone. In today’s world, he curiously resembles the ideal image of a democratic ruler—unwilling to take responsibility for making a decision, he defers judgment to the people, knowing their fears, anxieties, and desires. “What is truth?” The word “manipulation,” whose etymology refers to skillful hand movements, recalls the governor’s famous gesture: “When Pilate saw that he was getting nowhere, but that instead an uproar was starting, he took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd. ‘I am innocent of this man’s blood,’ he said. ‘It is your responsibility!’” (Matt. 27:24). Thus, Pilate’s act takes on a prophetic political meaning. Pilate becomes a prototype of the agnostic—a person who does not know God, either because he does not want to or because he simply cannot anymore.
It is important to remember that Pilate’s name was included in the ancient Creeds not by accident and not merely for chronological purposes. In Pilate, Christ stood before the Empire. By Pilate’s sentence, Christ was crucified. The only thing that remained from the trial of the Lord was the inscription written by Pilate on the Cross, testifying that Jesus is the King of the Jews. “The chief priests of the Jews said to Pilate, ‘Do not write, “The King of the Jews,” but that this man claimed to be king of the Jews.’ Pilate answered, ‘What I have written, I have written’” (John 19:21-22). Pilate pronounced the death sentence on Jesus.
Just as the rest of Great Saturday preceded Christ’s Resurrection, the theology of the Resurrection is preceded by a particular theology of the Lord’s Sabbath rest. To understand the essence of Great Saturday, one must know Scripture well, understand the teachings of the Church Fathers, be versed in dogmatic theology, and—paradoxically—grasp the contemporary world.
According to the Apostles’ Creed, “The Lord Jesus suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into hell.” The time of Great Saturday is the time of Christ’s descent into hell. The truth of this descent is a dogma. The Lord descended into the heart of the earth—not in a geological sense, but in the biblical understanding—the very depths, of which the Church professes faith. The Lord entered the womb of the earth to destroy hell.
It is important to remember that the experience of hell is available to all. The person left alone with the dead. A child lost in the forest. A sign reading “Missing Dog.” What is terrifying about it, when there is no immediate threat? Yet this “there is no one” is itself the real experience of hell—hell as the fullness of absence. Hell, which ruled over the world until its encounter with Him. The biblical truth of hell’s existence, as proclaimed in the ancient Church’s dogma of Christ’s descent, is turned into the proclamation of its destruction.
The theology of the Resurrection is preceded by the theology of Great Saturday. The Saturday after the Lord’s Crucifixion on Good Friday is a day when Resurrection and Easter have not yet arrived. Christ has not yet crossed that boundary between life and death, which, for the biblical person, was a mystery, and for us has become an absolute, insurmountable, scientifically demonstrable, medical fact. The impartial, hellish anonymity of this fact makes the proper understanding of the Resurrection extraordinarily important.
