He even sees me in the dark. (Psalm 139)
A song was playing on the radio as I woke up. The first waking moments were hard that week. We were dealing with difficult news and the mood of the song fitted the darkness.
“Tears stream down your face
When you lose something you cannot replace
Tears stream down your face, and I
Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you.”
Even as tears flowed it pointed towards hope. Light will come. There will be better days ahead. I will try to fix you.
Most of us have known dark times like this. Perhaps as you think about it now you have your own memories - of sights, of sounds, of smells…of how you felt.
Times when grief, disappointment, weariness, exhaustion or shock were weighty and are now etched in your memory in a way that you don’t forget.
Times when the darkness felt inescapable, insurmountable, unending.
Times when loved ones surround but it was oh so lonely. Even with two people walking the same journey each person can deal with dark times in their own way. And there are oh so many questions. Does anyone understand? Does anyone really know what it’s like to feel this pain? Will this darkness end?
Jesus knew darkness.
He was betrayed by Judas. He was deserted by Peter who then denied that he even knew him.
He was surrounded yet alone. His friends couldn’t even stay awake as he prayed in the garden.
He told them that his soul was “overwhelmed to the point of death” and asked them to “Stay here and keep watch.” And yet as he pleaded with his Father to take the suffering from him, the disciples fell asleep – “Couldn’t you keep watch for one hour?” (Mark 14: 32-38)
He was sentenced to death by a crowd.
He was mocked and beaten and suffered the worst of deaths – death on a cross.
And as he came close to breathing his last breaths the darkness fell.
“At noon, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. And at three in the afternoon, Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani (which means ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’).”
Jesus was forsaken, even by his own Father.
For three days his body lay in darkness in a tomb. He descended into hell and experienced the worst of hells - separation from God.
Jesus knew darkness.
Yet we are still afraid.
Fear of the dark has always been part of the human experience. A natural, inbuilt fear that urged people to find safety, to retreat, to hide until the wild animals go back into their lair and the welcome light of day comes once again. To hide until the dawn.
The Psalmist would have been familiar with nights like this. Listen to these words from Psalm 139:
“Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?
to be out of your sight?
If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
If I go underground, you’re there!
If I flew on morning’s wings to the far western horizon,
You’d find me in a minute –
you’re already there waiting!
Then I said to myself, “Oh, he even sees me in the dark!
At night I’m immersed in the light!”
It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to you;
night and day, darkness and light,
they’re all the same to you.”
According to the Church of England, “Holy Saturday is the day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. It is a continuation of the sorrow of Good Friday, when Christians of all traditions remember the disciples’ hopelessness in the wake of Jesus’s death on the cross; when they are unsure whether to believe that he will rise from the dead, as he said he would.” (Fact File: What is Holy Saturday? | The Church of England)
This day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday invites us to sit in the darkness for longer than we are comfortable with. Maybe like the first disciples on those days in between, our times of hopelessness might cause us to wonder, “is Jesus really with me as he has promised?” We long for the dawn - like the light of dawn on that first Easter Sunday when the tomb stone is rolled away, and Mary encounters Jesus and runs shouting, “He’s alive!” - but we’re not there yet.
Psalm 139 leaves no doubt about where Jesus is in the darkness. He experienced the worst of darkness. He carried the weight of our sin and shame. He was separated from God so that we need never have to know such loneliness.
So as we wait, in our own darkness, in the space in between what we hope for and what we do not yet see, as we wait for the risen Jesus, remember, not only does he seek us in the darkness he is already there and waiting. No matter how dark it gets – “he even sees [you] in the dark”.
This blog post was written as a short reflection for our annual Tenebrae Service.
You can watch the reflection here (skip forward to 39:50)
Christians around the world meet during Holy Week to solemnly remember the events that transpired leading to Jesus’ betrayal, denial and death. The distinguishing feature of a ‘Tenebrae’ service is the symbolic extinguishing of lighted candles, signifying the approach of Jesus’ death. When only the Christ candle from Christmas Day remains, it, too, is extinguished as a symbol of his crucifixion. After a period of complete darkness, the Christ candle is re-lit in anticipation of the resurrection.
This extinguishing of lights in memory of Christ’s passion is called the Office of Tenebrae (or shadows), and dates back to the fourth century. The gradual extinguishing of lights is symbolic of the flight of the disciples, the approach of the enemies, and the suffering of Jesus. The total darkness recalls the days Christ was in the tomb. As we put out each candle we remind ourselves of our role in causing Christ to suffer. It is not a ‘happy’ service; it does not tell the whole story—that comes on Sunday!
