Darkest Saturday

To All Those in Peril, All Those in Darkness, and All Who are Hopeless:

In times long ago, before we tried to insulate ourselves from the night with our electric lights and sound-proof homes, the nighttime was a scary place. The night held untold dangers, isolated one person from another, and was generally thought of as the time when evil most readily abounded. In short, it was the time when men had the least control over their surroundings, and had to trust most heavily in God to keep them safe--to sustain them.


I'm no Luddite, but I sometimes get afraid of the night. Not because I'm scared of the dark, but because I like to remind myself how truly dependent I am on God to keep me and sustain me. It's like the old child's prayer--

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

That yearning to rely on God for preservation of my life is probably why my favorite part of the Book of Common Prayer is the Evening Prayer, or Vespers as the Roman Catholics call it. It's essentially the same thought in more developed prose. A moment in time as the sun begins to fade, and--lit only by candles if tradition has its way--we remember God's Providence and sustenance as the night falls, asking to be protected til the morning.

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord;
and by thy great mercy defend us
from all perils and dangers of this night;
for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ.

As I read that prayer last night, I imagined this day some 2000 years ago:

For the disciples, scattered and afraid: The cross was empty, but there was no hope. Christ was dead and in a tomb. It was only a matter of time til they came for the rest of them. How could these men find faith in the midst of such despair? Where did they turn now that their Lord was gone? Where does their faith come from in the blackest night?

And for Christ, I cannot begin to imagine his thoughts on Friday as the black clouds blotted out the sun and the skies grew dark. Death drew nigh. Who, in all the universe, could Christ cry out to, asking for protection and sustenance as all hope fled? "Abba, Daddy! Why have you forsaken me!?" is the only prayer that could be offered.

But as I reflect on these things, I count myself lucky. I have a source to go to when things are their blackest. So today, on the Darkest Saturday of the year, I find myself offering this song as my prayer:


Let the Morning come soon!



TheUkieVillain

Good Friday

Dear Mary,

This lenten period I have been reminded of the various perspectives from which different people view the passion of Christ. This beautiful piece with it's strange lyrics remind me of your perspective of the crucifixion.



The Crucifixion
Samuel Barber

At the cry of the first bird they began to crucify Thee, O Swan!
Never shall lament cease because of that.
It was like the parting of day from night.
Ah, sore was the suffering borne by the body of Mary's Son,
But sorer still to Him was the grief which for His sake came upon His Mother.
—from the Hermit Songs, Op. 29

The birds began to cry.

Some birds have songs, I know, and those we all enjoy. But others have cries that cut the air. Hawks and eagles have piercing cries. And they are portentious. And that cry that cut the air, that cut day from night, was a sign of the grief that flooded your soul the day Christ died, for he was your Savior, too, and your baby boy.

The text for Barber's Crucifixion derives, I am told, from an ancient collection of Irish homilies known as The Speckled Book (Leabhar Breac). They were written partly in Latin and partly in Irish and constitute the most remarkable Irish ecclesiastical record of the period. An unknown Christian scribe wrote the vivid words of this passion scene sometime in the 12th century. The "cry of the first bird" is a musical motif throughout the brief composition.

And the heritage of this song reminds me again of perspectives, the Irish, the Romans, and the mutts of the world who look at this scene and who know that in their hearts, too, day is being cut from night, and we are lost, left standing at the place of the skull.

And it was now about the sixth hour, and darkness fell over the whole land until the ninth hour, the sun being obscured; and the veil of the temple was torn in two. —Luke 23:44,45

Where I am, this morning in Tennessee, it is raining, and lightening is cutting through the sky and thunder is shaking the windows. And the sky, which otherwise would be brightening with rays of the sun, is still like night. It seems appropriate for Good Friday.

BRD