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

A Dark Day...

Dear Jesus,

I have started so many prayers that way. Like a letter to a friend. But when I say "dear" to you, I mean more...you are more dear to me than any property, more dear than my dogs, more dear than my friends new and old, more dear than the family I was born to, and more dear than the husband I have chosen to spend my life with.

So, my dear Jesus, I commemorated your death by watching a 2 hour depiction of your suffering. I honestly was looking at my watch wondering how much longer this could go on, marveling at the evil cruelty man wrought upon you...that men are willing to bring against each other. Total depravity.

And I watched these images with a group of young kids. I don't know if I would have been allowed to watch this violence at their age, but they all scoffed at the idea that they could not handle it. They had seen worse, they said, as we prepared to start the film. But the other movies they had seen had not been real, and I think they were all struck with the reality of what happened to you. They were silent for two hours simply watching.

Two of the kids in the room are the newest Christians I know. They sat with rapt attention and few words afterwards. I wondered what was going through their minds in seeing what you had done. Most of the kids said that it was not what they expected. They were used to seeing a clean, beautific Jesus image with a little blood on each palm, his feet and a bit on his side, not the total body gore we saw.

One boy said he imagined You being more peaceful about the whole thing, happy to be providing salvation to the world. I am sure the God-ness of you was, but the Human-ness, well, was being tortured. You met physical pain and limitations, just like all of us do. You are our sacrifice and our high priest.

And then, something I never caught before this viewing of the movie, you thirsted. My mind jumped back to the woman at the well, and your promise to her, "All who drink of the water I shall give them shall never thirst, for the water that I shall give them shall be a well of water springing up to eternal life." (John 4:14) You, the source of that eternal spring, suddenly burdened with all of our sin, thirsted. Oh, Jesus, the pain of that moment must have blotted out all the beatings and pain your human body experienced.

So today is the dark day, the day we wait for your victory and return. Those who waited long ago did not know you would be back in three days. And we do not know either, the date of your long awaited return. But we wait and hope in a "church service" that never ends looking forward to the time that we will be with you.

Thank you for all of this, for those who do not deserve it. Now it is we who thirst for you and your return.

Love,

Your Child, CaDh 8

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