Devotional 4-3-10

Read: Lamentations 3: 1-9, 19-24

The events of this wonderful and horrible week have come to a screeching halt. The holy deeds have been offered. The Last Supper shared. The pathway to Golgotha walked. The crucifixion was real. The body of Jesus has been taken from the cross and buried. The stone has been placed to close the tomb. The followers of Jesus had to be in shock. It all seems to be over—all the hopes and dreams; all the expectations of promise seem gone when Jesus breathed his last breath. It is a day of disappointment; a day of despair; a day of darkness.

The writer of Lamentations told us about the feeling: “He has made my flesh and my skin waste away, and broken my bones; he has besieged and enveloped me with bitterness and tribulation; he has made me sit in darkness like the dead of long ago.” (3: 4-5)

We have known the darkness. It has come to us in many forms: the death of one we love; the breaking of a relationship; the darkness of illness; the battle of depression; the weight of hopelessness.

On this quiet, Holy Saturday, the church takes a break. The altar stays bare. The church is “dark” (no weddings, no services, no Holy Communion). Even though we know what tomorrow brings, we pause on this day to join with those early followers of Christ and feel the darkness.

Dan Schutte is a Roman Catholic hymn writer. (He wrote a favorite of many, “Here I Am, Lord”—No. 593 in the United Methodist Hymnal.) He offers another hymn inspired by St. John of the Cross who wrote the book, The Dark Night of the Soul.

Holy Darkness

Holy darkness, blessed night,
heaven’s answer hidden from our sight.
As we await you, O God of silence,
we embrace your holy night.

1. I have tried you in fires of affliction;
   I have taught your soul to grieve.
   In the barren soil of your loneliness,
   there I will plant my seed.
   
2. I have taught you the price of compassion;
   you have stood before the grave.
   Though my love can seem like a raging storm,
   this is the love that saves.
   
3. Were you there when I raised up the mountains?
   Can you guide the morning star?
   Does the hawk take flight when you give command?
   Why do you doubt my pow’r?
   
4. In your deepest hour of darkness
   I will give you wealth untold.
   When the silence stills your spirit,
   will my riches fill your soul.
   
5. As the watchman waits for morning,
   and the bride awaits her groom,
   so we wait to hear your footsteps
   as we rest beneath your moon.
   
   Holy darkness, blessed night,
   heaven’s answer hidden from our sight.
   As we await you, O God of silence,
   we embrace your holy night.

The darkness does not get the last word. Even the writer of Lamentations knew this long before Christ came among us. “The thought of my affliction and my homelessness is wormwood and gall! My soul continually thinks of it, and is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope. The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul, ‘therefore I will hope in him.’” (3: 19-24) May this be a day of holy darkness.

On this day, O God, you, too, knew the power of darkness. We bring before you our dark days. Walk with us through them. Assure us again of your presence, we pray, so that we might feel you with us even when life feels hopeless. Help us to see the promise of your tomorrow. Amen.

Rev. Mark Conner
Western District Superintendent