I’ve been fascinated by the Tenebrae service since it was drawn to my attention by a retired minister while I was the Worship Development Leader for the Methodist Church in Ireland. It’s similar in format to a service of lessons and carols, but with the bible readings (‘shadows’) pointing us towards Jesus’ death rather than his birth. It’s a solemn and dramatic occasion, as lights and candles are extinguished one by one following each reading, ending in almost complete darkness as we identify with Christ’s death for us.
This is the reflection I wrote for our service in Dromore last evening.
Matthew 27:45 – “From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.”
Dark Places
From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.
I have been in some dark places. Some of them have been literally, dark places. Not scary. Just dark. Like Nature’s Valley in South Africa, on the Garden Route east of Cape Town. A nature reserve with no streetlights in the small village or anywhere else in the area. Standing in the dark, on the south coast of Africa looking 2500 miles south towards Antarctica, the Southern Hemisphere sky was bejewelled with stars, dazzling in their clarity, impossible to record on my camera, just a polaroid memory of darkness and stillness and pinpricks of light above.
From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.
I have been in some dark places. Some of them literally dark, and a little bit scary. Walking from my family home to the church to play badminton only took three minutes for a twelve-year-old with long legs. But the first two of those minutes used to be pitch black, with tall dark hedges on either side and a pot-holed surface meant I couldn’t risk running. I used to mutter-sing ‘my God is so big, so strong and so mighty’ to get me through those 120 seconds before turning the corner and seeing the lights from the church car park reach out towards me.
From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.
I have been in some dark places. Some of them perhaps not as literally dark, but more spiritually dark. My Team On Mission were walking in an area close to the church we were working with one evening, when suddenly none of us wanted to go any further. There was street lighting and no problem in seeing, but it felt to each of us individually that there was something menacing ahead of us. We returned to our base, prayed victory in the name of Jesus, and went back to continue our walk, the darkness displaced.
From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.
I have been in some dark places. Some of them have been literally dark, with an accompanying heaviness. I was in Berlin a while back and visited the Jewish Museum. It’s a very physical and emotional experience. One part includes a maze of narrow, upward-sloping corridors, one of which leads to a big, heavy door. Walking through the doorway, you enter a pitch-black concrete room with a high, high ceiling. As your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness, the heavy door slams behind you with an echoing crash. Looking up, you realise there is a slit in the roof allowing a thin shaft of light to enter the space. It’s like a slice of hope, but its presence makes the space seem even more hopeless, as you realise just how inaccessible that hope is. It is a visceral insight into the helpless situation that millions of Jews faced during the Second World War.
From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.
I have been in some dark places. Some of them haven’t been physically dark at all, but have been a ‘dark night of the soul’. When my own sinful nature, or the illness of a child, or a distressing situation at work, have made everything seem duller and darker. Where sleep has been a welcome relief and dawn an enemy to flee for as long as possible. Singing worship to Jesus has helped lift the darkness, even for a while.
From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.
I have been in some dark places.
But I have never been alone.
Sometimes I sense it at the time, sometimes it takes a while to recognise God’s presence.
Three hours of darkness. Darkness came over all the land for three hours. And then, “About three in the afternoon Jesus cried out in a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” (which means “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”)” (Matt 27:46)
Perfect Jesus, the one of whom God had said, “My child, whom I love,” experienced three hours of darkness and pain. Carrying my darkness and yours as he gasped for breath in tortured agony. And then the worst thing. Something we will never know. The Father turns his face away. Our shame on Jesus’ shoulders. Our stripes on his back. The holiness of God and the sin of the world cannot co-exist. So Jesus can no longer sense God’s presence.
From noon until three in the afternoon darkness came over all the land.
And then, in this God-forsaken place, Jesus cried out, and he died.
I have been in some dark places. But not like this. Never abandoned by God. Oh, what a price was paid so that you and I might never be in total darkness again.
Colossians 1:13 – “God has rescued us from the dominion of darkness and brought us into the kingdom of the Son he loves.” God has rescued us from the darkness, from fear, from evil that thinks it has won, from sin, grief, loneliness and depression. God has rescued us not by removing us from those dark places, but by bringing us into the state of knowing that Jesus will never leave us nor forsake us.
Jesus, we know there is more to come. We know the Father did not leave you in the land of shadows for long. But right now, we pause. And remember, before rushing to the light and life of Easter, that you were pierced for our transgressions, and crushed for our iniquities (Is 53:5). And we are thankful. Tonight, we will walk with you towards the cross.