The Tenebrae service, often held on Wednesday of Holy Week, involves the gradual extinguishing of the lights until the church is in darkness. In fact, tenebrae is Latin for darkness, and the service symbolizes the confusion and terror that accompanies the death of Christ. In many ways, going more deeply into this darkness goes against our cultural norms—we are so much more comfortable with the light.
And yet, we are alive in an interesting time—one that is calling forth both our light and our darkness as a human community. Many of us are getting through each day by focusing on the light—the uplifting stories of neighbors reaching out to neighbors, of courageous people braving exposure to the coronavirus in order to be of service, of spontaneous expressions of gratitude for healthcare workers. We look for signs of spring and take delight and healing from the crocus or daffodil in the yard, or the swelling buds on the trees right outside our windows. These are wonderful things, and we thrive in the light, as our souls soak up the inspirational equivalent of the vitamin D our skin soaks in on sunny days.
Still, we also feel sorrow. We feel rage. We feel anxiety. We feel fear. Ignoring these feelings won’t make them go away and not talking about them can increase their power. Perhaps, on this Holy Wednesday, it would be useful to hold a personal tenebrae service, one in which we ask what gifts may be hidden within our darkness?
How might my grief open my spirit?
How might acknowledging my anger free my voice to speak my truth?
How might my anxiety offer me insight into areas for personal growth or spiritual deepening?
How might listening to my fears with the open heart of a loving parent allow me to begin moving through them or acting in spite of them?
For each of us, the darkness we are experiencing is both shared and deeply personal. Our questions also have commonalties and singularities. In Mary Oliver’s lovely short poem “The Uses of Sorrow,” she reflects ever so briefly on this theme, saying:
The Uses Of Sorrow
by Mary Oliver
(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)
Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.
—Jenifer Hanson, Prairiewoods director