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Afraid of the Dark

The Reverend Canon Elizabeth Knowlton
Palm Sunday 2007
Cathedral of St. Philip 8:45 & 11:15 a.m.

Can you remember being afraid of the dark?  Or having a child you have just placed in their bed cling to you in fear?  What answers that darkness?  A nightlight?  A slightly longer bedtime story?  Or an assurance that there are no hidden monsters under the bed or behind the doors of the closet? 

You may have even begged or been begged to leave the lights on.  Sing another song.  Or lie alongside someone else to banish the darkness.

But despite loving measures, we all must encounter the darkness.  And it is not always a literal darkness.  It is often the darkness within ourselves.  It is the pang of conviction we feel when we realize that this drama we have just participated in, is our story.  It is not a distant text or historical recounting, but, an all too revealing narrative of the Christian journey.  The joy of the parade on Peachtree has become the shout of the murderous crowd.  And, we are speaking the words.

It is dark, and we can easily become afraid in the dark.  We feel alone and isolated.  We wish it was light.

But the darkness is still there no matter how much we try to avoid it.  We enact it outside the container of this sacred space.  We enact it outside the comfort of a distant printed text. 

There are the times we wonder at who is capable of betrayal, assuming we are safe.  We compare ourselves to others and hope we will be the most accomplished.

We rush to judgment, assuming the suspect we see on the local news can be nothing but guilty.  We do not pray in the garden of our friends facing death.  Our own fears cause us to fall asleep, or at least become distracted and forgetful. 

We even deny the undeniable.  The things we value most may be lost as we strive to avoid the darkness.  We say things we can hardly believe and then suffer the clear eyes of love calling us to account as our darkness has been brought to the light. 

We even ask for crucifixion.  Through our indifference and our overzealousness.  By substituting other priorities in place of love.  We may never shout the words outside this space, but we endorse death as mute witnesses everyday the world is still plagued with famine and war.  We mock those who we think are less than they claim. 

Every time we fail to love one another or fail to love God, we are encountering a fragment of death.  When we feel the pain and suffering of separation or diminished love, we are struggling with the cross.  When we quickly pass over the suffering we encounter, we have placed the cross on others to escape its weight.

Awareness of the darkness can cause us shame and humiliation.  We feel the pull of the abyss.  We want to run and hide. We can in our isolation succumb to hopelessness and despair.  We draw further away from the light, find ourselves in Sheol and doubt God’s presence.

We may even deny the darkness.  We cannot meet the eyes of love, but rather manically substitute materialism, frenetic scheduling, and detachment from the plight of our fellow humans---hoping to outrun the dark.  We leave the lights on all the time, pull the shades, and pretend the darkness is not real.  We imagine suffering is not part of our walk, and if we can just find the magic formula, the darkness will not come.

But night always comes, whether we look at it or not. 

Luckily it is not just about our willingness to look.  When our eyes are blinded, our ears can be our guide. We can hope that as the darkness covers the whole land, we hear the cry of Jesus --- commending his spirit to God.  And when that cry penetrates, we find ourselves unavoidably at the foot of the cross.

It is dark.  And we are afraid of the dark.

But as we stand paralyzed, gradually our eyes begin to adjust to the darkness.  We see that it is not all blackness.  As we peer beyond ourselves and our fears, we start to notice the shadows gathered around.  And we realize that we are not alone.  There is in fact a crowd assembled. 

The parade participants and watchers are gathered.  Those who have called for the death are present and those with voices that were silenced are there.  The mocking soldiers and the quiet onlookers occupy the same terrain.  The good and righteous are in the same darkness with the criminals. 

The women are there. 

Those who will be the first to see the resurrected Christ, and those who will never recognize him are gathered in the dark.  Those who are deeply in relationship and those who are hoping for a proper spectacle brush up against one another in passing. 

And even in the darkest moments, there are the prophets who can proclaim praise and innocence  in the midst of the death.

As we make out the outlines of the crowd, and see ourselves as participants, we start to hear the quiet call.  If we don’t rush off or too quickly flip on the light, we hear the barest whisper.  And it invites us to a new light.  A Light that has the power to overcome the darkness.  The Light that tells us that we can return home.  Even in the darkness we can link arms and stumble towards the hope of light.  We will indeed wait in the darkness, but we do it together.

We don’t need to be afraid of the dark.  We can walk these days of holy week together.  We are invited to return home.  We gather around the table as Jesus gathered with his disciples.  We return to the call of servanthood and wash each other’s feet.  We cling to one another as we look on the stark simplicity of Jesus’ death and hear the echoes of our own cries to crucify.

We may in our grief feel drawn to beat our breasts.  To wish we had never left the light---that the denial or betrayal had never happened. But, we are not asked to go it alone.  We are asked to look to the others gathered at the foot of the cross.  We sense their companionship, even when the outlines are not clear.

We do not need to flee the dark, but help one another towards the waiting place.  And when we gather early on Easter morning we can see the darkness banished and bathed in the fire of resurrection.  We can arrive in the darkness and gather around the new fire of Easter morning.  In the darkness we will see the Paschal Candle give off the light of new life.  We will hear sung, “The Light of Christ.”  And we will joyfully yield our darkness in our response.  “Thanks be to God.”

Amen

Comments? Contact Beth Knowlton at: BKnowlton@stphilipscathedral.org

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