Fifth Sunday of Lent, March 29, 2020
John 13:30: And It Was Night
Modern Jerusalem at Nightfall
We have believed a promise pledged in total honesty. We have believed in the integrity and authenticity of a vow given freely and openly. We have relied on a belief to such an extent that we have become completely open ourselves, fearless and yet completely vulnerable.
And then . . . it was night.
We have acted in full confidence of words we took as truth. We have followed one who cured and healed and called us out of ourselves. We have stood up, we have owned problems, we have held off naysayers, we have remained faithful through narrow gates.
And then . . . it was night.
We have followed the one who spoke truth. We have forsworn easy living and have taken the road less travelled. We have emptied ourselves, built bridges, entered into the work of the kingdom; we have stood at the foot of the cross.
And then . . . it was night.
![img0486-2[1]](https://thenoontimes.files.wordpress.com/2013/03/img0486-21.gif?w=300&h=199)
All that we once held closely and shared openly as eternal truth appears to have vanished so easily and so quickly. What did we miss? How did we arrive at this darkness?
The black emptiness that grips the heart feels everlasting and we are frozen in this spot and time, waiting for the night to lift, hoping that the promise has not faded. And yet each time we draw aside the curtain to catch a glimpse of the world as it is we see only the night.
Karl Heinrich Bloch: The Burial of Christ
Our bodies somehow function yet our thoughts freeze with incomprehension; we feel strangely locked in time as we follow the quiet, little procession to the waiting tomb where we will bury the last of our hopes. How can something we thought so immense become so small? Why can we so easily carry this body to its resting place? Where is the shoulder that bears the heavy yoke?
How is it that this night can be so dark?
It is night yet tucked inside us we feel the fluttering of something that will not give up; some small memory of a healing touch and word persists. The night feels heavy, intense and infinite and yet we know that there is the promise of the moon below the horizon. We light candles and hang lanterns in imitation of the stars we know spangle the night sky that is veiled from our view by low-slung clouds.
This night is so intense.
And yet as we scan the darkness again we feel the small fluttering of the promise take wing for a passing moment. Perhaps the intensity of our waiting has opened some small door to the light. Perhaps the words and touch given in pledge still hold their truth. Perhaps the light beyond the lowering clouds will at last break through. Perhaps . . . but for now we roll the stone across the entrance to the tomb and we wait in the darkness. Perhaps . . . but for now . . . it is the night.
A re-post from March 29, 2013.
To reflect with the poem Dark Night of the Soul by the 16th Century Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross, go to: http://josvg.home.xs4all.nl/cits/lm/stjohn01.html
Images from: http://www.imb.org/main/downloads/page.asp?StoryID=9460&LanguageID=1709 and http://www.khaces.com/jerusalen-de-noche/1143388 and https://fineartamerica.com/featured/burial-of-jesus-christ-carl-heinrich-bloch.html?product=shower-curtain and http://velvl.blogspot.com/
The Noontimes 
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