Waiting in the Dark

A couple of days ago, I preached my first full-fledged sermon!  It was, to an extent, inspired by reflections on discomfort and fear, though my affirming classmates and professor made sure those 13 minutes induced as little anxiety as possible.  Watching the tape afterwards (yes, they filmed me)...now that was an uncomfortable experience!  Still, I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the process of careful analysis, writing, and delivery.  I could maybe get used to doing this thing more often, but I don't think I'll commit to any solo pastor positions just yet.

Luke 23: 50-56

Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, had not agreed to their plan and action.  He came from the Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God.  This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus.  Then he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid.  It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning.  The women who had come with him from Galilee followed, and they saw the tomb and how his body was laid.  Then they returned, and prepared spices and ointments.  On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

I wonder what it would have been like to be standing in Pilate’s court when Joseph of Arimathea walked in.  We hear that Joseph goes directly to Pilate and asks for the body of Jesus, but I imagine that his head is also spinning as he processes the events, which have culminated in his friend’s brutal death.  It all happened so quickly.  Judas betrays Jesus; Peter denies him; Pilate persecutes him; the crowd condemns him; and Jesus hangs on the cross.  Joseph must be shocked, but he goes to Pilate all the same.  He reveals himself as a disciple of Jesus, despite his respected position on the very same priestly council that had spat on Jesus only days earlier.  The process is quick.  All has turned to darkness.  Jesus is dead.  His body needs attention.  His disciples are grieving.

Wouldn’t it be easier to just bury their pain along with his body and move on? 

            Several weeks ago, I sat with dozens of others in a room filled with deep darkness.  We had come—parents and children, students and retirees, believers and seekers—all of us curious about science, hoping to learn something about the stars from a planetarium open house at our neighboring Agnes Scott College.  As we sank into our seats, a professor’s voice issued gentle reminders from the back of the room.  “I’m about to simulate today’s sunset,” he said, “In a moment, it will be very dark.  Please don’t spoil it.  Leave your cell phones in your pockets.  Prepare to see the stars.”  All around me, I could hear the excited whispers of those who reclined in chairs facing upwards.  Then, a young mother issued an insistent “Shhhhh!!!” from a seat on my left, and all fell silent as the sun’s bright glow descended behind the horizon.  I squeezed my eyes tightly, but I could not see my hands, even inches from my face.  And it got darker and darker.  And I waited...and waited…and waited some more…Where was the show?  Where were the stars?  Hadn’t I come there to be enlightened?!  Finally, nearly four simulated hours after our sunset, a few tiny lights emerged.  First, the brightest ones: Venus and Jupiter.  Moments later, the intricate swoop of Orion’s belt and the wide-stretching net of the Milky Way.  Free from the light pollution of the towering Atlanta skyline and our dozens of half-lit iPhone screens, every star beamed as if it were a solo performer.  Against the silky backdrop of a pitch-black sky, the stars, which had in fact been there all along, seemed even more brilliant than the bright-shining sun.

            If we could forget about the darkness, wouldn’t there be light?  Or was it only through those prolonged twilight hours that we could admire the ever-present stars? 

In the darkness that followed Jesus’ death, Joseph of Arimathea may have been asking the same questions.  He was, after all, “waiting expectantly” for the kingdom of God, not for the slow process of grief that preceded it.  He is ready for a miracle, for a sign, for some glimpse of hope.  Though he doesn’t yet realize it, he is eager for the resurrection.  But as he receives Jesus’ body from Pilate, Joseph finds himself in the “not-yet” period of difficult, uncertain waiting.  “It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning.”  The sun has set, and the stars aren’t yet visible.  The world is submerged in darkness.  In between the action of a somber Good Friday and a joyful Easter Sunday comes a time of careful labor and mandatory rest.  Joseph and the other followers must wait, and the waiting is uncomfortable, even gruesome.  For the time being, they can’t hasten the bright morning light, but must dwell in the pitch-black backdrop of Christ crucified and the dim reality of his lifeless human form. 

If we could just forget about this difficult, uncertain darkness, wouldn’t there be light?  Why wait on the body of a man who is already dead?

It was the day of Preparation, and Joseph takes the body down with tender care.  He wraps it in a linen cloth, and lays it in the very tomb that he had prepared to use himself.  In his grief, he is not left to do all of this alone, but is accompanied by the women, Mary of Magdalene and Mary, the mother of Jesus.  Haven’t they all suffered enough for one day?  Didn’t they shed enough tears at the foot of the cross?  Wouldn’t it be easier for them to just forget about the darkness and move on towards the light?  Still, they follow Joseph to see the tomb and how Jesus’ body is laid there.  They witness the death alongside him.  They see the body in broad daylight, but they do not run from death’s shadowy night.  They neither deny its presence nor attempt to offer a simple remedy for the pain it has caused.  They return to it, sit with it, and anoint it with spices and ointments.  They anoint it with spices not as a quick-fix medicinal remedy, but as a way of recognizing the death in their midst, of honoring a life that has set with the sun on the eve of the Sabbath.  They wait, and they prepare.  Christ is dead, but not yet risen.  The sun has set, but the stars are not yet visible.  Their hope is vaguely present, but not yet realized. 

Sometimes, we find ourselves in these “not yet” spaces, where we must attend to the darkness before we can receive the new life that follows.  We call such spaces liminal, likening them to thresholds, doorways through which we pass between one way of being and another.  Liminal spaces are often uncomfortable.  They are vulnerable and uncertain.  Things are not as we knew them, nor do we know what they will become.  The sun has set.  The room is dark.  The stars have yet to appear.  As seminarians, perhaps we especially dwell in these spaces, as we prepare to position ourselves between the sacred and the common, the just and the merciful, the broken and the whole.  We dwell in these “not yet” spaces. 

Ash Wednesday Community Day at CTS.  We gathered to reflect on our call to live together as Christ’s Beloved Community.  We unpacked the pain and privilege that have built walls where we’ve hoped for bridges and plunged us into darkness where we have longed for the sun’s easy warmth.  In the middle of an action-packed semester, when our eyes were already fixed on the potential to ace our midterms, find the perfect summer opportunity, and get to work sharing the Good News, we paused for a time of careful labor and mandatory rest.  It wasn’t easy.  Though we have grown in envisioning a future for this beloved community, we are not yet there.  But we wait, and we hope because we are called to dwell in these “not yet spaces.”

We are called to see how the body is laid in the tomb, to return to it, and to anoint it with spices and ointments because this is the day of Preparation.  This is the time when we wait expectantly for the kingdom of God because we may have known death, and we may feel as though we dwell in darkness, but even the darkness is not dark to you, O God; the night is as bright as the day!  The stars are still present!  The sun will soon rise!  In faith, we rejoice, for we hold the assurance that just barely eluded Joseph on the eve of the Sabbath—the stone has been rolled away!  Easter morning is here!  Jesus is on the loose—in the wide-stretching world, on the streets of Atlanta, in our homes and our hearts, and indeed, on this very seminary campus, where we are becoming his Beloved Community! 

Why should we forget about the darkness, when it is as light to you, O God?  Do you not dwell with us, even in our dimmest nights?

As we stand in the doorway of our seminary education, we may not sense where we are going, but we hope, and we wait, and with Jesus on the loose, we will surely never be the same.  Let us continue to lean into our uncertainties, to walk with one another through the twilight, and to trust in the light and life of the one who died, and was buried, and rose, and will come again.  Amen.