Listening in the Darkness by Fran Salone-Pelletier

Readings: Genesis 15:5-12, 17-18; Philippians 3:17–4:1 [or 3:20–4:1]; Luke 9:28b-36

It is night. Darkness enshrouds the earth and consumes the land of the living. All that was bright, clear, and easily visible in the daylight has become blurred and indistinguishable. Familiar shapes have changed, acquiring terrifying configurations. Courage gives way to trepidation and awe to awfulness. Where once we walked in confidence as we trod a well-known path, now we pick our way gingerly, stumbling along a suddenly strange route.

Ruts in the roadway become deep pits ready to engulf us. Twigs on the ground appear to be snakes ready to entangle themselves around our ankles. Stirrings of hidden creatures cause our hearts to beat more rapidly and our palms to perspire. An owl hoots. We jump out of our skins at the sound. We are afraid. Our heads throb with the tensions of trying to be brave in the midst of devastating darkness.

When it had been daytime, dazzlingly bright and gloriously light, we found eagerness, happiness, and joy in our lives. Warmed by the sun, strength and vigor permeated our bodies. Nothing could impede our pilgrim’s progress; all seemed possible. We knew where we were and where we were going. We could sense the dimensions of our challenges and determine the depth of our courage—at least to some degree! We could trust in these words: “Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!” (Ps 27:14).

But it is night now, dark, dark night. The sun has set on our tidy package of good deeds and law-abiding living. No longer can we hide in the shadows and be comforted by the fact that, after all, we did give of ourselves. No longer can we go along with business as usual. The dark of night is ours, and it is all unfamiliar.

Everything is not bleak, however, for it is in this darkness that we truly learn that “it depends on faith, in order that the promise may rest on grace” (Rom 4:16). In this dark night of the soul, our grasp on the gods we once cherished and held sacred is loosened. Money, power, control, material goods hold no sway over this darkness!

In our darkness, we are called, as was our father Abraham, to hope against hope and believe. We are beckoned to trust in the God of our darkness. Abraham wondered, “O Lord God, how am I to know?” (Gen 15:8). His question emerged not out of doubt but from the darkness he felt. Abraham’s question—and his answer—is ours as well: we are to bring our sacrifices to God.

All that causes us to cringe with terror. The many obstacles and challenges that provide fodder for our dismay must be given to God. In our darkness, we bring them to God, who we trust will remain with us always. Stumbling, weak, and wondering, we bring our sacrifices. Steadfastly, we carry them, trusting in a simple truth: “If it is the adherents of the law who are to be the heirs, faith is null and the promise is void” (Rom 4:14).

Abraham’s question tears at our deepest security. “How am I to know that I shall possess the Lord?” Dare I take a chance and leap into the great unknown? Dare I risk letting go of what is familiar to depend on a God whose answers are more often riddles than regulations?

In the silent darkness, we remain motionless but not immobilized. Standing still in our faithfulness, despite its lack of light, we wait for God. Risking all that we are and have, we hold fast to the belief that God’s revelation will come to us in the midst of that darkness. Ready and willing to risk our comfort and security, blindly hopeful, we wait.

Out of that darkness there comes a brilliant light—God’s bright glory. Everything and everyone we had so desperately feared is illumined with dazzling clarity. We are seen as we really are; our true selves emerge. Nothing is hidden or disguised. In the presence of God, our carefully chosen masks are gently removed. We are transfigured. We are nakedly vulnerable and markedly beautiful. Divinely possessed, we now see God as we had never before been able.

Once we remained in darkness and hoped. Now our desire is to stay in the marvel, the wonder, and the joy of this bright light. With Peter, we say to Jesus, “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” (Luke 9:33). Do we not have a right to stake our claim, set up booths, concretize the experience, and bind it in time and place?

We want to stay where we are, but still we do not understand. It is good for us to be here, but it is not enough for us to remain. Once again, darkness enshrouds us. Once again, night falls upon our selfish demands. Once again, fear overpowers. But this time we take a chance and enter the cloud of our unknowing, the nimbus of our human incomprehension. Tremblingly faithful, we enter into it, even when knowing that we can never stay where we are.

There will always be a place where darkness prevails. There will always be a place where we touch God and realize our dependency. God will continue to ask us to take another leap into renewed faith and deepened faithfulness.

We need to listen in that darkness to hear the light! ♦

Fran Salone-Pelletier holds a master’s degree in theology. She is the author of a trilogy of scriptural meditations, Awakening to God: The Sunday Readings in Our Lives, in which a version of this reflection originally appeared. She is also a religious educator, retreat leader, lecturer, and grandmother of four. Reach her at hope5@atmc.net.

Image: Ephraim Moses Lilien, Abraham Contemplates the Stars, 1908