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Waiting in Darkness
Vicky Gray
The Matins service for Advent Sunday begins with a responsory – a call and response between the cantor and the choir. We waited in darkness at the back of the church, our music dimly illuminated by torchlight (the churchwardens wisely did not trust the choristers with candles), and the cantor sang out, “I look from afar.”
“And lo,” came the reply, “I see the power of God coming, and a cloud covering the whole earth.”
It’s always struck me as odd that we would begin the service in darkness, when we were singing about God coming as a cloud to cover the earth with more darkness. In Advent we look forward to the coming of Christ, the light of the world, yet we also await Christ’s second coming, where the language becomes far less cosy. Like Egypt at the time of the Exodus, we find ourselves facing that cloud of thick darkness. “Look! He is coming with the clouds,” we are warned in Revelation, “and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail.”
A cloud of judgement might bring darkness, but with that scrutiny can also come intimacy. When thirteen-year-old me stood in shadow at the back of that small church for the first time, with its dark wooden beams and thick carpets down the nave, the sound was absorbed instantly. The music seemingly travelled no further than the light from our torches, and instead thrummed powerfully around me and through me. That dark cloud we were singing about may have been far off, but the thunderous thrum of God’s power was already there, it seemed, pricking my skin like static.
By stripping away distractions, darkness can expose as much as light. In these vulnerable moments, we are forced to encounter uncomfortable parts of ourselves that we normally ignore, but God always sees. We can trust Him with those fears and insecurities, and know that He brings the light that drives them away.
As the responsory drew to a close, the lights switched on and the organ struck up with ‘O Come O Come Emmanuel’. After all, we still have the light to look forward to.