“I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—”
When the dark came upon me, it came suddenly. It was a car accident on a rainy night. A series of relational upheavals. Chronic pain. Depression. Grief.
From where does the dark come?
There are obvious answers. We groan beneath a death curse and a fallen world. Those are true answers but they are not final answers. The bold imposing façade is being rolled away. And are we, as they say, broken so that we can be made new? I am broken, but I know that I was never whole. In the darkness, that, at least, is clear.
What is the darkness of God?
It’s when I’ve said “surely the darkness shall cover me.” And yet, somehow, even the night is light around me. Not in the moment, perhaps, but in the remembering. Not in a miracle, a vision, a voice, but in a quiet peace. It’s when I’ve felt as if God has left me alone in the heart of darkness, only to find in the depths that He is waiting there, patiently. It’s when the spirit of God overshadows me. For the darkness of God is when the world is re-created. It is the moment before He speaks, the moment before He rises.
And when the sun of righteousness rises, He will rise with healing in his wings.
In the darkness, as in the light, He is not absent.
He is there.
L.M. Shearer 