Yesterday some friends and I attended a liturgy known as Tenebrae.
(You can find more information about its origins and meaning
here)
Tenebrae means of the dark in latin. It was aptly named.
Candles are often seen as a metaphor for hope, particularly when that candle is placed in a dark room. As we walked in, only the 12 candles and soft lights lit the chapel. The brightest light in fact came from the candles. As each candle was snuffed out one by one, you could just feel the darkness creeping up. The tendrils of smoke from the just-snuffed candle teased the flames of the other candles, and the flames flickered as if they were shivering at what was to come.
The psalms were beautifully sung, yet it seemed they were on the verge of despair. The writer laments how the wicked around him were flourishing, while he is righteous and poor. He begins to wonder if his good deeds mean anything.
One by one, each light of hope was extinguished, until the 9 before the congregation were all darkened. Then, two candles on the altar were extinguished. The “Christ candle” was taken away, and three ominous booms loudly echoed through the silent chapel.
The “Christ” light was brought back into the darkened chapel, now even more somber than before. The celebrant and the choir departed in silence, and it felt like a blanket of silence had settled over us all as we were left with the single candle. There was something there in the solitary candle in the dark stillness. It was a thin candle, not very big, but its flame was still alive, flickering slightly precariously, but quite bright. It was a quiet hope – a small witness of what was to come. It was evidence that the darkness will not prevail completely, that light will never die.
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